Dawnflight (55 page)

She could have force-fed him a raw root, however, and it wouldn’t have mattered one iota.

Fingering a fragrant tress, she wondered why she had even bothered with the hair treatment this morning.

Morghe reached for the borrowed emerald linen gown draped across the chair, thankful for the thoughtfulness of the innkeeper’s wife. While not the finest frock ever to grace her body, it was far better than the tunic and breeches she’d been captured in, which had begun to reek. She would have preferred having slippers to match, but the woman’s feet were too big. Her doeskin boots would have to do until it was safe to return to Tanroc. At least, they’d been scraped clean of the muck picked up from tramping across this overgrown dungheap of an island.

As she pulled the gown over her head and smoothed it into place, she wondered what had happened in Gyanhumara’s quarters. The guardsmen had denied access to the building despite her most provocative pleas. She fingered a lock of hair, releasing a burst of scent. Perhaps her luck would improve this morning.

She tugged on her boots and stepped into the corridor. The mansio was awakening to the activities of the other guests, mostly merchants and itinerant craftsmen who had been caught at the port when the Scots attacked.

To her surprise, Arthur rounded the corner. His scarlet-and-gold uniform was impeccable, as usual, and not one hair on his disgustingly handsome head was out of place. The bottom edge of a neatly wrapped bandage peered from below the kilt on his left thigh, one that was too clean to be covering a fresh wound. No bandage had been there during the feast.

“Dear brother, whatever happened to your leg last night? Picti foreplay?”

He barked a laugh. “May we find a place to talk that’s a bit more private?”

“Why, of course.” Curiosity afire, she invited him into her antechamber, and he closed the door behind them.

“I have good news for you and I wanted you to hear it from me first.” He looked thoroughly pleased with himself, and it was about to make her sick.

Then it occurred to her why.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Arthur’s smile was utterly captivating. It took more than a little effort to resist its spell. “What have your bedchamber exploits with foreign women possibly to do with me?”

“There is someone who wishes to marry you. Urien of Dalriada.”

Marrying Urien, the politically powerful and handsome and virile Urien…it was her fondest wish! Except for one drawback. “You expect me to marry the Pict’s castoff?” Morghe never accepted seconds from anybody, and she wasn’t about to start. Folding her arms, she glared at her brother. “I won’t do it.”

“Ah, but think of the possibilities. To be chieftainess of the most powerful clan of Dalriada.” He waved as though painting a picture. “Perhaps even to rule all Dalriada one day.”

“That obviously didn’t sway Gyanhumara. Why should I feel any differently?”

The smile vanished. “Gyanhumara is a ruler in her own right. You are not.”

Simple, brutal, and the absolute truth. This reminder caused her to dislike Gyanhumara—and the culture that spawned her—all the more. To achieve status in man-dominated Brytoni society, Morghe would have to wed Urien or a lesser nobleman. Although she despised this rule by which she had to play, she despised even more her powerlessness to change it.

She fingered her chin. Given the right marital circumstances, perhaps she might effect changes so that her daughters and daughters’ daughters wouldn’t have to struggle with this problem.

And why settle for less power when more was ripe for the plucking?

“Very well, Arthur. I will marry Urien.” When his smile returned, she held up a finger. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Get me off this God-forsaken Scotti steppingstone of an island!”

“Consider it done.” He gave her one of his intense appraisals that always made her uneasy. “After you make a public appearance with Urien, for the announcement of your betrothal. He should be here soon, in fact, to escort you to the market square.”

Morghe cast her gaze to the ceiling. “Oh, please. Is all that really necessary, Arthur?”

“When have you ever known me to do anything that wasn’t necessary?”

She laughed from sheer astonishment. “Exiling me here, for one thing.” When he didn’t reply, she pressed her advantage. “Letting me get captured by the Scots. Why, I was lucky they didn’t—”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Point taken.” He started to reach toward her, seemed to think better of it, and lowered his hands. “Morghe. I’m sorry you had to get caught up in this war. And I’m relieved you didn’t get—hurt. More than you may realize.” Glancing up momentarily, he sighed. “Putting you at risk was the last thing I ever wanted to do.” He extended a hand, palm up. “Can you forgive me?”

For the surprise attack over which he’d had no control, yes. For her incarceration at the priory, no, but he didn’t need to know that distinction. She took his hand with a nod and a smile.

After all, she lost nothing by casting this illusion of cooperation and could potentially gain much by it.

URIEN STORMED down the corridor toward Morghe’s chamber. Sleep had done nothing to improve his temper; as tumultuous as his dreams had been, he doubted whether he had done much sleeping at all. But a lifetime of sleep couldn’t make him any less tired of doing the Pendragon’s bidding.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. Without thinking, he rubbed it and winced when his cut stung. He wished he hadn’t ripped off the bandage before leaving his quarters, but thanks to Arthur’s order, there was no time to remedy that.

He found the right door and pounded on it. Beneath his fist, he pictured Arthur’s face. It helped dispel only a little frustration. From behind the door came an irritated-sounding voice that definitely was not Arthur’s. On principle, he pounded again.

The door opened just wide enough for a scowling Morghe to poke out her head. “I said I was—” The scowl turned into a sly grin. “Well, well. Look what’s escaped from the dragon’s lair. He certainly got a claw on you, didn’t he?” She opened the door the rest of the way and motioned for him to enter.

He snorted. Wondering why he had ever agreed to marry this irksome woman—and in the same breath recalling that he’d never had a choice—he shouldered past her into the room and faced her. “I’ve been ordered to escort you to the market square for Arthur’s announcement. So, if you’ll come with me—”

Sauntering up to him, breasts jutting and hips swaying, Morghe made a sound of disapproval with her tongue. “Come now, Urien, is this any way to treat your wife-to-be?” Moistening her lips, she ran her fingertips up his arm, across his shoulder, and up his neck to his cheek. But despite the stirring in his loins, he resolved to remain stoic. The idea of becoming intimate with Arthur’s sister was too bizarre to contemplate. She took a step backward, crossed her arms, and frowned. “Well. I can see why Gyanhumara got rid of you. Arthur knows how to treat a woman.” The sly grin returned. “So I’ve heard.”

Urien clenched his fist but, with effort, did not raise it. Punishing Morghe for her insolence was so tempting, so easy, and so very stupid. Arthur would dig out Urien’s heart with his bare hands and feed it to the ravens. He hoped a splash of honesty would cool her off. “Look, Morghe, I don’t want this union in its fullest sense. I can’t believe you do, either. All we need to do is display an act for your brother’s sake. You don’t even have to live at Dunadd.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Urien.” She moved in close and pressed her body against his, standing on tiptoe to reach behind his head. “I want to be your wife, at your side in Dunadd and everywhere.” Her lips parted invitingly as she pulled his face to hers. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t. There was something enchanting about the lavender scent of her hair, with its earthy-sweet hint of another fragrance he couldn’t identify. His pulse quickened as she whispered, “I want everything you can give me.”

As Urien wrapped his arms around her and covered her mouth with his, he couldn’t prevent himself from visualizing Gyanhumara. Then again, he could count on one hand, with fingers to spare, the number of times Gyanhumara’s kisses had been this arousing. While Morghe could not hold a candle to Gyanhumara’s beauty, she was pretty in a darker way. Thank God she didn’t look like her brother.

He had to admit being glad to have a properly bred and trained Brytoni wife with whom he would not be constantly competing. Morghe’s lust for knowledge was perplexing, but Urien could deal with that easily enough. Kissing her neck and enjoying the sound of her throaty sigh, he imagined how he would educate her in the art of lovemaking.

But when he began to caress her breast, she wriggled free, flashing an apologetic smile. “My dear Urien, someone we both know will kill us if we miss his little gathering.” She didn’t need to mention the fact that if Urien succumbed to his overwhelming urge to make love to Morghe now—or at any time before they were wed—Arthur would kill him anyway. She combed her fingers through her hair and laid the hand against his cheek. It was warm and deliciously fragrant. “But I do thank you for giving me something to look forward to.”

He clasped the hand and brought it to his lips. Her smile was one of pure delight. Another wave of lust jarred his body, more intense than anything he’d ever felt for any woman, Gyanhumara included. It took every scrap of will to hold that lust at bay, and every scrap of logic to keep remembering why.

Gazing into her eyes, he noticed what an alluring shade of violet they were. “So have you, Morghe.” If last night someone had told him how he would be feeling this morning toward the sister of his hated rival, he’d have laughed himself sick. But this was nothing to laugh at. “So have you.”

URIEN AND Morghe were waiting on the market square’s central stone platform when Arthur and Gyan arrived, trailed by Angusel. Morghe smiled at their approach.

Gyan bade Angusel stay at the platform’s base. After she and Arthur mounted the platform, Urien gave Arthur a salute one step shy of blatant insubordination. Arthur didn’t bother to acknowledge it. Urien’s scowl looked even worse than usual beneath the long red line across his forehead. With effort, she ignored him. She would much rather have drawn her sword—left-handed, if need be—to finish the job her consort had begun. Arthur, she noted with a wry smile as she turned to face the townsfolk, positioned himself between her and Urien.

The people seemed to greet Arthur’s announcement of the two couples’ marriage plans with unanimous approval.

A shout rose from behind the crowd, in the direction of the Dhoo-Glass gates. “Make way!” A legion-uniformed horseman pulled his mount to a sliding stop to avoid plowing into anyone. “Make way for the messenger of General Cai!”

An avenue formed. As the horseman approached, Gyan stifled a gasp, not because of the messenger but because of who was riding behind him.

“Cynda!” Gyan clutched her tunic, over her heart, as relief and happiness coursed through her.

The messenger reined his mount at the platform, dismounted, and helped Cynda down. She stood where he set her, rubbing her backside as Gyan all but flew down the steps to greet her.

Cynda’s tunic was rumpled and soot-smudged. A streak marked her brow. Her hair was a mass of tangles and smelled of smoke. Otherwise, she appeared to be unharmed. The smile that lit her face brought tears to Gyan’s eyes; it was the most precious sight she had ever seen.

She drew Cynda into a long embrace.

“Ach, Gyan, my dove…” Cynda returned the hug in a fierce, possessive way. “I feared I’d lost you.”

This was exactly what Gyan was thinking, but she couldn’t voice it without the risk that the words turn into sobs. Instead, she whispered, “Not that easily.” Blinking away the tears, she offered a silent prayer of gratitude for Cynda’s safe return. Louder, she asked, “Are you all right?”

“Aye, well enough, no thanks to those bloody Scáthinaich.” Cynda released her hold and fixed Gyan with an all-too-familiar appraising stare. “Better than yourself, it would seem.” She gestured at Gyan’s wounded arm. “You look as if you haven’t slept in a week. Don’t the stupid Breatanaich know what dulls pain?”

Gyan had no concern that their allies might react to the insult, since she and Cynda were speaking in Caledonaiche. Morghe could understand them, but her reaction was even less of a concern. “The wound will mend. I haven’t slept a lot because”—she grinned—“Arthur became my consort last night.”