Come the Morning (19 page)

“Will this suffice?”

She hesitated, then said softly, “It's not mine.”

“It is yours now, my lady.”

She stared at him, amazed to realize that she was blushing because they both knew that Angus was offering her a garment that had been purchased for another woman.

“It's been worn by no one else,” Angus said kindly. “I realize your discomfort, but you're not free to leave these chambers. Waryk remains with the king, lady. The day is wearing on, you do have a smudge of mud on your nose.”

She lowered her eyes. “Well, then, thank you, Angus, for your kindness.”

“To serve you, my lady, is my pleasure,” he told her, and exited the room.

Once again, she heard the bolt slide into place. She moved uneasily about the room, looked into the flagon, and found it filled with a dark-brewed ale. She sipped it, found it rich and good, and looked at the tub longingly. He could return at any moment.

Then again, she'd already been down to bare skin in his presence.

Before she had known who he was.

Still, she was tired, anxious, and encrusted in mud. She would remain tired, anxious—even desperate—but she could do something about the mud. She began disrobing while she picked at the contents of the tray—smoked fish, bread, a sweet sheep's cheese. She drained a long swallow of the ale, and by then, had stripped down to crawl into the tub. The water was so hot it hurt at first, but then felt delicious. She soaked her hair, scrubbed away mud and river silt, and lay back, still encompassed by the steam. She opened her eyes and looked around.

The tub was rich, with hammered-silver trim. The tapestries that hung on the walls, warming the room, were crafted with care; they depicted hunting scenes, and she thought that they had probably come from the Continent, Flanders, perhaps Bruges. His bed was huge, piled with furs, bear, deer, beaver, more. There were numerous trunks about, and pieces of his dress armor leaned against the walls, or lay upon the trunks. A coat of shining mail was stretched over a rack not far from the fire, and she imagined a page had recently polished the mail to its shining glow. Laird Lion. Strangely enough, his standard was a bird, a falcon, she thought, very similar to her father's. She closed her eyes. Admittedly, he was not what she had expected. She'd heard of Laird Lion before the king had announced her disposal to him, all of Scotland knew of the king's champion, though he was a ruler with many strong knights loyally indebted to him. Still, she had heard that Waryk, Laird Lion, had ridden in with the Normans who had accompanied the king to Scotland when he had come with pageantry and strength to take his throne. She had thought him old, at least as old as the king. His feats in battle and tournament were beyond distinguished; he was, in fact, annoyingly perfect, according to the king's seneschal and the balladeers who entertained from great house to great house, through the Lowlands, Highlands, islands, and beyond. She had assumed that he would speak only the Norman French, that he would be …

Easier to escape, she thought woefully. He was not nearly so horrible in his person as she had imagined, but that didn't change the fact that he would take over her life, take her island, take her place. Destroy her happiness. She closed her eyes, remembering how she had assured Ewan she would love him forever. And what now? What mockery did this make of the tenderness and the friendship they had shared?

She heard the bolt sliding and sat up, hands gripped on the rim of the tub. If it were Angus, she had learned, he would politely inquire if he could enter.

And if it were not …?

It wasn't Angus. The door was opening, and no one was asking her permission to enter.

She sprang from the water like lightning, sweeping a towel around her. In the corner of the room, with his armor, was a handsomely engraved claymore. She raced across the room, seized the claymore, held it in one hand and her towel in the other, as the door opened.

Waryk had returned.

She stared at him, cold despite the heat of the fire that burned to her back, plagued by hot tremors deep inside despite the cold that had seized her.

He looked at her, noting the bath, the towel, the claymore. He walked toward her with such a silent menace she felt a new fear.

Had the king been furious enough to tell him to kill her?

“Come no closer!” she warned, dropping the towel to wield the sword in both hands.

But he ignored her. Blue ice eyes on hers, he strode toward her, despite the second warning she whispered as he came before her.

She didn't move, and he grabbed the blade of the sword, putting it flat against his heart. “Do it. Kill me.”

“Stop it! I can, you know. I have the strength—”

“Then try it, if your hatred is so great—”

“I don't hate you! I don't want to hurt you, I—”

He thrust the blade away from his heart, then wrenched it from her hands and sent the heavy weapon spinning across the room. She felt her nudity keenly, but he didn't even seem to notice it.

“The king knows that you have returned, and you are in my keeping,” he said. “And I am tired. Exhausted.”

She didn't know what he was telling her, but she could feel her flesh breaking out in chills, her nipples were hardening to little peaks, her limbs quaking. She inched down to sweep up her towel again, so anxious for its cover that she quickly interrupted him, “Sleep, please, I don't wish to disturb you—”

“You won't. You may remain here, my lady. We'll talk later.”

He strode to the door and paused, his back still to her. “Don't take a weapon against me again, Mellyora. If you do, you had best use it.”

The door opened and closed. She heard the bolt scrape across it. She slipped to the floor, huddled in the towel, shaking. He hated her. Loathed her. Her future seemed more dire than ever. There just had to be some kind of escape! Not just because of her. Because of him. Because of his strength. His eyes. The way he looked at her. Because she could not wield a weapon against him, and because she was still shaking, so cold, and still, on fire …

Sleep was not easy to come by. He was exhausted. He tossed, turned. Dozed. Dreamed.

He allowed himself to dream of Eleanora. Gentle, a balm, a soothing ointment, she wrapped herself around him with her warmth, her whisper, her words. She lay beneath him, she rode him, hair teasing his chest …

Blond hair, golden blond hair. Long, thick, rich, luxurious, sweeping around him, entangling him.

Her hair was dark. Her eyes were sable …

Nay, they were blue. And in his dreams, he no longer lay with the mistress who so entranced him, but with the Viking's daughter, and she had risen above him, naked, a child of Wodin, her sword raised against him. He seized the weapon from her, struggling with her, and she lay beneath him. Huge, sky-blue eyes upon his, and he wanted to throttle her, take the sword to her throat, and he wanted …

He wanted to touch her.

Wanted … her.

Once again, she haunted his dreams. Only now, he knew her face, and her eyes, and she was tangible within his dreams, far too easy to touch …

C
HAPTER
9

Daro met Anne as planned. So much was at stake. He meant to share a few words only, but …

In the darkness of the night, his lips touched hers. In the richness of the shadows, he felt her love. He thought of battle, of bloodshed, of the times he had fought, of the king's anger, his wrath …

And still, he could not let her go.

It was later, several minutes later than he had intended, when they spoke, breathless once again.

“Have you heard anything new?” Daro demanded. “I've been told that she remains in Waryk's chambers, tended by Angus alone.”

“Aye. They say that the king is furious with her.”

“Are you afraid?” he asked her.

“Nay …” she lied.

He smiled. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, but I don't know my way in this part of the castle, or what it is I'm doing exactly …”

“Trust me. Come then, take my hand, courage!” He drew her with him to the tapestries, looking out on the hallway. No one in sight. They started down the corridor. Anne didn't know where they were headed; Daro did.

“Daro, this might be foolish!” she whispered breathlessly. “It would take an army to change the king's mind where Mellyora is concerned. Your brother's holdings were far too rich to be risked in any way. Oh, God, if they are afraid of my wicked ways if I were to marry a Viking, what would they think of Mellyora seeking the aid of her Viking kin? They will hunt you down. Once the king knows, he will want to kill you—”

He paused, pulling her into his arms, kissing her lips. “You are my life, well worth dying for.”

“But I don't want you to die. I want you to live. I would rather become a novice and know that you lived, even with another woman—”

“We will work this out,” he said, walking again. Then he suddenly pulled her against him, and they lay against the wall as he looked around the corner.

“Angus,” he said softly. “Aye, it's Angus.”

“You know him well?”

He inclined his head to her and offered her a wry grin. “The son of a nun from Iona.”

“A nun—”

“And a berserker. His mother was raped by a berserker. He grew up in the wilds of the Highlands, where his mother lived out her days in happiness, it is said, with her barbaric laird,” he told her. “Angus has followed Waryk since his family was slaughtered. A brave and loyal man, but a decent man.” He paused, studying the situation. “Aye, a decent man!” he said. Then he smiled at Anne. “Give me a few moments, then—scream.”

“Scream?” she said, looking at him as if he'd lost his mind.

“Scream,” he repeated. “As if all the demons of hell were after you. When he comes to your aid, tell him you were startled by something in the shadows. Keep him talking for a few minutes, charm him, stall him, and I'll free Mellyora, and meet you at the southern archway, closest to the stables. We'll gather helmets and cloaks and ride out like drunken soldiers.”

Anne moistened her lips. She opened her mouth to speak, but trembled instead.

“It can work, Anne.”

“I know.”

“One man—and woman—can often win where an army cannot.”

She nodded again.

“Can you do it?”

“Aye. It—it can work.”

He squeezed her hand, and slipped back down the corridor to approach Waryk's chambers from another direction.

“It can work, but what then?” Anne said softly aloud. But he was gone, and she had her part to play. She was terrified, wondering if she could manage to scream in all her fear. She tried once … and all she got was a breathy sound that would not carry two feet. She tried again …

And her piercing cry echoed off the hallways.

She closed her eyes, listening as footsteps came pounding down the corridor.

She opened her eyes, her mouth dry, her lips forming words she couldn't speak.

Angus had come. Bald, scarred, as hardened a warrior as she could imagine. She didn't think she'd ever been so scared in her whole life. He would see right through her. They would discover that Daro had set out to free Mellyora, and they would all be accused of treason …

Racked, disemboweled, hanged, beheaded …

“Are you all right? What has happened? You are white as parchment, speak to me, lass, what has happened?”

The man looked like a maddened berserker, but he spoke with a gentle enough voice, and his eyes were full of concern.

“I'm—I'm so sorry!” she stuttered, and it was the truth. She was very sorry and very afraid. “I—I thought I saw something in the hallway. It was nothing more than my own shadow, an illusion created by the torch burning there.”

The man looked around. “Aye, lass, there's no one about here.” He frowned. “Who are you, and what are you doing up and about so late?”

“Ah, sir, I've been with an ailing friend, and now I'm making my way to my own bed. I tell you again, I feel a complete fool to have disturbed you.” The lies were coming more and more nimbly to her lips. But did he believe a word she was saying?

“I'd see you safe to your room, lass, but I'm afraid I must remain here. You'll be safe enough. There's really no danger here in the king's hall at Stirling.”

“No. No, of course not,” Anne agreed. She smiled. “I scared myself, sir. A flight of fancy. My friend is Irish, and you know how superstitious the Irish can be, what tales they tell about pookas and ghosts and banshees wailing in the night.”

“Go on, lass. There are no pookas haunting these halls.”

She smiled at him radiantly and fled down the corridor.

Mellyora had been beside herself, trapped with a growing sense of fear and dismay, when she heard the sound of the heavy bolt rising from the door. Afraid that Waryk might be returning, she backed away from the door. But when it swung silently open and she saw Daro standing in the hallway, she uttered a little cry of joy. He quickly brought a finger to his lips. “Come now, niece, if you want no bloodshed—and not that I'd mind shedding a bit of blood in my present state of mind!—we must leave quickly and quietly.”

Mellyora didn't need to be warned twice. She sped out the door and waited while he closed it and slid the bolt back into place. She started to ask him a question; he brought his finger to his lip once again and took her arm, indicating that they must move down the corridor. She nodded, and fled silently along at his side.

Long after the banqueting with the king's family, knights, court, acrobats, and musicians in attendance, Waryk spoke with the king again in his chambers.

He'd slept, but remained tired. He'd kept his distance from Mellyora, yet he'd begun to dream about Blue Isle, being laird of Blue Isle. Tonight the king looked more fierce, like a Highland chieftain, for he wore a rough fur coat thrown around his shoulders against the cold and he paced his room with a purpose, drawing imaginary pictures on the floor with his fire poker.