Come the Morning (30 page)

“Now, Judith,” Lady Dougall protested. She looked at Mellyora with a smile that warned her Lady Rutherford was prone to gossip.

“Well, it's the truth,” Judith Rutherford said with a sniff.

“Mellyora adored her father,” Lady Dougall said warningly.

“What are you trying to say?” Mellyora demanded.

Judith didn't reply; she pursed her lips. Sarah MacNiall, the youngest of the women, a sensuous beauty recently widowed, softly laughed.

“She's saying that your father was a savage beast when he first came here, and that's the truth of it.”

“My father was a warrior, a Viking, but a decent man. Kind and gentle—”

“Aye, he butchered with a smile!” Sarah said.

“In the king's name!” Judith reminded her Sarah.

“Oh, do stop, Laird Adin was a Viking, but he became a good man, a king's man, loyal to his newfound country. And your mother adored him,” she told Mellyora.

“Just as you'll adore your husband,” Sarah said. Mellyora didn't mind Lady Rutherford, she simply said what she thought and meant no harm. Sarah was quite different. She had a malicious cast to her eyes, and Mellyora wondered why she had come to taunt her. She seemed to be laughing at her, goading her with every word, no matter how lightly spoken. “Ah, well, with a warrior, it doesn't matter if he's kind or decent. In fact, it rather goes against the concept, doesn't it? Your father was fierce; he had his way of winning your mother over. So with all warriors, it doesn't matter if they're kind or merciful. What matters with a warrior is … prowess.”

“Laird Waryk is the king's champion,” Lady Dougall said defensively. “A man could not have more prowess.”

Sarah leaned against the mantel and the slow smile that touched her lips and the look in her eyes when she gazed toward Mellyora clearly stated that she hadn't been referring to the battlefield. “Oh, of course. Well, many ladies, landed and no, have dreamt of the great Laird Lion! Some have seen him in their sleep. There is Lady Eleanora of Tyne. It's said that she had true hopes of marrying again, but that if she could not wed Waryk, she'd not marry any man, for she'd never find another knight of his power and prowess.”

Well aware that the other woman was stretching her claws, Mellyora determined that she wouldn't betray herself the least upset by any comment the other woman might make.

“Lady Eleanora sounds like a sensible woman. Marriage doesn't always seem to be a desirable state for women. She'll keep her independence, something very precious. Since so many marriages are arranged, she is a lucky woman. No one is stepping into her life to tell her what she must do,” Mellyora said.

“Ah, well, it seems that those who wish independence, lose it. Eleanora was told to marry once, and she did so dutifully. Now, she may continue to do as she chooses. See whom she chooses, when she chooses,” Sarah said, and smiled. “You do look beautiful, Mellyora. And it's nearly time.” She walked close to Mellyora, and said softly, “I pray you'll be all right, Mellyora. The whole of the fortress whispers of the way you attempted to escape this arrangement and humiliate Waryk. Most people think you should be whipped and cast aside. I assure you, besides Eleanora, there are many who would gladly take your place.”

“It's a pity that the king will not allow them to do so,” Mellyora said sweetly.

“Men marry when they must, and yet seem so free to do as they choose. You're right. I shall cherish my independence,” Sarah told her. “So many husbands die, battles never seem to end. Wives are left widows, and then alas, wives die, too. Childbirth, disease, accidents, and then the husbands are left to seek new wives.” Again, she smiled.

Mellyora felt chilled to the bone. It was as if Sarah were trying to will her to die.

“It's nearly time for the ceremony. We must get on over to the church. Come along now, Judith, Sarah,” Mary insisted. She winked at Mellyora as she ushered the other two out of the room, and Mellyora decided that she wasn't at all as innocent as she had imagined. She stopped and kissed Mellyora on the cheek. “Eleanora is a close friend, Sarah is being bitter, and nothing more. You're quite lovely, and I'm sure your groom will forgive you anything!”

She didn't know how much there was to forgive, Mellyora thought, but smiled, and bid her thanks.

Left alone at last with Jillian, Mellyora shook her head. “I can't go through with this.”

Jillian nearly snorted aloud. “You've never been a coward. You're not going to let that evil witch beneath your skin! You can't possibly be afraid of her!”

“I'm not afraid of her. I'm not afraid. I feel ill.” She gripped Jillian's hands. “I can't do this,” she whispered.

“You have to do this.”

“Help me, I need something, a drug, a drink, anything, strong ale, wine—”

Jillian cleared her throat, looking over her head. Mellyora realized that the door had been left open. She turned slowly, with dread.

Waryk stood there, resplendent in his tartan, a length of the wool fashioned over his shoulder and held firmly by a falcon-crested brooch. Angus stood behind him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him. “I wasn't supposed to see you until we were at the church—”

“Ah, but it's good that I'm here, isn't it? I can help you actually make it to the church. Angus, see what we can find for my lady. There, on the trunk. A carafe of wine. That will do for now. Bring it quickly.” He lowered his voice, speaking to Mellyora alone. “We can't have you gulping down the communion wine at our wedding mass, can we?”

She didn't know if he was amused, or simply contemptuous. She didn't care. Angus brought her a chalice of wine. She offered him a smile of gratitude, and felt her soon-to-be husband studying her still.

“Drink it, and let's go,” he said impatiently.

“Take care, Mellyora, you don't want to lose all sense and reason,” Jillian warned.

Mellyora continued to stare at Waryk. “Aye, but I do,” she said softly.

His eyes remained locked upon hers, and he betrayed no emotion. He took her arm. “Shall we, my love?”

It wasn't an invitation. He was moving, and she was going with him.

“The church is quite full,” he said lightly. “The king has seen to it that this is a spectacle for many to witness.”

She felt a moment's deep unease. “You—you haven't—”

“I haven't what?”

She moistened her lips. “Reneged on your promise?”

“Are you reneging on yours?”

She shook her head.

“I always keep my word. I told you so.”

He was walking quickly, his long strides were difficult to keep up with, and she was tall, and accustomed to moving quickly. “Tell me,” she said, slightly breathless, “is your mistress in the church?”

To her astonishment, he stopped dead, staring at her.

“What?”

“I asked you if your mistress was in the church.”

She didn't know what he saw, or thought. He studied her so long that she wished she could take back the question. She realized that she was taunting him on purpose, that she was disturbed. There was so much in life that was simply done, or simply expected. Men had wives for gain, mistresses for pleasure.

And, she realized, she did not share well, could not meekly accept such a fate.

“Let's go, shall we, it makes no difference!” she exclaimed, aware that Angus and Jillian were behind them, and though they hadn't heard her speak, they were hovering awkwardly some feet away.

She started walking. He held her arm, and walked as well. “Would it matter?” he asked her after a moment.

“What?”

“If she were here. If Eleanora sat in a pew just beyond the altar?” he asked casually.

“Nothing seems to matter, does it?” she said.

“Trust me. The future shall matter,” he promised her.

They had reached the entrance to the church. She didn't remember exiting the corridor to the courtyard, walking through the twilight, and coming here. The wine had helped, she thought Somewhat. Candles burned brilliantly within, hundreds of them, so it seemed. The light cast an eerie, shimmering glow, and it seemed as if everything within that glow were part of a dream, and not real. She was grateful, feeling that she could rise above the light and watch what went on, as if she were not real, nor was anything that happened.

The king waited impatiently at the rear of the church, ready as her guardian to escort her to the altar, anxious to give her into marriage and be done with her. She was amazed at the number of people there. She would have been touched that the king had gone into his own pocket so deeply for her wedding, except that she knew he had not done it for affection, but for effect. She and Blue Isle were now Waryk's, Laird Lion's, and all should know it.

The walk to the altar seemed interminable. She was glad again of the wine she had gulped. She kept telling herself that she was above the glow of the light …

A chorus sang hymns, the bishop was there, a skinny, taciturn man, stern to the extreme. He spoke endlessly, so it seemed. She was on her knees, head bowed, when he came to her with the communion cup. She felt a wild urge to seize the cup and gulp down the wine, as Waryk had taunted, but managed to refrain. It didn't seem like a good time to tempt God, king, or Waryk.

She was amazed to realize that she was standing again, that she didn't realize she had come to her feet. There was a silver inlaid band upon her finger, and the bishop was announcing them man and wife before God and all witnesses gathered there.

Then she felt him, touching her, his fingers threading into her hair, tilting her head. His mouth closed over hers, molding to it, his tongue forcing her lips. She had expected a chaste kiss … not this. His lips encompassed hers, his tongue invaded, and she was filled with the warmth and taste of him in a way she had not imagined. She'd kissed before, known pleasure, a subtle excitement …

She couldn't breathe. He seemed overwhelming. She couldn't escape his hold, the tangle of her hair around his fingers, the forceful pressure of his lips, his body against hers. A warrior knight, she thought desperately. Hard as steel, unyielding as rock. She breathed him, felt him; he seemed to be within her, stealing her air, seizing her strength. Tremors seared along her spine, heat danced before her eyes. She struggled to free herself, hearing the bishop clear his throat, hearing the laughter and the roar of approval from the gathered guests … Her eyes were closed, her breath was gone, she could barely stand, her knees were giving, she would taste him forever …

He lifted his mouth from hers. Her lips felt damp, swollen, so tender …

She was shaking, and wanted to wipe his touch away. She would never be able to do so, she thought. He had somehow made certain already that she would never be able to forget him, ever. She need only close her eyes, and her senses would remember.

“What are you doing?” she whispered frantically. She was aware of the crowd, the good-natured laughter, the cheers.

“There has to be some show,” he responded.

He had her arm, and was turning to leave. She stumbled, he caught her. He led her from the church, and the guests spilled around them.

Lady Dougall came to her, embracing her. “I've never seen a more beautiful bride!”

“I've never seen one more ready to pass out!” Sarah said, kissing her cheeks, as if she spoke with empathy and affection.

But it didn't matter, she didn't reply, because Anne was hugging her next, and the affection was genuine. “You were beautiful, spellbinding. The two of you make the most handsome, most noble couple. You're so golden, he's so dark, and you're both as tall as the gods … what beautiful children you will create together!”

Her jaw clenched, she hugged Anne back, unable to respond at first.

“Well, it will be your wedding next,” she reminded Anne.

“I'm so grateful. To you and Waryk. If it weren't for your husband, something dreadful would have happened. Daro might have defied the king for you, for me, and David might have fought him, and Daro might have died, and the king's forces might have been so weakened that an assault from an enemy might have devastated him. But your husband has the strength to be merciful, and so we shall all live, and be happy.”

She didn't have the heart to remind Anne that she hadn't wanted any part of this.

“Ah, Mellyora, your father would be proud!” she heard the king say, and she was turned about, and he held her in his arms, kissing her on the forehead. Aye, she'd been dutiful now, with no choice. She was in his favor again, so it seemed, or she was being chastised.

“Would he?” she queried softly.

“Trust me, lass, in time, you'll thank me,” he told her.

She arched a brow, but smiled, wary of the king at the moment. When she was gone from here, even with her new husband, she would be relieved. She wasn't going to argue with David, not when wine was flowing freely from barrels in the courtyard and servants were bringing tables and food out under the moonlight for the wedding feast. The crowd could too easily grow raucous, and demand more entertainment than Waryk had already chosen to give them.

David beckoned to a servant for wine, and when it arrived, he gave a chalice to Mellyora, and kept one for himself. “A salute!” the king cried, and the crowd fell silent. He lifted his chalice. “To the power and strength of unity, to this marriage, combining great houses, peoples, and strength of our country; to my warrior and his bride, and to our united Scotland!”

Cheers surrounded them. Mellyora drank her wine, and accepted good wishes from more and more of the king's guests, friends, acquaintances, and those she hadn't known before. At one point in the evening, she felt an uncanny sensation of unease, and she turned to see that she was being watched. Sarah stared at her. She didn't turn away when caught, but gave her a slow smile that was in some strange way a threat. Mellyora turned away from her, laughing at something a young knight said.