Come the Morning (31 page)

In time she wound up seated at the banqueting table with her husband. Still, there was so much activity around them, they were not forced to talk. The king had ordered entertainment: jesters, dancers, magicians, jugglers. The hour grew late. Lady Rutherford sat with her husband, face flushed from wine, cap askew. Sarah sat next to a drunk knight, teasing him, laughing with him, goading him, Mellyora thought. She was right. Sarah smiled at her, then whispered to the knight. The young man rose suddenly, stood, and shouted cheerfully, “To bed, Laird Lion! You've taken the bride purported to be the fairest in the land, sir! Shall we see to it?”

Mellyora had known Sarah was determined on her discomfort. There was a vicious streak in the young woman. She felt her cheeks flood with crimson, and she prayed that Waryk would remember his promise and do something quickly. If the crowd got too wild, there would be little anyone could do. She and Waryk would both be seized and stripped and thrown together, and it would be horrible.

She didn't dare look his way, but she felt him rise beside her, lifting a chalice to the young man. “Why, sir, so the hour is late! So if you'll give us a moment …”

He had reached out a hand to her. Mellyora took it, and he drew her to her feet. He led her from the table, taking all the time in the world, stopping here and there to speak quickly and casually with one person, and then the next.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“Running,” he told her.

They came to the far end of the banqueting table, and he whistled. His great warhorse Mercury made a splendid entrance upon the scene, loping across the courtyard, attracting everyone's attention, and coming to an obedient halt directly before his master. Waryk lifted her and threw her atop the horse, and hopped up behind her.

“They're getting away!” someone shouted.

“Catch them!” someone else cried good-naturedly.

“Get them, come, the fun is just beginning!”

But they would not be caught. No one else was mounted; the horses were in the stables. And Mercury was as swift as his name. They rode through the gates, and out into the night, and hard along the northern trail that led to the forest.

Waryk had kept his word, and they were gone from the castle. She closed her eyes and felt the wind, and, relieved of much tension, she rested against his chest. Then she felt his heartbeat, the power of his every movement. She had been so desperate to escape the fortress that she had thought about little else; she certainly hadn't thought ahead about the night.

Now suddenly, the cottage deep in the forest seemed too close. They were moving far too fast, galloping toward the inevitable.

They rode hard for the first twenty minutes; then, mindful of his horse, Waryk slowed their gait. When they came to a stream, and he allowed the horse to drink, Mellyora asked for water. He lifted her, and let her slip down to the ground. She rushed to the water. It was icy, sweet. It cooled the fever that burned within her. She drank deeply, bathed her face, drank some more. She cooled her face and throat again, bound her hair slowly to keep it from getting soaked, and started the ritual all over again, tarrying long and deliberately.

He was tolerant for a while, then spoke impatiently. “We need to move on.”

“The water is delicious. The moon is full here. We've the night to ride.”

“Now, Mellyora.”

She didn't want him coming for her, so she rose reluctantly. She didn't look at him as she returned to Mercury. He reached down for her, easily hoisting her back upon the horse before him. The moonlight was very strong, guiding them in a slow lope toward the cottage in the woods. It seemed that they reached it in no time. It should have been much farther.

Waryk leapt down and reached up to set her on the ground.

She felt him behind her, his whisper husky and warm against her ear.

“We're here, my love. Time for debts to be paid and bargains to be fulfilled!”

She longed to break free from him; she didn't need to do so.

He stepped back, tending to Mercury.

And she stood in the clearing in the forest, staring at the cottage with dismay. Nothing had been a dream; no sweet warmth of wine or candle glow could now keep the edge from the truth.

She had married him; they were man and wife.

Everything in life indeed had its price.

C
HAPTER
15

She walked ahead of him, not daring to look back. Suddenly she found herself remembering the madness with which she had suggested this place. She hadn't known who he was, she had been willing to sell her soul to escape the king's edict. She hadn't known the simplicity of his power. She had been certain that she could say or do anything at that moment, and it wouldn't matter, because she would escape, and all would be well.

It had all been madness, and she didn't know how she had come to this. She should have been so much smarter. But she had been mourning her father, consoling herself with the belief that she would go on as he had done, creating a haven within her own country. Then the king had sent for her, and she had come to Stirling believing that she had only to speak with him, make him understand …

But here she was in a cottage in the woods, afraid and miserable. Ruing the fact that she had been so naive from the beginning. She had believed that Daro's strength could save her. She had risked her uncle's life. Because he was part of Scotland now, even if the king did not realize that it was so. Like her father, her uncle had chosen his homeland, and this was it. He wouldn't have called upon Scandinavian mercenaries to help him fight the king. He would have fought himself had it come to it, and he would have died. Seeing so clearly in hindsight was painful. She did owe Waryk her gratitude that he did not allow her rejection of the king's plans to create warfare. Owing him her gratitude did not make the situation easier, but rather all the more difficult.

But he didn't understand. The old ways in the isles had been so different. Women had been given rights, there had been laws, different laws. She still wanted to shriek out that the Normans had not conquered Scotland, that the feudal laws were not fair, that once upon a distant, better time, she'd have had a right to own property, to govern it, to live her own life.

He was the king's man, trained in the art of war, a Scotsman, he said, but a warrior familiar with Norman building, Norman law, armor, swords, and power. There was a prize he was to receive for risking his neck for the king; her land was that prize.

“Mellyora, go in.”

Her mother had told her stories about the woods. There were sprites and nymphs living in great oaks. Magical creatures who played tricks, who hampered mankind, and helped as well.

If she could just disappear into the air, melt into an oak …

“Mellyora.”

She shivered and opened the door to the cottage. Someone had come there before them. The place had been cleaned. An open door separated an outer room from a bedroom. In the outer room, on a large, rough-planked table, food had been left, smoked meat, cheese, bread, wine. Warming fires had been set in the hearths in the outer room and in the bedroom. Through the doorway, Mellyora could see that a tub had been left for her with snowy towels, soaps, perfumes. A large kettle heated water over the fire, water to be added if the other had chilled before her arrival. A sheer white gown lay on the bed which had been laden with pillows and furs. She didn't realize that she had frozen in the doorway until he entered behind her. “Forgive me for presuming to know you so well, but I imagine you would like some wine?”

“Yes.”

He poured wine, handing her a chalice. “Veritable love nest, isn't it?”

She didn't reply, but gripped her chalice tightly, swallowing down the contents.

He took the chalice from her. “One more. Then you keep your word.”

He poured her a second serving of wine, then indicated the doorway. “Do you need help with your clothing? I wasn't sure if you would want your woman, Jillian, here at first, but I decided discretion meant more to you than assistance.”

“No. I don't need help with anything.”

He bowed to her, his eyes bright with amusement as he indicated the bedroom. “Your bath awaits. As do I. You do intend to keep your word?”

She stared at him, absolutely hating him for finding the whole travesty so amusing. “Yes, I keep my word!” she told him furiously, then strode by him, slamming the door behind her.

In the bedroom she saw that steam was still rising from the tub. She downed the last of her wine, stared at the water, and cast her clothing off in a sudden frenzy. The fire burned warm around her. She filled the tub with the last of the heated water, wrapped her hair into a knot, and stepped into the tub. She sank into the water.
Yes, she kept her word. This was marriage. It wasn't so terrible. She wouldn't die, women married every day, women fell in love, Anne was in love with Daro …

The warmth of the tub was good, lying there was good, being numb and trying not to think while minutes rushed by was good as well, and yet …

It wouldn't be so terrible. She remembered his touch, his kiss, the feeling it had evoked in her, and she realized that she was feeling that strange heat again without his touching her, just thinking, remembering. And she recalled the taste of him, his scent …

“My love?” There came a tapping on the door. “Are you alive in there? It's been some time, and I wouldn't want to criticize, but surely, you must be pruning to a pit?”

She gritted her teeth. Just when she thought he might be bearable, he opened his mouth.

She stepped out of the tub, wrapping herself in the towel. She clung to it. Jillian had been here: She'd set the linen towel over a chair by the fire, and it was deliciously warm and comforting.

“Mellyora?”

“Wretch!” she murmured angrily. But she realized he might open the door any second, and so she dived for her gown, pulling it quickly over her head. She loosened her hair, and it fell around her. She heard the scrape of the door as it began to open, and she dived into the bed, covering herself with the furs. She couldn't dim the firelight, but just as he walked in, she leaned over and blew out the candles that burned bedside.

She stared at him in the pale firelight of the room. “You may come in now,” she said imperilously.

“I am in.”

“So I see. And I am here. As I gave my word I would be.”

He perched on the end of the bed, staring at her. “Well, not exactly as you promised you would be.”

She frowned, holding a fur cover close. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that this will not do at all.”

“In what way?”

He lifted a hand vaguely. “Well, had we remained at the fortress in Stirling, a goodly group of drunkards would have led us about, stolen our clothing, gaped over our good points and bad, and I would have been forced to take the initiative in their voyeuristic debauchery or forever lose face before my friends and countrymen. And women, of course. The crowd would have shown me first the absolute perfection of the king's great prize, his ward, great Adin's daughter. But we are here, and I didn't ask for you to be cowering in bed beneath the covers—”

“I'm not cowering, I'm simply here.”

“But it's not what you promised.”

“What did I promise?”

He smiled, crossing his arms over his chest. “To start, my lady, get out of the bed.”

“Why? Isn't it where you wish to end up?”

He arched a brow, still smiling slightly. “Up, my lady.”

Gritting her teeth, she rose. She stood nervously by the bed, glad she had doused the candles. She felt as if the gown she wore were completely diaphanous, and she was grateful for the shadows. She felt his eyes rake over her. He rose, and she braced herself, certain he was coming for her.

“What now?” she murmured.

“Umm, more wine, I think,” he said. He collected her chalice from the mantel and strode to the outer chamber. “My love, do come out here.”

Where there was more light.

“I think you should come back here.”

“I think you should keep your word.”

She walked slowly through the doorway to the outer room. He beckoned to her, and she walked to the table before the great hearth there and stood before him. He sipped from a chalice and she noted that he had meant more wine for himself—not her. He hadn't poured a second chalice. He leaned against the table, drinking, and made a motion with his hand. “Spin.”

She controlled her temper and did so. He beckoned her closer, setting down his chalice. He slipped an arm around her, pulling her tight against him. With his free hand he lifted her chin, and touched her lips with his own. She was instantly aware of the power of his body heat again, a warmth and vitality in his touch that seemed to sear from his caress into the length of her. His lips moved slowly over hers, with an amazingly gentle force. Her mouth parted. She tasted and breathed him again, felt her heart thundering to great new heights of speed. Her limbs felt liquid, and she was glad that he held her, for she couldn't stand. She had expected this to be terrible. No, perhaps she had wanted this to be terrible. It should have been duty, and she should have never felt this sense of searing excitement, of wild heat, racing throughout her, touching her limbs, touching within …

His lips broke from hers. “This won't do,” he said.

She straightened, stunned, then finding strength not to waver, and to step back from him, back to sanity.

“What won't do?” she demanded distractedly.

“That gown.”

“My gown—”

“Off with it.”

Once again, she felt her temper soar. He was playing with her.

“My love,” he murmured, picking up his wine again, “you might break your jaw, you know, if you clench your teeth any tighter. And you do have wonderful teeth.”

“Do I?” she breathed. “How convenient. Yours are wondrous fair as well!”