Shana Abe (15 page)

Hew filled in the gaps, how he had lain beneath the wild beast and the bride had tamed it, had run right up to it and calmed it with her touch. Hew looked to Bal for confirmation and Bal had agreed, wiping his hands free of mud.

“We tried to stop her,” Hew said. His eyes shone with admiration. “But she wouldna stop. She took down Tarroth, tripped him as easy as ye would a child.”

“Ach,” said Nathan, standing beside them. “It was a glorious sight.”

Marcus wished he had been awake to see it, the warrior maiden felling his mightiest man. With a dislocated shoulder and broken ribs, no less.

And Avalon had ridden without complaint three
more hours like that, hiding her pain, keeping her thoughts mute.

Marcus sighed, rubbed his chin, and looked out over the view of the green and gold horizon from the turret at the top of his castle. Patches of scarlet already embellished some of the trees.

It had made him sick to set her shoulder. Physically sick. He knew that he had to do it, he knew there were no options. But the sight of her face, pale and resolute beneath that pine, and then with the line of blood coursing down the side of her mouth from where she had bitten her lip, because she wouldn’t scream, he knew Hanoch had trained her never to scream.…

Marcus had hated himself then, that he had to hurt her and hurt her to save himself and his people. When it was over he had to leave before he embarrassed himself, before he fell to his knees and begged her forgiveness.

It was a cowardice in him, and how those monks and priests in Damascus would have loved to learn of it. Thank God he hadn’t known Avalon then. It would have broken him. It would have been the thing they had been seeking all along.

“She will recover,” said Balthazar, coming up behind him, the wind catching his robes and turning them into moving flags of color. Balthazar had seemed almost unconcerned when Marcus told him of Avalon’s ribs. Bal had produced the salve and said there was no great cause for alarm, broken ribs mended easily enough. Marcus knew it. His own ribs had not gone without almost half a dozen breaks in the past seventeen years, but on Avalon how devastating it had looked.

“She has great strength with her pride,” Bal said now, beside him in the turret, allowing himself the smallest smile.

Marcus gave a short laugh. “She is her own worst enemy. She could have died from it. She could have had bleeding inside her.”

“It is true,” Bal conceded. “But even if that had been so, then knowing of it would not have changed the outcome. If she had been bleeding inside, she would have died anyway.” He let out a whistle, a perfect sparrow’s song, and then nodded to himself. “She is a woman unlike any other.”

“She is going to kill me,” Marcus replied.

Balthazar laughed, truly laughed, one of the few times Marcus had ever heard him do it. “Oh, not quite, Kincardine. She will not kill you. But she will temper you, I think. Yes, as a strong fire does to iron.” He shrugged. “It is a good thing.”

“Not for the one in the fire,” Marcus muttered.

Bal clapped him on the shoulder. “You will survive.”

There was a flock of sheep decorating the side of the hill immediately west of Sauveur. There were three dogs barking in the distance around them, running, circling, moving the herd.

There were fields of stubble as far as he could see, shorn crops already brought in for the coming winter. There was even a cluster of cows in a meadow, a precious few, supplying milk and cheese and finally beef only when they died on their own. They could not afford to slaughter the cows.

Avalon had offered him all her possessions, not once but twice now. Just a fraction of her wealth would be
like a magic wish granted here. The clan would rise from an impoverished existence to a state approaching lavishness. Sauveur could afford some long-needed repairs. The stables could be improved, expanded. They could offer barter at all the fairs, they could buy the extra looms needed to make their woolen trade profitable. They could keep herds and herds of cows. Beef every night. They would surpass all the neighboring clans in riches.

But he had told her it wasn’t enough.

Under the pine tree, rain-soaked and on her knees, she had said that she hated him.

Marcus hoped it had been the pain in her saying it. He hoped it wasn’t true. Because what he felt for her was nothing like hate, nothing at all. It was admiration. Respect. Desire.

Ah, yes, desire. That was what had been talking in him when he rejected her offer. He could claim it was practicality. He could tell himself that he had been considering the welfare of the clan, how broken they would be with the loss of the bride, after waiting a century for her. But that wasn’t truly it. Marcus had turned away her plea because he—just him—was unable to let go of her. Not without bedding her first. And he would not bed her without wedding her. It was the least he could do.

To hell with the legend. He wanted Lady Avalon the woman, not the myth. He would have her, or die trying.

“I sense a storm brewing,” said Balthazar, scanning the mountain peaks and valleys.

“What, are ye daft?” It was Ronald, passing by and overhearing the remark. “The sky is empty, man.”

“A different sort of storm, my friend,” replied Bal,
with a significant look to Marcus, who nodded in acknowledgment before walking away.

He found his way back to the room he had assigned her, greeted the guard he had chosen to watch her door.

“Terrible quiet in there, it is,” said the guard, indicating the door. “Mayhap she’s asleep.”

“Mayhap,” Marcus said, and took the brass key from the ring at his waist and opened the lock.

She was sitting cross-legged on the hearth in front of the fire, which gave off an indolent heat in the stone room. Her back was stiff and straight, her hands rested on her knees. She stared into the fire, not looking up as he entered.

Marcus closed the door carefully, then just stood there. He didn’t know why he had come back. There were other things to do right now, the endless details of running the castle and the lands; he had been away too long, he needed to familiarize himself with the routine. And there was the wedding to plan. He must consider that, how soon he could manage it, how soon until she would not be protesting their union in front of everyone there.…

He found himself observing the rise and fall of her sides, the rhythm of her breathing. It was slow, almost sleepy. She was dressed in the tartan again, and it masked much of the movement. Her hair had been braided into a single thick plait that fell down her back and coiled onto the hearth. A slash of bright orange across her back told him she wore the sling Bal had fashioned for her arm.

“Ask of me a different boon, my lady,” he said into the silent room.

“A different boon?” she echoed, her voice thin and far away, as if the words were an enigma to her.

“I will grant it if I can.” He crossed to the hearth, stood awkwardly for a moment, then gave it up and squatted in the eastern way, which was much more comfortable to him. She lifted her eyes and threw him one violet glance, then lowered her head.

“I know not what,” she said.

Neither did he.

“A gem,” he suggested. “A pearl. A favored serf to join you here.”

Her laugh was muffled, as if it had hurt her too much to do it. “I do not need gems or pearls. I have no favored serf.”

“Who was that girl with you at the inn? That night at Trayleigh? What of her?”

Her hands were clasped together in front of her. She turned her whole head this time, gave him a level look. “That girl is content where she is, my lord. I would not bring her here.”

“She named you Rosalind.” Marcus smiled at the memory. “It did not suit you.”

“She was afraid. I do not blame her. She took a great risk for me that night.”

“What risk?”

Avalon pressed her lips together. She seemed about to tell him something, then changed her mind. “She took me to see a woman who had cared for a friend of mine.”

“What was the risk?”

“Come, my lord,” she said. “It was risk enough to steal out of that castle for even a moment. My cousin
would have risen to a rage had he heard of it. He had other plans for me, as you well know.”

“Aye, I do know.” Marcus watched her face closely. He had to ask the question that had been haunting him. “And tell me this, Avalon. Would you have wed Warner d’Farouche willingly?”

She let out another of those little laughs. “It would never have come to that, I assure you.”

“But would you?”

“Nay, of course not,” she scoffed, and Marcus felt the power of her conviction. “He was naught but a bumbling fool, a servant of his brother. I had never even met him before that night.”

Satisfaction coursed through him; he couldn’t help it, he couldn’t stop it, and he didn’t try to understand what it meant. She had not been a part of that plan. She didn’t want Warner over him.

“I shall never marry,” she said now in a perfectly normal voice, as if she were saying a wheel was round.

“That might be difficult,” he said. “Since I have over a thousand people and a family prophecy that say you will.”

“I don’t see how you’re going to do it, my lord.” Her look was amused. “You cannot force a bride if she does not wish it.”

He unfolded out of his posture, leaned over on his hands and came up close to her face in one quick movement. Her eyes widened; she pulled back.

“I think you wish it,” he said.

A hot blush was stealing up her cheeks. “I do not!”

“I think so.” He let his gaze linger on her lips, deep
pink, erotic curves. “I know what you feel, Avalon. I know what happened to you today, when you kissed me back. I know”—he came even closer, not touching her—“what you want. Because I want it too.”

Her breath was quickening, her eyes tinged to match her amethysts in the afternoon light. He bent down even lower, letting his lips hover over hers, so close they took in the same air.

“It is inevitable.”

She scooted back, putting room between them.

“Marriage has nothing to do with this,” she said.

He raised his brows.

“It is an aberration,” she said very quickly. “It means naught. It is not grounds for marriage.”

“Ah.” He came to his feet smoothly and walked over to a small table. “I will not argue with my lady. Let us say, for the moment, that you are correct. It has nothing to do with marriage.”

She watched him warily, unmoving.

“But I think even you will agree that something that
does
have to do with marriage is a betrothal contract, such as the one between our fathers.”

Avalon looked away.

“Legal,” Marcus said, leaning against the table. “Established. Binding. Recognized by not merely one king but two.”

There was nothing she could say to this besides the fact that she did not care, but he already knew that.

“In this instance, I believe, I do not need your consent to wed you, Lady Avalon. Your fate has already been decided for you. Our betrothal has been granted royal
approval. I’m certain I would have no difficulties finding a man of the church who would be willing to marry us over any objections you may have.”

Her blush drained away. “You would not.”

“I don’t see why not.” He gave a careless shrug. “If you will not act sensibly, you leave me no choice. You will have no one but yourself to thank for your situation. Rethink your stubbornness, Avalon.”

He was bluffing. He had no desire to force her into a wedding. In fact, he was fairly certain there was no way she
could
be wed against her will. He needed her cooperation to have a legal ceremony. And besides, when the challenge from Warner came—and Marcus was sure it would—his own claim would be much stronger if he had a compliant bride.

“I will let you consider my words, my lady. You must rest now. I pray you feel better very soon.”

He pushed off the table and went to the door, knocking twice for the guard to unlock it. He bowed to her before he left. She had not moved from her perch on the hearth. But there would be fire in her eyes, he knew that.

“I should have let the horse have you,” he heard her say as he shut the door.

He had gone in to grant her a boon, and come out handing her an ultimatum. Marcus shook his head at his own impulsiveness. Bal had been right about that looming storm.

Chapter Six
 

S
he stayed in the room another two whole days, not quite pacing in the confining space, not even going mad with boredom—for she had visitors aplenty.

There were her caring women, as Avalon had begun to think of them, the six who fussed over her and sighed and petted her. But behind them were a legion more, men and women both, all of them coming to the room on some pretense or another, or none at all, just to watch her, to study her as if she were a fabulous ancient mystery.

She had not known any of them when she lived in the cottage in the remote village. Her contact with others had been strictly controlled. But apparently they had all known of her, and each made certain to tell her—each in their own way—how delighted they were that she was here at last.