Come the Morning (16 page)

“I didn't expect your help,” she said anxiously, moistening her lips. She looked longingly to the door.

“You could be brought back to the fortress within minutes,” he warned her.

“I know! Leave that to me, I know how to escape the fortress,” she told him.

“So it seems,” he said dryly. He spun around, staring at her again. “But if you're caught, and you're wed to this Norman lout, how will you carry out your vow to me?”

“If I'm caught again, I'll agree to whatever the king demands. And I'll no longer be a prisoner.”

“But what about your intended husband?”

“There are always ways to …”

“Deceive an old man?” he suggested. “Especially a wretched, decrepit, Norman lackey.”

“You're being horrible, despicable,” she told him.

“No,” he said seriously, “I'm in the process of making a bargain. I want to be sure you'll keep your part of it. I'm not being wretched, just thorough.”

“I don't owe anyone anything. I'm being manipulated against my will, so what I do to or against a Norman who remains little more than an invader can be of little consequence to me. I've made no vows to anyone, no promises. The king makes promises for me. I will keep my part of the bargain I have made with you!”

She felt as if she were being wound more tightly with each passing second. She kept seeing the door. A thick door, yet once opened, it was a gateway to freedom. Freedom. Anything that she could say or do to escape seemed right at the moment.

“So that is it?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Your final word?”

“Aye, that's it!” she snapped.

He lifted a hand, indicating the door. “Go.”

She kept her eyes on him all the while that she slipped past him, anxious to reach the door. She was certain that he planned some trick, that he would stride forward and accost her as she reached the exit. But he didn't make a move. He watched her impassively, yet she noted the pulse beating furiously against his throat. He stood so very still, allowing her to leave. She was almost quit of him. What did it matter?

What matters
, she thought,
is the way that he stares at me. As if I were a witch or a demon, some godforsaken creature, horrible in the extreme
.

She opened the door, and still he watched her. He was going to pounce upon her, like a tiger, a prowling wolf, and when he did, he would rip her to shreds. He would wait, and watch—he had watched her before, letting her suffer through the night!—like a cunning predator, and at the last possible moment, he would make his move.

But he didn't. She opened the door, and exited the room. She leaned against the door for a split second, expecting it to explode open behind her. But it didn't. She took a deep breath and tore down the hallway.

Her footsteps were almost silent as she sped for the doorway. She had no idea of the hour, but it was fully night, and the darkness and shadows would hide her once she reached the courtyard. She couldn't take any more chances. She had to slip into the stables, find her horse, and think of something to say to the night guard. On horseback, if she cleared the gate, she could reach the bridge, cross over, and ride hard. Stop for no one, nothing.

She spun around a corner, seeking the entrance where they had come into the residence hall of the castle. Yet when she had nearly reached the door, she skidded to a dead halt, for a man had stepped into the doorway.

A guard. A big man, large enough for the bulwark of his frame to fill the entire space of the doorway.

She backed away. Perhaps he hadn't seen her.

“Lady Mellyora!”

She gasped, stepping backwards again. It was Sir Harry Wakefield. The very man she had eluded earlier.

“Come, m'lady, the game is up.”

“Sir Harry, if you'll just step aside …”

“Now, ye know, m'lady, that I cannot.”

She turned to run down the hall in the opposite direction. She rounded a corner, unfamiliar with the corridors, but certain that there had to be other exits from the residence halls.

There, ahead of her, lay an archway. She ran toward it, dismay filling her along with an awareness that she was beginning to run in circles like a cornered rat.

She turned left toward an archway. And there, at the opening which should have allowed her access to the courtyard, stood another of the king's men. This man she did not know, though he seemed vaguely familiar. He was huge, bald, and his right cheek was deeply scarred. He looked like the sorry end of many a long battle, and seeing him, she was suddenly forced to realize the enormity of what she was doing, that she was fighting a king. She had defied David, and he had discovered her missing, and he had sent out the most hardened, vicious, and mercenary of his troops to find her. She had been so desperate that she had allowed her captor to play her for a fool. He would have known that the entire fortress would be alerted to be on the lookout for her. He had probably helped plan for it to be so.

She turned quickly, hoping she had done so before the bald man could see her. Racing wildly down the next corridor, she saw a tapestried alcove to her left. Slipping behind the tapestry, she leaned against the wall, gasping for breath, breathing deeply as she debated her next move. Should she try running up a flight of steps, perhaps finding an escape by way of the parapets once again? Should she hide a while, wait? How could she possibly escape now when the king had warned every guard to be on the lookout for a wayward young woman?

She suddenly became aware that there was breathing other than her own going on in the alcove. She caught her breath, and held it. Someone else was in here. Someone silent. Someone trying to hide as well, or someone waiting to pounce on her?

She fought a rising sense of fear and reminded herself that these alcoves were the place of many a secret tryst, and she assured herself that she was cornered with someone equally determined to keep his or her presence quiet.

She braced herself, hearing footsteps in the hall. “Have you seen her?” one man called to another.

“Aye, the Lady Mellyora came this way, but where she ran from here I do not know,” came the reply.

“Warn Tristan she'll try the south entrance next,” came another voice.

The voices and the footsteps faded. Mellyora remained frozen, waiting. Then she heard a soft whisper. “Mellyora MacAdin?”

It was a woman's voice.

A woman could betray her as easily as a man. She held silent.

“Mellyora!” The voice was a whisper, hesitant, afraid. “Mellyora! It is Anne Hallsteader.”

Mellyora exhaled on a long breath. “Anne! What are you doing in this alcove?” Anne was the daughter of the youngest son of a Danish jarl and a MacInnish heiress. Her father had been slain soon after her birth, and she had lived with her mother's family since she'd been a child. Her home was north in the Hebrides, but close enough to Mellyora's island fortress that they had seen each other often enough over the years. “What are you doing here?” she repeated.

“You tell me first. Why are they looking for you? What have you done? Why are you hiding here?”

“I haven't done anything,” Mellyora replied quietly. She was growing accustomed to the darkness in the tapestried alcove. She could make out Anne's shape, just feet away from her. By day, the tapestries were drawn back and richly carved chairs allowed residents and guests to sit and talk in small groups in relative privacy. By night, Mellyora had heard, much more went on, though she often wondered how, since this evening was proving that the alcoves could be crowded.

“I swear, I didn't do anything. I'm just avoiding the guards—obviously,” Mellyora said. “My father died, you know. I am the king's ward.”

“Aye, I've heard. They say he will wed you to one of his men.”

“Aye, and I'm seeking to … leave.”

“You're in dire trouble,” Anne said with sympathy.

“Anne, what are you doing here?”

Anne was silent a long time.

“Anne!”

“I'm—meeting someone.”

“Who?”

Again, Anne was silent.

“Anne, sweet Jesus, I'm in the trouble of my life! Whatever you have to say cannot be worse.”

“Daro,” Anne said.

“What?” Mellyora was so startled that she nearly shouted the question.

“Sh!” Anne rushed forward, clamping her hand over Mellyora's mouth. Mellyora wiggled her head, indicating she wasn't about to shout again, and set Anne from her.

“Daro! My uncle Daro?” Mellyora demanded. Perhaps she shouldn't have been so surprised. Daro was her father's younger brother, blond, bold, brave, and handsome. After the death of a friend, he'd taken over a rocky stronghold in the Irish Sea called Skul Isle. He was somewhat wild by nature, he was most often David's ally, and while Mellyora's father had lived, there had been peace between them. But Daro and the king were arguing or mediating about some point now, which is why her uncle's troops were camped down the river. She had thought that Daro was with his men.

“Please, Mellyora, be quiet! With David so strong now, my family wants nothing to do with Daro; they say that he will bring heartache and trouble to us all!”

“Dear God, I would never betray either of you—the man is my kin!” Mellyora assured her friend. If she weren't in so much trouble herself as it were, she might be amused. Anne had always seemed so steady and serene, the least likely candidate for an illicit affair with such a man as her uncle.

She heard footsteps again and inhaled sharply, staring at Anne. Sooner or later, the guards would draw open the tapestries and drag them both out. She hesitated, then clutched Anne's hands. “Tell Daro I need him. Tell him I'm a prisoner about to be wed to one of the king's lackeys. I need his help, but he mustn't be reckless, I don't want lives lost, I … I … I don't seek a battle, only escape!”

“Mellyora, what—”

“Get back!” Mellyora told her firmly. “And don't fail me, please, don't fail me!”

She gave Anne a little thrust, pushing her far back into the darkness. Then, hearing that a guard was coming near, she slipped from behind the tapestry.

“There she is! Ah, lady, but we were about to flush you out!” Sir Harry stated, striding angrily toward her.

“I can make my own way, Sir Harry,” she said. She turned away from him only to realize that the hulking bald man was making his way toward her. “I can make my own way!” she repeated.

She didn't like the look of the man she didn't know. Unnerved, she tried to run past him. He reached out and caught her.

“Sir Harry!” she cried, trying to free herself from the huge stranger. “Sir Harry, tell this brute that I can make my own way—”

“Sir Harry has gone on, m'lady,” the bald man told her. His voice was deep and husky with a deep Highland burr.

“Let me go,” she said. “I don't know you, I'll see the king with Sir Harry—”

The man spun her around. “Sir Harry is gone on about his business,” the man told her. “I will escort you—”

“I can make my own way to the king.”

“I think not.”

“I'm not running anymore. I know that you've managed to hunt me down. I will go straight to the king, you may follow me if—”

“M'lady, it is the middle of the night. The king is not to be bothered with your tantrums now.”

“My tantrums? Fine! Well, you may follow me to my own chambers then, and I will await his summons.”

“No.”

His fingers were clamped around her arm. She stared at her arm, and into his eyes. There was something fierce and merciless there.

“Come with me. Now.”

“You just said that the king—”

“The king is not to be bothered, ye'll come with me now to the laird.”

“Nay, I'll not accompany you!” she declared, wrenching hard to free herself from the vise of his grip. She clawed at his arm, wriggled and struggled, all to no avail. He started down the corridor, and she had no choice but to follow, she was nearly lifted off of her feet. All the way she fought, clawing, pounding, kicking, trying to bite. He barely noticed. She was no more annoyance than a gnat. She'd struggled so desperately that she hadn't even realized where they had come until they were there.

He opened a door in the hallway, and thrust her in.

She had come back to the point where she had begun, she realized with a sharp gasp of dismay.

The man who had become the nightmare of her life stood before the fire, his back to her. He'd donned a clean shirt under his wool, and his still-damp dark hair had been brushed back.

“She's here, m'laird,” the bald man said.

“Fine, Angus, thank you,” he said casually. He didn't even turn around.

The door slammed as Angus departed.

Mellyora stared incredulously at the back of the man standing before the fire. Her fury rose along with the sick sensation that filled her as she knew she had lost.

“You cheat! You liar, you bastard!” she accused him, shaking, her voice tremulous with the depths of her anger. “You let me go just because you knew you had men in these corridors who would drag me back. You let me escape just to humiliate me—”

“I let you escape to see the futility of what you're trying to do,” he interrupted with weary impatience. “You've taken a knife to me twice, you attempted to beat me to death with an oar, and still, here you are. I'm tired of your games, and that's the end of it.”

There was no sense in her action, but she couldn't control herself. Her very world seemed lost and all because of this wretched king's man. She flew across the room, slamming her fists against his back with a thunderous vengeance as she stuttered out her fury, not able to find words to describe just how despicable she found him. “You vile oaf, you bloody bastard, you're a lying, conniving, sneaking, wretched excuse of a man and I'll never forgive you—”