Come the Morning (43 page)

“I am not guilty of anything! I didn't—”

“Don't talk. I don't want to hear it right now.”

“But I—”

The hard crystal look in his eyes silenced her for the moment.

They came to the isle. Mercury awaited. She made no protest when she was seated on the great destrier with Waryk behind her. She knew the path they were taking. Back to the fortress, to the tower.

Angus had preceded them. Already, the tower was filling with men, wagons, horses, implements of war. They moved grimly, a man here or there pausing to ask quietly after Ewan, then go about his business again. She knew that Waryk needed to ride with a force, and she knew as well that he had to leave Blue Isle guarded. Jon of Wick stood his post at the gatehouse, and she knew that Jon would remain. No man could see as far as Jon, none knew the defenses of the fortress walls nearly so well.

Indeed, when Waryk left, the fortress would be guarded.

For her …

Or against her?

He didn't have to urge her to the chambers they shared. She walked ahead of him, pushing the door open, striding to stand before the fire and then turn and challenge him. “I have had nothing to do with this. I didn't agree to this marriage to plot and plan with Daro for the downfall of my property and my people.”

He came into the room and closed the door, taking off his mantle and his scabbard, laying his claymore, his father's weapon, on the bed.

“Are you listening to me!” she cried out.

He looked at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ewan is your man,” he said. “And Igraina is your friend.”

“Aye, that's true! Why would I wish them hurt—”

“These men, it appears, were left behind when the Vikings retreated after their attack. But were they? Or has someone figured out that the fortress really is impregnable, and the way to kill those who guard it is to pick them off, one by one. Interesting.”

She exhaled, furious. “So you are really accusing me of sleeping with you—and planning on my uncle seizing this place?”

“Are you sleeping with me by choice?” he inquired politely.

She turned away from him, gripping the stone mantel at the hearth. “I agreed to this, to all of this, your terms!” she reminded him.

“And even that might make good sense. There was no choice for you. Marry me, or be disinherited. You were furious, you defied the king. You hated me. You might well have gone to your father's kin with a plan.”

She inhaled sharply, so angry she could scarcely endure it. “I do hate you, you bastard, how dare you accuse me so!”

“I didn't accuse you; I said that the plan might make sense.”

She walked over to him, so incensed that she couldn't think. “One word from anyone else and you are ready to accuse me! Let's not doubt the whispered words of an enemy we can't even see, let's just accuse Mellyora—it makes sense. You—bastard!”

She tried to strike him. He caught her arms. His fingers were vises, she was drawn against him. Desperately, she wrenched free. She couldn't bear his touch, his scent, his closeness, reminding her of all the intimacy, of the way she had begun to feel, of wanting him, needing him, feeling jealousy, and fear. She spun around, striding across the room again.

“And Ewan lies dying.”

“Damn you, I would never plot with anyone to hurt him—”

“I know. You love him,” he said dryly.

She spun again. “He is a friend, a good man. He has served you, you said yourself that he was a good man—”

“You don't need to defend him to me. Only your own words and actions.”

She lowered her eyes, inhaling. “I said, he is a friend—”

“But you aren't planning on riding with me to Tyne anymore, are you?”

She lifted her eyes to his, feeling an emotional tug of war within her that was agony. “He might die!” she whispered softly. “I am the best here, I might be able to save him.”

“And I should leave you because you wish it?”

She stared at him a long while, then lifted her hands. There was only so much she could admit when it seemed that she stood accused again. She spoke softly. “You may believe this or not—I don't want to stay. I wanted to ride with you. But now … I must stay.”

“If I allow it.”

She caught her breath. In her heart, she wanted him to disallow her, to insist that she accompany him, as she had said that she would. But she could make a difference at times, she knew it. For all of Phagin's knowledge, and for all the love Igraina bore her brother, Mellyora knew that she was the one with the greatest healing talents.

“You have to allow it. He might die. And he has served you well.”

“And you love him.”

She shook her head. “There is nothing between us. Was nothing between us. You know that. There was never anything more than words and false promises, and dreams that could not be.”

“Dreams, my lady, can be far more dangerous than sins of flesh,” he told her.

“You are going to your mistress. With whom you shared numerous sins of the flesh,” she reminded him bitterly.

“You can still come.”

“But I must stay.”

“You must?”

“You know that. He could die! Please, you cannot forbid me—”

“No, I cannot, or will not, forbid you to stay, Mellyora. It's your choice.”

She turned from him suddenly, alarmed by the tears that welled in her eyes, and slid down her cheeks. She was startled when she found him suddenly behind her, turning her into his arms. His fingers moved down the length of her hair, and he tilted her chin toward him.

“I am not in league with a contingent of Vikings against you!” she said passionately, and she was surprised when he smiled.

“I never said that you were.”

“But—oh, you did! You suggested—”

“I merely said that there might have been good reason for you to turn to your Viking kin for help. The man Ewan killed claimed that Daro was responsible. I've no proof of that, nor can I believe it so easily. Perhaps someone believes that I will be quick to accuse you, and Daro. And perhaps even wage war against Daro—and my own wife.”

She exhaled on a long breath, amazed. She trembled, relieved by his words, yet still angry that he had tested her so. Yet she knew that her words of affection for Ewan, spoken so passionately, had angered him. Not that there had been secrets between them. But because she had said what she had in front of others, and perhaps, even, because of the emotion in her voice when she had agreed to marriage with him—and all its terms.

And when it had seemed that there might even be happiness in that marriage.

“Don't wage war against me!” she pleaded softly. “I have not betrayed you. I swear it.”

“Tell me, why would you no longer fight me?”

“I married you.”

“Aye?”

“I promised to love, honor, and obey.”

He laughed suddenly. “My dear, I don't think you're familiar with the meaning of the word
obey.”

“I agreed to the marriage,” she said softly.

“And …”

She swallowed hard. There was only so much she dared admit when it seemed that someone, somewhere, was working against her.

“I am resigned.”

“That's all? Resigned?”

“I'm finding marriage to be … more than palatable.”

“I've made it to palatable, and now I must leave.”

He was speaking lightly, teasing her, but she was suddenly afraid, and miserable. “Yet, if there is any fear … shouldn't you stay here? If the isle is in danger, can't the English wait? If you were to go later—”

“I must go today.”

“If you could just wait … a few days. Time will tell quickly with Ewan. Perhaps, in very little time, I could come.”

“I don't have time.”

She lowered her head again. He cradled her skull with his palm, holding her to his chest. “I have to go, and you have to stay. So tell me good-bye.”

She was silent. He lifted her chin again. Her eyes met his. “Good-bye,” she said painfully. “Godspeed.”

He smiled, fingers gentle as they moved down her cheek. “I'm glad that you would have God with me. But I'd wanted something a bit more memorable in the manner of a good-bye. Especially since I've gone from being not entirely repulsive to actually
palatable.”

She was amazed to realize that she could smile through her tears. And more, she was amazed to find herself on her toes, delicately, with a whisper, brushing her lips against his. Then she threw her arms around him, and the kiss she gave next was anything but delicate. Her body pressed to his, she teased his mouth open with her tongue. Passionate, hungry, angry, afraid and trying to hold on, she slipped her hands beneath the linen shirt he wore beneath his wool, running her fingers along his flesh. She kissed and teased, stroked boldly with her tongue. In seconds, his shirt was open, and she worked down his body, her fingertips brushing flesh, her lips and tongue feathering after. He hastily began ripping clothing from his body, and hers, and while linen and wool were strewn, she scarcely missed a brush, a taste, a touch. The fire burned very low, the dawn just crept into being. She tended each scar upon him with a stroke of her tongue, the brush of a kiss. She lowered herself against him. Stroked him, cradled him, took him into her mouth. His fingers curled into her hair, hoarse cries escaped him. He came down to his knees before her, captured her lips in a kiss, found her throat, shoulders, breasts …

They lay before the low-burning fire upon the soft furs. And he kissed her and tasted her, caressed her, touched her, imprinting sensation upon his mind. The dawn came inexorably, light filtered through arrow slits in crimson and mauve, subtly changing, playing upon their flesh in shades that slowly changed to gold and yellow …

He made love to her, she rose atop him. No matter how hard she tried to hold on to the moments, they slipped away. She could not be passionate enough, fierce enough, tender enough. She had never been so aggressive, so hungry, so desperate. She ached to reach the promised pinnacle, and she drew back each time it threatened. His eyes touched hers, his rich dark hair brushed her flesh, his skin was fire, his arms were all powerful, holding her, he moved like lightning, like the wind, like thunder, with all the sweet promise and violence of a storm at sea. Then it seemed that the world itself was ripped asunder, climax seized her in a final, wild tempest, and she lay with him drenched and shivering upon the furs, and realizing that the fire had died, and that dawn was breaking to the full light of day.

He rose after a moment, walking toward an arrow slit, looking out at the sea. Sunlight poured over his body, and she watched him, thinking that she loved the way he moved, the tall, muscled length of him, even the scars, pale white lines here and there on his shoulders and back. He was at ease with her, she thought, and she loved that, too, and she was afraid, and wondered if it was the same with his mistress, if such a way of being was simply easier for men. She closed her eyes, and heard him moving again. He poured water from a pitcher to a bowl, and washed. Then he moved about, dressing. She could hear him, and she knew each piece of clothing he donned. Shirt, hose, tartan, boots … no armor now, for Geoffrey would be carrying his armor as he moved out, Thomas would be
am fear brataich
, or standard-bearer, carrying his banner, and he would be unencumbered as he rode until he was ready to take on his mail, shield and lance, and other weaponry.

Perhaps he would never wear it. He went to the household of a friend, to warn that friend that his land would be seized were its lord not to pay homage to the Scottish king. And perhaps, very soon, he would shed his clothing again as he had done here, to be with the woman he had loved, rather than the woman who must bear his legitimate heirs.

Yet, when he was dressed, he came to her again. He hunched down, and swept her up, furs and all, and held her very close. He smoothed back her hair and kissed her lips. “Keep our home free and safe,” he said softly.

“You believe in me, that I will do so?”

“Against any enemy,” he said, a slight smile curving his lip.

“But of course, I'll have your men with me.”

“Angus is staying.”

“If he stays to watch me, to see that I guard my virtue against so sorely wounded a man, his presence is wasted, I fear.”

He shrugged, apparently aware that she could not be unfaithful with a man who might well be dying. “Angus stays, because he is my right hand, and he would guard you with his life.”

“Who will guard you, if Angus is with me?”

He caught her hand, kissed her palm. “Do you doubt that I'll return?”

She shook her head. “Nay, Laird Lion, I would not doubt you.”

He was silent for a moment. “Don't doubt me, lady. Don't doubt me, ever.”

He straightened to leave, easing her back down to the furs. She watched him stride away, dismayed that she could feel so disconsolate, so alone. When he reached the door, she could not help but call him back.

She rose to her knees, drawing furs with her. “Waryk?”

“Aye?”

“Don't doubt me!” she whispered. “Please, don't doubt me!”

She was startled when he came back to her, drawing her up and to him once again. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, and whispered against them, “Aye, you're the Viking's daughter, Mellyora, but
my
wife.”

Then he turned, and exited quickly, and she knew that far more time had passed than he intended, and the dawn was just a memory.

She lay back down, closing her eyes tightly. Day had come. Waryk was gone, Ewan lay near death. She had to rise. But it was so hard to do so. She could hear the men below, the preparations for the army to ride out, to take the boats, the horses, all the implements of war.

The noise ceased. It grew later and later.

She had to rise; she had stayed to tend to a wounded friend. At last, she did so, wishing that she did not feel such fear for Ewan.