Come the Morning (5 page)

“I will be fine,” she said. She loved Ewan. From her childhood, he'd been her best friend. With his dark blond hair and gray eyes, he was handsome, serious, and dependable. He was worried about her, they were all worried about her, her people, her advisors, everyone. She had been summoned before the king. All lairds and ladies must pay homage to the king, she had assured them all. The king was her godfather. He loved her, she had always been able to charm him. She believed in her power to maintain her position. And Sir Harry was an old friend as well. He was the leader of the five armed men sent by King David to protect her on her ride through the countryside to Stirling. The gates of the city were within view, she knew she was perfectly safe.

“Sir Harry, if you'll excuse us just a moment, I'd have a moment with Ewan, who will safeguard my home in my absence,” she said.

“Aye, my lady, of course.”

She moved her mount back into a copse in the forest, and Ewan followed there. Her mare nuzzled his gelding. She reached out and touched Ewan's face. “Don't fear for me.”

He shook his head. “I'm not afraid.”

“You look so sad.”

He smiled, an awkward, lopsided smile. He wasn't going to argue with her.

“Ewan, I am strong. I can take care of myself.”

“Mellyora, David is the king. We've all told you that, we've all warned you—”

“And I will do the king homage.”

“He'll think you haven't the strength—”

“But I do.”

“Mellyora, take care in your arguments. Take care what defiance you make, don't put yourself into danger. You don't seem to understand that if you're attacked … well, you can be in danger.”

“How so?”

He suddenly drew his sword, aiming it at her throat. But she saw the motion coming, and she carried her own sword in a slender leather scabbard at her hips. Her steel touched his even as he tried to prove his point.

“You were saying, Ewan?” she murmured softly.

He shook his head, eyes lowered as he rued the fact he hadn't moved faster.

“I'll be all right. Have faith in me.”

“Aye, that I do. I'll pray for you, my lady.”

She smiled, sorry that he seemed so insulted that she had easily rebuffed the attack that was to prove her weak. She inched her horse toward his, discreetly looked about to assure herself they were alone, and leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss against his lips.

“My lady MacAdin!” she heard Sir Harry calling. “We must ride on; it is getting dark!”

She sat her mount primly again, but could not help smiling mischievously at Ewan once again. “I'll be all right. I swear it. I love you. I vow my heart to you, always.”

He lowered his head, inching his horse forward once again. He took her hand, and kissed it tenderly. His gray eyes touched hers with devotion. “Whatever happens, my lady, I will love you. I swear it.” He looked at her as if he were saying goodbye. She could not bear it.

Heedless of Sir Harry's anxious calls, she leaned over again and impulsively kissed Ewan one last time. “Soon. I'll be home soon, my love.”

They rode from the cover of the trees and parted ways. As they slowly loped down the crest toward the fortress she remembered the words: “The king is anxious to see you today, my lady. He insisted, today. He has much to tell you.”

And I have much to tell him
, Mellyora thought.

It didn't occur to her that she might not have the opportunity to tell him exactly what she was thinking, what she wanted, and what she intended to do.

“Mellyora, I have carefully chosen this marriage for you,” the king said firmly. He could sense her resistance, it seemed to bound off her like the hot, angry rays of the sun on a summer's day.

Time and the passage of years had changed King David little. If anything, he was stronger, more assured, and more aware that being a king often meant maneuvering men. Alliance could be far more advantageous than the strength of hundreds of fighting men. Being a man who had lived through much and gained a certain wisdom regarding people, he never judged a man, a friend or an enemy, by his birth. Certain Englishmen, overly imbued with their own sense of power, attacked his southern borders, but his wife was a Northumbrian heiress, and he had many supporters among her people. Henry I of England had been partially responsible for raising David, he had taught him, he had given him many of his lands, and his wife. But Henry had died two years ago, and the English monarchy was in chaos with Henry's nephew, Stephen, fighting with Henry's daughter, Mathilda, for the throne of England. This made the English nobles more powerful as each faction vied for their help in the dispute. Border lords were a danger, they always would be. Naturally, they considered him a danger, and naturally, he was pressing against the line of the kingdom.

Then again, there were still the Vikings.

He had never disliked a man simply for being a Viking. God knew, even the royal house of Normandy evolved from Viking contributions. The sea pirates had raided far and wide, into France, England, Ireland, as far away as Russia and the Mediterranean, and certainly into Scotland. The great invasions which had first cast such horror into these isles were now several centuries in the past, but wars with the predators were not so far away that a Viking menace could be taken lightly. In the early years of the last century, his own royal ancestors had been forced to pay homage to the Dane Cnut, who had been recognized king of much of England. And it had just been in the year 1098 when the Norwegian king Magnus III, known as Magnus Barefoot, had savaged his way through Orkney and the Hebrides, held his position, and made a formal treaty with David's brother. Aye, Vikings were a greater danger than border lords. He didn't intend to lose any of his land to the Vikings. They were a threat.

They always would be.

He had sent for Mellyora so quickly after her father's death mainly because Vikings were so dangerous. He had accepted her homage, then told her his plans for her future—immediate plans—because Vikings were so dangerous.

And the lass before him was far too Viking for her own good, no matter her maternal ancestry and her dead father's loyalty to Scotland, and to him. Adin had been proven. This was a girl facing him, one with dangerous desires and dangerous kin. But she was also an heiress with an outstanding inheritance. A stubborn heiress, dangerous herself. Even if she thought herself loyal to him, she could be manipulated. She was his own godchild; he had stood by her father, recently converted to Christianity, at her birth, and he had watched her grow. Now, she was his ward. He had mulled her future for a very long time, firmer plans revolving in his mind as Adin had continued to mourn his wife at her death, refuse to marry again, and thus, fail to sire a male inheritor. He was greatly pleased with his decision; he was a king who granted time for an audience with his poorest subjects on an almost daily basis, and he was quick to reward those who served him.

Not only was this girl one of the most wealthy heiresses in his realm, she was young, stunning, healthy, and vibrant. Many men had asked the king for her, most discreetly, while her fierce father lived. He had firmly turned down all pleas and entreaties. There were few men who deserved such a prize, and such power. A power which required a love of Scotland, loyalty to the royal Scottish house of Canmore, and a sense of the new growing nationalism. Perhaps the kings of Scotland had been forced to pay a certain homage to the kings of England; the lines of a separate country had been drawn, and through both warfare and diplomacy, God willing, they would only strengthen.

And by God, his errant young ward would understand, and do his will. Without question. He was a good king, and he knew it. Honored for the introduction of new laws, creating new commerce, minting coins, and more. He was a strong and intelligent king, a warrior and a statesman. He could be both merciful and merciless. And watching her now, as she stood before him, silent, chin set stubbornly, he knew that it would not be easy to be merciless.

But by God, she had too many Viking kin. And Vikings were dangerous. They always would be.

They had stared at one another now for a very long time, he thought. Too long a time.

“Your marriage will take place, and, my lady, you do understand my position?” David said, his tone courteous—and unyielding.

She still did not respond.

She stood like a stone statue, as if she were a carved creation of mythical beauty crafted by the talented hands of an artist to grace the king's great hall at Stirling. She evenly returned the king's stare, betraying no true feelings with either the slightest movement or expression. The perfect marble smoothness of her face remained cool and impassive; the endless deep blue of her eyes remained fixed upon the king.

She intends to fight me
, David thought.
But perhaps not here, not now. How?

She hadn't disputed him yet, but then again, neither had she agreed with a single word he had said since he had turned down her bid to remain in power herself in those lands which had been held by her father until his recent, lamentable death. He had summoned her to Stirling to give her the good news about her upcoming marriage. Amazingly, she had come to pay homage as her father's heir, expecting that he would allow her to remain lady of the isle in her own right. He had known she'd wanted to speak; he hadn't given her a chance. He'd immediately told her his plans for her.

And she didn't like them.

His fingers curled around the arms of the handsomely carved chair. He hadn't seen her in quite some time, Mellyora, granddaughter of a Norse king. What could she think? She knew herself that Vikings were dangerous. They had proven it time and again over the years. David himself had made treaties with the Vikings, he respected the Vikings, and many northern islands were ruled by Viking jarls. Adin, her father, however, had been unique. Different, powerful, he had seen fit to become a part of Scotland. Not many of his kind were quite so willing to settle into the political structure of a unified Scotland under one king, and kin of Adin's still ruled many of the isles off the coast of Scotland. His brother, Daro, Laird of Skul Island, was camped just outside Stirling now, here to negotiate with the king. Mellyora still had powerful family from her father's homeland to help her if she saw fit to go to them. Still, the king was strong himself in his own domains, and he would have his way.

Mellyora was also a descendant of one of the most ancient Gaelic families in all of Scotland. Through her mother's kin, she should have been his most loyal subject. David was aware that although he had spent many of his formative years in a Norman court, it was acknowledged by his subjects that his mother had been Saxon royalty. And from his father's side, he could trace his heritage back to the great Kenneth MacAlpin, and some believed that the line of Scottish kings went back even farther, with their royal line descending back first to ancient Egypt, then on to Spain, Ireland, and from there, on to Scotland. As king, in holding his country together, he had learned that bloodlines could be important, and that sometimes, one had to be very, very careful in mixing blood.

Not that much care had gone into the mingling when Mellyora had been born, so legend went. Adin had simply come, seen, and conquered, and whether his bride had been willing or not at the beginning was anyone's guess. No matter, the blood mixed in Mellyora's veins had created a young woman with the best of both parents—truly an asset to any king. She was perfectly formed, with a slim, supple body, beautifully curved. The bone structure in her face was exceptionally fine. She moved with the grace of an angel, and her striking blue eyes gave her both power and a sense of the mythical or mysterious, as if she might have been bred from old Adin's Nordic gods. Her hair was purely golden, nothing pale about her blond at all—it was touched with a hint of red fire, and it was thick and rich and lustrous and fell down her back now freed from any plaiting or restraint. He was certain that she had worn her hair down, flowing freely, just as she had come to him dressed in a blue-linen shift—not a piece of jewelry or adornment upon her—because she had calculated that such plain apparel would signify more than mere loyalty to him. She had come before him as she might have come before her own father, a true daughter who most naturally swore love and devotion, and therefore deserved to be completely trusted in return.

Simply clad, she appeared all the more noble. She was tall for a woman, a regal gift from her father, for he had towered over men. She was incredibly still, shoulders set, back straight. Despite her height, she was delicately built, as her mother had been, with fine, chiseled features, high-set cheekbones. Her face was in perfect proportion with her large blue eyes. Honeyed brows handsomely arched above them; she had a small, well-formed nose, and full, generous lips. Perhaps those lips were just a bit grim now—her one telltale reaction to his dictates.

Ah, yes.

And there … along the elegant line of her throat, a pulse ticked furiously. She was angry with him. Livid.

David smiled. At least she knew her place, and did her very best not to betray her anger.

His smile faded. Either that, or she plotted against him. She was part Viking. Too much Viking. And
Vikings were dangerous
.

He determined her marriage would take place as soon as was humanly possible.

“My dear?” David prompted.

“I understand your position, sire,” she said.

Ah, yes. She
understood
his position.

She didn't agree with it a bit.

Well, he understood her position as well. What she hadn't completely comprehended as yet was that
he
was
king
. And, therefore, it was his position that must not just be understood, but
obeyed.

“You do then accept my plans for your future?” David asked.

“You know that I have always been your most loyal servant. As was my father.”