Come the Morning (28 page)

“Aye, m'laird, just as you say, m'laird!” she cried, spinning away from him. She stumbled, as if afraid he would reach out and touch her again. He did not. He let her go. Yet as he did so, he suddenly realized that he, too, was shaking.

It would not be a terrible hardship, taking her as his wife. Indeed, anticipation grew hotly within him, and he was disturbed to realize just how much he did long to touch her again.

He'd have to watch his back, every minute of his life, he warned himself harshly.

Aye …

Indeed, he'd have to take care. But he was suddenly anxious to have her as his wife, whether she chose to be friend or foe, and whether he found himself forced to house her in a tower, dungeon, or cell.

After all, he didn't care where he visited with his bride. As he had feared, it seemed that battle had begun.

C
HAPTER
13

At midmorning, as they prepared to ride, Waryk warned her that the king was unaware that she had fled the fortress at Stirling with Daro. If she hadn't been quite so angry, she might have thanked him for the courtesy of his silence, but she did not. Daro had surely done so. And her uncle was as irritating as the man to whom she would shortly be shackled by vows of marriage. He was so pleased to be with Anne. They were to be married in the chapel at Stirling the following week, and were so blissfully happy that they were entirely annoying. She was the only one left to suffer the teeth of fate, she thought.

Yet she couldn't help but wonder about Waryk, and she was curious about his mistress, if he really loved the woman, and how he had managed to accept the king's commands without protest. She bit her lower lip, aware that he probably intended to keep his relationship with his mistress. He was simply separating his life. He would have his wife, his title, his land, and his family. And he would have his woman on the side.

Yet, Mellyora thought, it was true that he could have rid himself of her—if the king thought she had conspired with a Viking enemy, she'd be lucky to keep her life, much less her title and land. She didn't deceive herself that Laird Waryk was intrigued with the thought of her as a bride, but neither did she want to accept the fact that he'd been willing to set aside his own desire to marry elsewhere for the peace of the people he would govern.

As they rode back to Stirling, he kept his distance from her. Watching him, she felt a tremor snake down her back. She was the one who had been adamantly opposed to him as a husband. He had accepted her as a wife. He had come for her again and again—but he avidly disliked her. Marriage seemed a more and more chilling concept.

As they neared the walled fortress, she urged her horse forward, closer to his. She knew he saw her, but he didn't speak to her. “Waryk?”

“Aye?”

“Where does the king think I've been?”

He glanced her way. “What?”

“Where does the king think I've been? If he was unaware that I left the fortress with Daro—”

“He knows that you have been at the Viking camp. With Daro. I told him that you left with my blessing to spend time with your father's brother before becoming my wife.”

She didn't reply, thinking that he was a clever man, he had weighed this situation, and he was even capable of being decent at times. He was not the Norman she had expected, no matter what words she used against him.

Nor old or decrepit in any way. Yet his very youth and prowess made her nervous now, and she wished with her whole heart that the wedding might be planned for sometime in the far future. He wanted sons. Most men did. For all the courage she could sometimes display, she was dismayed by the prospect of intimacy. She knew that Anne did far more than chat with her uncle behind the tapestries, but she'd never envisioned such a relationship herself, not even with Ewan. They'd laughed, they'd kissed, they'd lain in the grasses with their heads on one another's laps, touched, and dreamed. But she'd never felt the stirrings of a great, earthy passion, and had likened her love for Ewan to something finer, like the romantic love of the poets.

She knew so little. He was experienced, a warrior accustomed to battle, different places, many women—and a mistress with whom he had been deeply involved.

“Well?”

She felt color flush her cheeks as she realized he was looking at her.

“Your pardon?” she murmured.

“A ‘thank you' might be in good order,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she said flatly.

He studied her a moment longer, then urged his horse ahead. She bit into her lower lip, wishing she didn't become so defensive with him so quickly. It occurred to her that she should be a bit more politic herself. She could still find that she no longer belonged to her homeland.

Yet what of Ewan? What of their hopes, what of their dreams, the vague beauty of a relationship founded in the deepest friendship, respect, love, and belief?

Ewan would live on, remain chieftain of his family, marry elsewhere, and be gentle and kind and all wonderful things with another woman. They would sit before their fire, he would prosper. While she …

While she paid the price to remain lady of her isle. That was the way of it. She had made the choice.

They reached Stirling; the guards hailed them. In the courtyard, she politely allowed her groom to help her down. To her dismay, David came from the castle, every inch the warrior king in his Scottish wool. “Mellyora!” He reached for her hands, taking them in his own. He spoke with the affection of a father, yet she sensed an edge to his voice, and she knew that he had not forgiven her. “You look well and rested. Daro will arrive for the ceremony? It is just two days away now.”

“Aye, sire.”

“And you and Waryk are well met?”

“Oh, aye, well met,” she murmured.

“Then all is well. Ah, and here is Jillian, ready to escort you to your chambers. We'll have your meal sent, and you can spend the evening resting and readying yourself for the wedding. Father Hedgewick will be your confessor, and will attend you this evening as well. Run along now, my dear. Tomorrow will be a big day for you.”

The king set his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Go now.”

She did so, longing to look back and see Waryk's expression, and what exchange might come next between him and the king. Somehow, she kept from looking back.

At least she would be away from him for a while. She wouldn't need to argue, to attack, to bite back defensively. She could rest in peace.

Yet she wasn't to have a chance at the peace she had hoped to achieve.

“Sweet Jesu, child, but you have been reckless!” Jillian told her. “Heedless of consequences—”

“I thought I could win. If I had won, I would have been brave and admirable. But I did not win.”

“You were not brave and admirable because you fought a battle you could not win.”

“I didn't know that the king meant to disinherit me entirely from my own ancestral lands!”

“Then you should learn to judge your opponents better,” Jillian warned her. Then, looking at her, she sighed softly and put her arms around her, hugging her. “Oh, Mellyora, it will be all right, believe me. I have come to know him, it will be all right …”

She hugged Jillian in return. She didn't say what she was thinking. She was coming to know him as well. And he had come to know her. And he didn't like what he knew. And if it weren't for Ewan, and for the fact that the circumstances had made them such enemies …

And if it weren't for the woman he loved …

There were too many “ifs.” It wasn't going to be all right.

She survived the next day with dignity. It was late when she sat next to Waryk at the king's table in his great hall. His friends and fellows teased and congratulated, ladies of the court admired her knight and wished her well. They would all think her insane, she realized, for trying to run from such a fate, and married, and unmarried, they flirted boldly with Laird Lion, and she found herself disturbed to realize that though he might have loved his mistress, he had probably known a number of other women as well.

In turn, she did her best to be dazzling and charming. She flirted with the young men, and the old. She didn't even distinguish between men of the ancient Scottish races, or of the new Norman aristocracy. She didn't eat. She drank too freely. She knew her eyes were bright, that she moved like a hummingbird, afraid to be still. At the table, she felt him watching her. She refused to meet his gaze. She saw him smile at others, watched his hands as they curled around the chalice that sat between them. His features were striking, his fingers were long. His voice was deep, and she felt strange tremors each time he spoke. She was miserable. She wanted her life back. Absurdly, at the same time, she was haunted by thoughts of his life. She wanted to run more than ever; he fascinated her. She was strangely afraid of his touch, yet she was dismayed to realize she was wondering what it would be like. They had never been together as they were tonight, speaking civilly, surrounded by others. She had never watched him laugh and talk with others before, never seen the respect he drew from men, or seen the way that women looked at him.

Finally, the awful night ended. Thankfully, she had drunk enough to sleep. The next morning, she had a headache. She prowled her room, until the day grew late. She stared longingly out a window.

Jillian, far gentler that day, came to her. “There's a bath for you by the fire, the water is hot, I've tended it. It's filled with rose oils from the Mediterranean, and will soothe you. I'll bring you warmed wine touched with cinnamon. Rest tonight, ease your soul. Tomorrow will be a difficult day.”

Mellyora was glad to settle into the steaming water, breathe its fragrance, and while doing so, close her eyes and drink the hot, sweet, subtly flavored wine. How was she going to endure the days to come? How could she get through a wedding ceremony with a man with whom she'd done nothing but violent battle since she'd first encountered him? No matter the strange rush she felt when she was near him, how could she bear to let him touch her when she would know that he would be wishing himself with another woman?

Dear God, could she really be jealous? Of a woman she didn't know?

“Mellyora, I'm going to the kitchen for more wine to mull,” Jillian told her, adding anxiously, “You'll be all right? You'll be …”

“I'll be here when you return,” Mellyora assured her, and she laughed, feeling like crying. “Where would I go now? The great Laird Lion would probably be delighted to see me disappear again.”

She was dismayed that Jillian did not argue with her, and she closed her eyes once again, draining the remaining wine. She had drunk too much, too quickly; she wanted more. She had to sleep tonight …

She closed her eyes. The water was growing cold. With a sigh she rose, wrapping herself in a large linen towel and hunching down before the fire to dry. She combed through her hair, and slipped into a blue-linen gown hemmed with soft, rich fur. She heard the door, and saw that Jillian had returned. She looked pale as she reentered the room. She had not returned with wine, and she busied herself with unnecessary tasks, folding clothing that had already been folded, straightening what didn't need to be straightened.

“Jillian, what's wrong?” Mellyora asked.

“Nothing more than is wrong already!” Jillian said matter-of-factly.

“I don't believe you.”

“Mellyora, you're not happy now, but you must believe me, this time will pass—”

“Jillian, you will please tell me what has happened now!”

Jillian was incapable of deceit. She met Mellyora's eyes. “The king is very angry.”

“So …” Mellyora said. She couldn't breathe. She was suddenly terrified that it was all out of her hands, that the king had decided that she was to be punished by being removed from her lands no matter what. “The wedding is … off.”

Jillian shook her head. “No, no, nothing so awful.”

“Oh?”

“He knows how defiant you were, that you were with the Vikings for some time, that you wanted to marry elsewhere. He has suggested to Waryk that there be a public bedding.”

Mellyora sat, sinking to the floor in horror. Such events were not uncommon, especially among noble families when a bride's parents wished to impress upon her groom her youth and innocence, or when the married pair were actually in love, and heedless of the ceremony. Though she certainly knew of the practice, Mellyora had never attended such a spectacle. The couples she had known to wed had enjoyed their wedding feast with family and friends, and gone on to the privacy of their marital chamber.

“Oh, God,” she breathed.

“I shouldn't have told you,” Jillian said, distressed. “Yet, perhaps it was best that you were warned …”

Mellyora stood quickly, heading toward the door. Jillian rushed before her, trying to stop her. “Mellyora, you mustn't run again! There will be no—”

“I'm not running.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Waryk,” she said. Jillian still barred the door. “To Waryk, I swear it, let me by.”

Unhappily, Jillian stepped away from the door. Mellyora wasn't surprised to find Angus standing guard outside. “My lady?” he inquired politely.

“I need to see Waryk.”

He hid his surprise. “I'll escort you.”

It was good to rest in a bath, even if the biggest of tubs was somewhat tight. The tub in his chambers was his own, an import from Bruges with hammered-silver designs of guardian gargoyles and winged angels. He soaked in water that all but scalded him but also soothed his old battle wounds, all the little aches and pains that plagued him, and even his mind somewhat as well. He lay there, feeling the steam that rose and shimmered just above the water's edge. His last night as an unmarried man. Yet tomorrow, he became laird of Blue Isle, so called for the crystal beauty of the sea and sky around it, David had told him. And in a matter of days, he would reach and settle the isle. He'd be given time, he thought, before being called to serve the king again. He now had a home. And a wife.