Come the Morning (6 page)

She paused. The king watched as she struggled with her emotions.

Great Adin was not long deceased. He had been a bear of a man, tall as a god, gifted with a thick mane of red-blond hair, rich beard, and flashing, icicle eyes. Men had admired him, women had loved him. Yet, even after the death of his Gaelic lady, he had remained loyal to her memory. However the marriage had begun, he had loved her. After her death, his constant companion had been his daughter. He had ridden with her, read with her, practiced at arms with her, sailed the sea with her.

Perhaps he had even taught her about going a-Viking. Raiding, plundering, seizing land that was not hers.

Strangely, David had never questioned Adin's loyalty once the Viking had come to him for term. But in the midst of what appeared to be incredibly robust health, Adin had died. Drinking with friends, jarls, and chieftains, he had suddenly constricted, turned white as snow, and fallen.

All through the night, the king had heard, this daughter of his had sat by his side, clutching his great hand.

She had continued to do so, even after his death. As he was shrouded for burial in the chapel where he had been baptized into Christianity himself, she had sat by his side.

And even then, the king had heard, she had kept vigil, refusing to leave the chapel, to eat, to sleep, to cease her prayers, until Adin had been dead three days, and only then had friends and the strange Gaelic priest, Phagin, convinced her that she must leave him at last.

Watching the king then, she cleared her throat. “I do repeat, sire, my father was your most loyal servant. I learned all that I know from him. I would always be your most loyal subject as well, ever more especially—with greater determination, care, concern and
responsibility
—were I granted faith and freedom to see to my own affairs. A husband of my own choosing, when I choose to take one, would be—by God, I do solemnly swear—a most loyal subject to you, sire, and to no other man.”

“Well spoken, my lady—and with all the passion and fervor of youth. But you are a young, very beautiful woman, Mellyora. More temptation than you can imagine to those who would covet both your person and your lands.”

“I have in my household the most able men—”

“Who serve you. None who can claim to be lord.”

“None who rule me,” she snapped back, losing—if just briefly—her iron hold upon her temper.

David lowered his head, smiling. He looked back to her gravely. “My dear, I am well aware of the power and strength of your will. However, it is the strength of your sword arm that worries me.”

“I manage quite well,” she said evenly. “I have been taught by masters. Those incredibly skilled in the arts of survival.”

And invasion!
David thought, suddenly wary. There were more pressing matters than this of trying to convince a headstrong young heiress that she was not a power to stand alone—especially when he didn't dare be anything but suspicious of her closest male kin. Admittedly, other Vikings had often interbred and made Scotland their home, as had Adin. But though Adin's brother had sometimes fought with the king's troops, he was a younger man, and the company he kept was not entirely trustworthy. Adin had married a Scottish heiress. Daro's loyalties still remained in question. Not that any of that mattered in this; David had made up his mind about Blue Isle, Adin's fortress.

“Lady Mellyora, you will bear in mind that I am your king. Your overlord, and your godfather. Your well-being was entrusted to me by both your father and your mother. And it is your welfare that I have in mind. Though I do applaud that strength and will of which we speak, I must still repeat—”

“Strength and will and wit, my liege,” she corrected him. “When a stronghold is besieged, it is not saved by one sword arm alone, but rather by the talents of the main defender—directing others to action. Of that, I am highly capable.”

“Mellyora,” David said, losing patience completely, “I have spoken. You will trust in my ability to see what is best for you—and Scotland.”

“Since I am a woman too weak and witless to judge for myself, sire?”

David stood and approached her, amazed by her blunt sarcasm and the force of her resistance. When he stood directly before her, she still met his gaze steadily. Then her lashes swept her cheeks and he could see that she was trembling, though with fear that she might have pushed him too far at last, or with simple fury that she had not gotten her way, he did not know.

“I have chosen a man for you—”

“You have chosen a man to whom to give my property. I am but an appendage to it.” Her eyes flashed to his. He had known her since she was a child, and she was taking grave advantage of that relationship now. A fact which tempted him to treat her as he might a very young child of his own—and take her right over his knee.

She was too old for such treatment—and so was his knee. But he grew tired of this argument. He would win, because he was king—he commanded great armies, and since he did, he could surely get one small woman to the altar. Yet it was irritating that he could not feel that he was truly winning the battle with his words and logic alone.

“You may retire, Mellyora,” he told her curtly.

“But, sire—”

“You may retire!”

“Retire, indeed,” she said. “As you wish. I give you all homage, King David, as is rightful. But now, though the hour is late, I will take my leave and return home—”

“Nay, lady, you will not.”

Her elegant, honey-shaded brow arched. “Am I a prisoner then, sire?”

“You are my guest.”

“Your guest.”

“Indeed, my lady.”

“And if I wished to leave—until the wedding, of course?”

“Pray, my lady, do not wish to do so. You would find it most difficult.”

“Ah. Because my sword arm is not so strong.”

“Good evening, my lady,” he said firmly. But she refused to go down without a further fight.

“I feel, sire, that you do not truly appreciate the strength that may lie within one's mind, and that neither gender nor muscle power has a thing to do with that strength.”

“I have heard you, Mellyora.”

“You have the power, my lord king. But if wits were to allow me to leave, then I would be free. Wouldn't that be true, my lord?”

He leaned toward her then, wagging a stern finger beneath her nose. “My lady, you should take care. You'll find yourself not only confined to Stirling, but to your chambers,” he warned.

“Perhaps.”

“Oh?”

Again, her lashes lowered. “Sire—”

“By God, Mellyora, leave me be!” David thundered, and at that, at last, she braced herself with clenched teeth, pausing. It was on the tip of his tongue to inform her that he hadn't summoned her to Stirling just to hear about his decision regarding her future, but to meet her prospective bridegroom as well. A messenger had recently assured him that his fighting men were nearly home, that they had tarried only to follow after the escort given to Mellyora.

The Lion had led the men engaged in the fighting.

But then, as yet, King David hadn't informed Laird Lion of his coming nuptials, either. It hadn't been until Adin had so suddenly died that the king had firmly decided that Mellyora was the right reward for the lad who had grown to become his most respected warrior knight. Other rich properties had become available over the years, but they'd been encumbered with aging heiresses who could not give the man the family he had lost. Young women were always available, but those as richly landed as this Viking's daughter were few and far between. The question of Waryk's future had remained a concern until now since David had never imagined Adin's death at such a time as this—the Norseman had seemed like a god himself, a Wodin to live forever. He'd been young when he'd taken his Gaelic bride, still little more than a boy himself when he'd produced his daughter. David had not thought that the lass and the riches of the property would have been his for the granting so soon.

The king's head pounded. Laird Lion would ride in triumphant; a warrior loyal to the king, a sword arm strong in valor and ability, and his king would present him with a bride who was not only unwilling, but brashly determined to make quite certain everyone should know it.

“Mellyora,” he said angrily, “you will honor me, cease this fight, and leave me be.”

“Well, sire, then, as you wish, I shall obediently leave you be,” she said quietly, but her blue eyes still carried dangerous light, and despite the soft way she spoke, her voice was edged with anger.

“Shall you?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I'm disturbing you, so I will take my powerless wits and leave you. Your prisoner—no, your guest—since I couldn't possibly escape your great strength or that of this fortress.”

“Lady, you test my patience.”

“Do I? Your pardon, it is not my wish to cause you trouble, merely to allow you to see that the mind is an incredibly powerful tool. Especially when it seems I am challenged to prove its force and potential.”

“M'lady,” the king said, inclining his head politely, “do let your mind work as it will. One of my men awaits just beyond the door to escort you back to your chambers.”

“You know, sire,” she said, “before God, not even a king can force a maid to marry.”

The very quiet of her tone made the words an irritating rebuke. She was maintaining her temper, he was losing his. He wouldn't have it. He was the king, and she was a pawn—his pawn, to be moved where and when he deemed it important.

“Before God, my dear, you may be surprised. Two can play a game of power and wit. Don't underestimate what I can and can't do. And as to force, perhaps I will leave that matter to your future husband!”

She smiled at him suddenly, sweetly. Even his determined, angry, and aging heart felt a warming trend—if not a melting. She was lovely, volatile, one minute so furious, and the next, gazing at him in a manner which could be almost tender and caring. She was his godchild.

“Sire, I am thus challenged. Of course, we both know that I can't possibly manage to escape your fortress here at Stirling, but if I did … would I then be free to choose my own future?”

“You will not escape.”

“Of course not, but if I did …?”

“You will not escape. My mind is set.”

“If you are so certain, then surely we have a bargain?”

“My lady—”

“If I escape, then I am free,” she said, as if that settled that matter. Her smile remained radiant, and she stepped forward suddenly—just as she had as a child. She touched his shoulders, came to her toes, and kissed his cheek.

“I make you no such promise!” he said sternly.

“But if I escape, I am free,” she said. “I learned well from you and my father. Possession gives a man great power to hold a property. Freedom gives a woman great power to negotiate. I'm also, sire, adept with a sword, a knife, and especially, my mind. I'm stronger than you see, sire, and I pray that you understand,” she said with determined dignity. Then she turned at last to leave.

Shoulders squared. Head very high. She didn't run from the room, but walked, as graceful as a goddess floating upon clouds. She walked with confidence. Slowly.

She was giving him a chance to summon her back. To talk more, argue, come to some different conclusion regarding her future.

Despite her sudden smile, and even the old affection of her kiss, she remained a stubborn, determined, and seething young goddess.

“I should wed you to a pruned old wife-beater, lass!” he swore after her, following her suddenly with long, angry strides. Oh, yes, he granted her a will of pure steel; she would argue with God himself on Judgment Day, so it seemed.

Just outside the great hall, he found that Sir Harry Wakefield—an old friend, a knight who had served him long before he had become king—waited as he had expected, as escort for the Lady Mellyora.

“Sir Harry!” the king said.

“Sire?”

“The lady and I have engaged in something of a game of combat—of wills, so it seems. You will see that she is returned safely to her chambers, and that she does not depart her chambers again until she is summoned before me once again.”

“Indeed, sire.”

Mellyora merely smiled. Yet even as she smiled, she cast the king a sharp, challenging assessment, then slipped her arm within Sir Harry's. “As if I could best the king at any combat!” she said, and laughed as if the possibility of such a thing was entirely absurd. “It will be good, Sir Harry, to know that you're guarding me.”

They departed down the hall. David watched them, telling himself that he had a trained knight decked in partial mail watching one lone woman.

He decided to double the guard on her door, and to let it be known that the Lady Mellyora was not—under any circumstance—to leave the stronghold at Stirling without his express permission.

If she so much as tried …

Well, she'd be brought back.

In chains, he thought grimly.

Easy, my fine sir, easy
…

After their first passion had been spent, Eleanora had seen his wound. A scratch, he'd told her. A wound, still, she'd told him. Vulnerable to infection
.

Easy, mine is a gentle touch …

With such sweet words, Eleanora worked her balm into the slash he'd received against his upper arm. And when she was done, she'd crawled atop him, naked, sleek, glistening in the light of the fire, entirely comfortable with him, with herself
.
They'd been together so many times through the last years, she knew how and where to stroke, she made love like a tigress, she had a throaty laugh, a way about her … battle might be fierce, the world a wearying place. They'd had so little time before he'd been summoned back to the king. He'd been puzzled, angry, and disturbed about the fighting, not a good companion. Yet he often came to her angry or weary, and she never minded, in a matter of days, hours, minutes, whatever time he had, she would offer her own brand of distraction. She asked nothing in return …