Dawnflight (52 page)

Urien pushed to his feet. The noise in the hall began to die.

“Well, Gyanhumara, have you finally come to do your duty?” Urien smirked. “I’m sure everything must taste sweeter when served by your lovely hand.”

A sharp intake of breath told her that Angusel was reacting to the insult. “Let me handle this, Angus,” she murmured, in Caledonaiche. She displayed a mischievous grin. In Breatanaiche, she retorted loudly, “Not as sweet as from yours, Urien.”

The hall erupted into a cacophony of howls, hoots, and screeches, mingled with the thumping of fists on tabletops. A storm gathered on Urien’s face as he readied his next barb, but Arthur intervened. As the Pendragon rose, silence descended.

“You’re forgetting one thing, Urien.” He leveled his piercing gaze at Gyan. Anyone else would have instantly knelt, babbling for forgiveness, even if there was nothing to forgive. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara attends no man.”

Before she could stop him, Angusel stepped forward. “True, my lord! Among Caledonians, women of high rank do not serve anyone. I have the honor of being Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s cupbearer this night. And to serve everyone at the high table if she commands it.” He glanced at Gyan, who returned his look with a nod and a smile.

“Well spoken, Angusel.” Arthur extended a hand. “Come, Chieftainess. Your place awaits.”

“Yes. On my left, my love.” There was no love in Urien’s tone. “Where a wife-to-be belongs.”

And that was only the beginning. Between Arthur’s subtle verbal thrusts and Urien’s beneath-the-table assaults on her near thigh, it was a worse nightmare than any ever to attack from behind shuttered lids.

Angusel performed his task admirably well; she scarcely tasted the wine. Her eyes and nose told her there was roast pork and partridge on her trencher, surrounded by carrots, leeks, and bread. But for all the difference it made to her tongue, the food may as well have been dust.

Enough was bloody well enough! She rose. As she twisted to climb over the bench, a hand locked around her wrist.

“Surely you’re not leaving us so soon, my dear?” asked Urien. “The entertainment is due to begin.”

Overcoming the urge to put her meat knife where it would do the most good, she replied, “I’m not hungry.” She refrained from pointing out that he had been having his entertainment the entire time, at her expense.

“What a pity, Chieftainess. Perhaps your wound troubles you.” Arthur beckoned to his sister, who had been attending the dais with Angusel. Morghe glided forward, all smiles. “Morghe, accompany Chieftainess Gyanhumara to her quarters, and—”

“That won’t be necessary, Lord Pendragon.” Gyan wrenched free of Urien’s grip and escaped.

After emerging from the kitchens with a newly filled pitcher, Angusel intercepted her at the door.

“Stay here. I—” His hurt-puppy look softened her heart. “Thank you, Angus. You’ve done well tonight. I appreciate it very much. I’m sure the others do too. I just need to be alone.” She squeezed his shoulder and gave him a nudge in the direction of the dais. “I’ll be all right.”

She hoped that wouldn’t prove to be a lie.

OBEDIENT TO Gyan’s command, Angusel refilled the flagons at the high table. Urien downed his at once, dragged the back of one hand across his mouth, belched, and demanded more. After similar performances by some of the other officers, Angusel’s supply was soon depleted. Trudging back for a refill, he wondered whether they even noticed his presence, never mind appreciating it.

He returned to discover that both Arthur and Urien were gone.

GYAN’S RESTLESSNESS prevented sleep. Nor did she even try. She stood in the antechamber, looking out over the harbor, which appeared purple-gray in the fading twilight.

She had made a true mess of everything.

Urien’s anger she couldn’t give a horse’s tail for. She was through with his disrespectful arrogance and would tell him so come morning, then return home to lead her people to war against Clan Móran, perhaps even all Dailriata. And the death and devastation would begin again, because of her accursed womanish selfishness and stupidity.

Having experienced combat firsthand, at least she would know what to expect, more or less. For, unlike the Scáthinaich, from Urien there would be no mercy.

And Arthur—if his glare had been any sharper, she would have bled to death all over the food. Refusing to speak with him had been an incredibly childish move. Her first glance at him upon entering the feast hall had told her that. If he never forgave her, she wouldn’t blame him.

But losing him would make life unbearable even without Urien at her side like a grinding-stone hanging around her neck.

She leaned against the stone framing the window, absently flicking flecks of mortar free with a fingernail, watching the bobbing points of light on the ships moored at the docks and anchored in the harbor. A cool evening breeze caressed her face but was of little comfort.

The door banged open. Hand to dagger, she whirled.

“Arthur.” The dagger stayed in its sheath. She folded her arms. “Don’t you believe in knocking?”

“Forgive me.” He slammed the door, took two paces into the room, and stopped. Fury blazed across his face. “I am unaccustomed to disobedience.”

An angry flush rose in her cheeks as her heart kicked into a canter. “And I am unaccustomed to being whistled for. Like a dog.” Fists to hips, she thrust out her chin in defiance.

“I do not whistle for anyone, Chieftainess. Nor do I issue summonses without reason. Furthermore, as my ally, you are obligated to answer to me. Contrary to what you may think.” The scowl darkened. “Why did you refuse?”

She tried to craft a suitable retort, but, confronted with his scalding wrath, her wits felt as soft as horse manure. So she settled on the truth.

“I could not bid you farewell in front of your men.”

“You couldn’t—God’s wounds, Gyanhumara!” He looked up, gritting his teeth. Much more quietly, he continued, “I have things to discuss with you, and all you can think about is yourself.”

Inwardly, she winced at the truth of his accusation. And here was the chance she craved: to be alone with him, a heartbeat from his arms, to confess her secret desires. Yet there he stood, unreadable except for the blue fire writhing in his eyes. That fire could mean anything. What if she was wrong about him? What if he only saw her as an ally—and a wayward one, at that?

Her instincts screamed caution. For once, she obeyed.

“What…things?”

“Good Lord, you mean I have to spell it out?” His surprise seemed genuine. Hope ignited in her breast. “I thought you were more perceptive than that.”

He stepped forward and pulled her into his crushing embrace. Her heart leaped from a canter to a gallop at the explosive meeting of their mouths. Joy surged anew with each beat. With Urien, such a kiss had made her feel like a pigeon in the talons of a falcon. Not so with Arthur! They were falcons together: conquering the clouds, racing the sun, mastering the winds. All her pent-up emotions burst free on the wings of that one kiss.

His fingers began tugging at the thongs holding her sword belt.

Reluctantly, she pushed away. “Arthur, no. Please. I can’t.”

“What do you mean, no? It’s what we both want.” Hands cradling her cheeks, he peered into her face. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes…” What in heaven’s name was she saying? “No! I mean, I—” She wanted him so achingly much! But not like this. Not while other matters remained unresolved. Biting her lip, she turned to the window, hoping the relentless rhythm of the sea could ease her torment. “You don’t understand.”

Behind her, he slipped his arms around her waist, clasping his hands over the bronze dragon. His cheek rested against hers. “I understand the implications when an àrd-banoigin”—he used the correct Caledonaiche phrase easily, to her amazement—“makes love with a man.” He kissed the side of her neck, below the ear. An ecstatic shudder scurried through her body. “But I don’t want you only because you’re wealthy,” he whispered. “Or beautiful. Or because marrying you will strengthen my alliance with the Caledonian Confederacy.” He ran his hands down her arms, going lightly over the bandage and bruises. “These reasons might satisfy another man. But even if you were none of those things, Gyanhumara, I would still love you.”

She felt her mouth curve into a smile as she faced him. Her hands slid up over his leather-clad chest to settle behind his head. He bent his face to hers. Their lips met slowly, tenderly. His hands found their way down her back to cup her buttocks, pulling her even closer as he deepened the kiss. Firm yet gentle, his touch sparked a flame so intense, she thought her heart would surely burn to a cinder. Every fiber of her being yearned for the fulfillment of her greatest desire: to claim Arthur as àrd-ceoigin according to the custom of the Caledonaich, to be his warrior and wife, his battle-leader and lover.

The face of her betrothed shoved its way into her mind’s eye.

She sighed. “Urien will provoke war. Against you as well as Argyll.”

“I know.” He began to explore the curve of her throat with his lips, drawing forth her murmur of pleasure in spite of her concerns. When he neared the base of her neck just above the torc, he paused. “Leave Clan Moray and Dalriada to me, Gyanhumara. My solution will eliminate the need for bloodshed.”

“Really, my lord?” said a new voice.

Startled, Arthur and Gyan turned and stepped apart. Urien stood in the open doorway, naked sword gleaming in his white-knuckled fist. The One God alone knew how much he had seen.

“I should be most interested to hear how you would solve our little dilemma.” Murderous rage flared across his face as he advanced into the room. “If you live to tell it.”

Arthur’s hand flashed to his left hip, where Caleberyllus should have been.

Urien laughed harshly. “Poor planning, Lord Pendragon. Where is that great sword of yours now?”

Chapter 29

G
YAN WASN’T ABOUT to let Urien have the advantage. Before either man could move, she dived at Urien’s legs. Momentum carried her to the corner where the weapons stood, and she rolled to her feet. She snatched the long-bladed sword that she’d taken from a Scáthinach corpse to use against the dead man’s leader and tossed the sheathed blade to Arthur.

Urien flailed backward, trying to recover his stance. Arthur whipped out the sword, threw down the scabbard, and closed in. His swift and furious attack drove Urien back through the door. In the lamplit corridor, Urien lunged into a vicious counterattack.

Poised on the threshold, Gyan wanted nothing more than to help Arthur slice Urien into crow bait. The short sword Arthur had given her during the battle burned in her palm. She couldn’t recall picking it up; her warrior’s heart was thrumming too loudly.

Yet she was honor-bound to ignore the persistent prompting. Whether Arthur realized it or not, he was engaged in the dubh-lann challenge of Urien’s right to become Àrd-Ceoigin of Clan Argyll. Gyan’s father had won her mother in this manner—although, by everything Gyan had heard, it hadn’t been much of a fight. But regardless of differing skill levels or armaments, Caledonach law decreed that only the dubh-lann combatants could affect the outcome. Evening Arthur’s chances with the loan of the sword was a violation she would never confess to anyone.