Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (47 page)

His gaze drifted to her
gently-cut profile and his heart tripped.
Beautiful.

Yet. There was tension
there as well, for her brows were furrowed and she worried her lip
with her teeth. Her words when he’d come from the carn floated
across his mind.
Wh-what did you do? Did
you kill him?
Aye, she liked it not that
he’d fought the priest to the death. But he’d done what needed to
be done, and he’d not defend it. He’d given the priest a fare
fight, and the man had lost. ‘Twas the way of battle—and the way of
the world.

Wait.

Thunderstruck, Robert could do naught more
than stare at Morgana, heart pounding, blood rushing. “You are mute
no more.”

His wife laughed, and he was enchanted.
‘Twas the sound of tinkling faery bells. It wove a spell ‘round his
being, tighter—and softer—than any man-made bonds he’d e’er known.
It made him giddy.

“Aye, and my memory has returned as well,”
she told him, darting a worried glance past him to the apprentice,
before settling her sparkling blue eyes and radiant smile on Robert
at last.

The reminder that they
were not alone, as well as the reminder of his true purpose,
brought him back to himself and he gave a short nod, then turned
his attention back to the road. “We’ll arrive in
Sruighlea
sometime after
nones”

From the corner of his
eye, he saw his wife’s shoulders droop as she said, “So long? I
thought—I remembered—
Sruighlea
being closer than that.”

Robert lifted a brow. Clearly, she had some
familiarity with this area. Something else he’d have to wait to
glean from her when this business was concluded. She was weary,
that much was plain. “I shall inveigle the sheriff there to aid in
the transport of my prisoner to where the King is holding court in
Scone. While I do so, you will have a bed—and a bath—if it please
you.”

Again she turned her delightful smile upon
him. “Aye, ‘twill please me well.”

* * *

Robert had not been wrong.
They’d arrived in
Sruighlea
not long after nones, and Morgana, after first
washing the ink from her hair, was now avidly standing at the basin
scrubbing the palpable grime, and the impalpable horror, from her
quickly pinkening skin. The proprietor of the thriving inn had
given her his own chamber to rest and bathe in, and the overstuffed
mattress and soft bedding was calling to her. She’d not slept more
than a few winks in the past two nights and now that the immediate
danger was past, she could barely keep her lids open.

How her husband, who’d likely had as little
sleep as she these past days, and had in addition sustained a blow
to the head, still managed to remain sensate, she could not ken.
She supposed ‘twas due to his long years of training for war, and
warrioring as well, that gave him the power to endure and remain
alert in such deprived circumstances.

The sound of the door handle rattling
startled her from her thoughts and she jumped, flinging the wet
cloth and her arms across her breasts and calling out o’er her
shoulder, “I need naught more, my thanks!”

* * *

Robert stepped o’er the
threshold saying “I’ve—” He stopped short, the remaining words
dying on his lips as his eyes hungrily devoured the blessed sight
before him. He’d not been witness to the lush, glowing flesh of her
in far too long, and now every muscle, every tendon, in his frame
went rigid with desire. His heart raced.
Bed. No. She is not wanting to bear again yet. Seed wool,
then bed. Nay, fool! You’ve still Donnach to deal with.
Flaming hunger turned swiftly to leaden
disappointment and he said brusquely, “I see all is well. I shall
be keeping watch on the prisoner throughout the night. Be ready to
leave at sunrise.” He dipped his head in quick salute saying,
“Sleep well,” then took a step backward into the corridor once
more, closing the door firmly as he did so. He stood there a full
minute blindly staring at the wood portal and trying to catch his
breath. Finally, and resolutely, he marched back to the sheriff’s
garrison to spend the night outside the cell of his
prisoner.

* * *

Morgana slowly slid her arms down and
dropped the now-cold cloth into the basin of soapy water. Robert’s
visage had been so harsh, so stern, and his tone the same. Would he
ne’er forgive her for hurtling herself into the fray between him
and the red-beard? Or was his anger more centered on her attempted
desertion of her marriage vows? A small sigh escaped her throat,
and she abandoned her bath, stepping over to her chemise and
wiggling into it, before settling despondently curled on her side
on top of the mattress.

Clearly, naught had
changed between them. Tho’ Morgana admitted to herself, she
had
held some hope that
his rush to find her, that his ensuing battle with her captors, and
that the passionate kiss he’d given her, proved that he held some
depth of feeling for her. But mayhap not.

Had
his pursuit of her been driven more by his sense of duty and
honor, and not by affection, as she’d so desperately hoped?
And
had
the kiss
been more a reaction to his relief that the priest had not slain
her while he was still in the grip of his dark swoon, rather than
actual passion and desire for her?

Aye. Mayhap.

For, there was still Vika. Still the unborn
bairn.

Naught had changed. And when she arrived at
court on the morrow, she’d beg a privy word with the King to
request his aid in dissolving her and Robert’s union.

* * *

An hour before daybreak Robert coiled the
woolen blanket he’d dozed on all night outside the apprentice’s
cell into a tight roll and worked the stiffness from his
shoulder.

“The cart is ready for your prisoner, Laird
MacVie,” the sheriff said, striding down the corridor toward him.
He was young for his office, Robert had noted that immediately upon
meeting him. But he was ardent in his pursuit to fulfill his
duties, which Robert found admirable. Tall and wiry, with more lean
than fat on his bones, and with more down than bristle on his chin,
he met Robert’s eye unflinchingly as he came nearer.

“Good. Let us secure him, then I shall fetch
my wife and we can depart forthwith.”

Over the next half-hour, Robert oversaw the
chaining of his captive inside the locked cage attached to the bed
of the cart. He’d thoroughly questioned the man this day past, and
even spoken again to him late in the night. After no small amount
of brute persuasion, the apprentice had at last yielded, telling
Robert all he knew of Donnach’s plot against both Morgana and her
mother and father. Telling him also of the young kitchen maid he’d
brought into the deadly deceit. He’d also given Robert the location
of the ship which held the apprentice’s pay for his part in
Donnach’s plot. That would go a long way in implicating Donnach,
because the copper bullion could be traced directly back to the
mines he’d been bequeathed after Morgunn’s supposed death.

* * *

As she was led toward her mount with the
assured pressure of Robert’s large hand in the small of her back,
Morgana could not help but to glance at the prisoner when she
passed by the caged cart. The brawny red-beard looked defeated, and
resigned. Shackled as he was, and safe behind iron bars, he’d lost
all his fearsome demeanor and now, with the threat he presented to
her life quelled, she found herself feeling pity for him—pity for
the fate he was to meet once they arrived at the King’s court.

In spite of her weariness, she’d not managed
more than a few hours of fitful slumber the night before.
Disappointment, dread, and a sense of finality weighed upon her
heart and mind, keeping her just outside the misty portal to
Hypnos’ realm.

“ ‘Tis not too late to acquire a covered
cart,” Robert said to her as he was about to aid her ascent onto
the back of her mount.

A memory flashed in her
mind of her as a bairn inside such a cart, clinging to her mother’s
breast, with the sounds of bloody battle outside it, and the
fearful thought drumming through her young mind,
Where have they taken my papa?

Her lungs seized.

“Morgana!” Robert said, lifting her into his
arms, “You are unwell. You there! Make haste! A covered cart for my
lady.”

Morgana wiggled, trying to drop her feet
back to the ground, saying, “Nay. Nay, I am well.”

His gaze, steel in hue and intent, dropped
back to hers. “You’ve lost all color. You will ride in the cart and
rest. I’ll brook no argument.”

Placing her hand on his arm, she implored,
“I beg you, do not force me do this. I—I’ve a memory of the attack
on our caravan when I was a bairn. It...it makes me uneasy, unable
to take in breath.”

Robert studied her countenance a moment,
then met her eye. “Halt!” he called out to the guard who’d taken on
the task and was striding toward the stables where several
conveyances were unhitched and awaiting their owner’s return, “No
need. Return to your post.”

Giving a barely audible sigh of relief and a
shy smile to Robert, Morgana landed back on her feet with his
strong hands about her waist. She turned in his hold and allowed
him to assist her to mount. Once settled, she gave him a nod of
assurance that she was fit and, after squeezing her knee, he turned
and mounted his own beast.

“We’ll make as few stops
to rest our animals as we are able, my lady,” the young sheriff
told her, “For tho’ ‘tis arduous to travel thus, we want you safe
in the King’s care as soon as is possible.” He would be traveling
on one side of her, and Robert on the other, with guards in front
and behind. “We will rest the night in the town of
Uachdar Àrdair.
If the
weather and the fates permit, we should arrive at Scone two days
hence.”

“Which is the reason I want you in a covered
cart,” Robert said. “To rest.”

“I am fit, and rested enough, my lord, I
swear it. I beg you, do not fret so.”

Robert’s only response was an intent look
and a raised brow, before giving the sheriff a short nod and
kneeing his courser into motion.

* * *

“You have not asked me how
I regained my memory—my voice,” Morgana said in a rush that eve in
her chamber at the inn, as Robert turned to depart after
peremptorily depositing her there not more than a moment
before.
Please. Stay. Talk to
me.

Robert stopped short, but did not turn,
instead keeping his back to her as he said the same words he’d said
to her by the carn, “Later. After.”

“Will you tell me at least if my cousin was
part of this? Did she want me dead as well?”

Briefly, almost so briefly she’d near not
caught the reaction, his visage lit up with surprise, but then his
shoulders visibly relaxed, the strain around his mouth softened.
“Nay. She knew naught of this villainous plot.”

Relieved, yet wondering at the gentling in
his demeanor when Vika was mentioned, she took a step forward.
“Bu—”

He held up his hand. “Later. After.” There
was a brief, weighted pause, as if he wanted to say more, but when
he spoke again, he said only, “I’ll come for you at dawn. Be
ready,” before he strode out and left her there, hanging in a state
of anticipation, as if waiting for the final blow in a trial to the
death.

There was a time—was it truly only two moons
before? It seemed an age now—that he’d been avid to hear her speak,
to learn her history. Now, he seemed to want naught more than to
flee from her presence, to expedite this task, to return to his
home. Where Vika still abided.

With their arrival at the
King’s court growing e’er more imminent, with Morgana’s heart and
soul aflame with hope (the hope she’d fought, but had finally
allowed to blossom in her breast),
and
with the profound love she still
felt for her coldly distant husband biding there as well, she had
thought to give him another chance to change her mind about
petitioning the King for aid in gaining an annulment.

But this final rebuff in his renewed, and
continual, brusque behavior since the plot to kill her had been
foiled, proved to her his actions were motivated more by duty than
devotion, and she would not be that selfish. If ‘twas Vika he
wanted, then Vika he would have.

* * *

The orange, yellow, and purple hues of
sunset washed the abbey in a shimmering amber glow as Morgana, her
guards, and the caged cart holding the red-beard made their way up
the road toward it. They’d be inside its gates soon, and after
that... Well, after that, before the King. She’d been rehearsing
her speech in her head these past hours as they traveled, and still
her heart pounded with dread—and ached with sorrow.

Darting a quick glance
Robert’s direction before turning her gaze once again forward, she
made note of the grim, hard line of his mouth, the tension that
gave his profile a sharp contour. His thoughts were on the coming
meeting as well, ‘twas plain. What would be his reaction when he
heard her plea to the King?
Nay, heart,
becalm yourself.
His sense of moral
obligation would no doubt compel him to argue against such an end,
but she must remain firm in her resolve.

“I see no reason for you to face the King,
unless he requests it of you later, so you shall go directly to the
chamber provided you and take your ease there, awaiting my return,”
Robert said.

“Nay.”

His head swung around, his gaze so sharp, it
seemed to penetrate her skull. “What did you say?”