Come the Morning (20 page)

“This property can only be maintained by my most staunch ally, Waryk,” David said, “for you see, here lies the island, and just across the water on the mainland lies the old Roman road connecting much of the Lowlands with the Highlands. The little bay is sheltered—the island creates a breakwater—offering excellent defensive positions against raiders and dockage for commerce ships. The castle on the island is impregnable; for the Romans, the legends say, it was their last bastion, the place they ran when they skirmished with Highlands tribes, but could fight no more. Troops under William the Conqueror seized it for a time, which was beneficial, since William's architects and masons rebuilt the walls and strengthened the structure. Mellyora MacAdin's maternal grandfather was the man who won the fortress back under my father's rule, and I do not intend to lose it again. If this fortress falls into the wrong hands, my enemies could spill into the country behind me—you'll note the proximity to my stronghold here.” He paused, looking at Waryk. “I'm sorry. You've fought for me a long time. I had not intended to put an enemy into your marital bed.”

Waryk looked at the king, started to speak, then hesitated. It seemed very strange. He could remember the night when he had first stood with a sword in his hand, while all around him, his kin and friends had lain dead. He'd expected nothing much from life except for the opportunity to avenge the deaths of so many. He had followed the king and become such a renowned warrior knight because he'd had a passion then to kill his enemies to purge the pain the night had brought. He'd known that one day the king would reward him, but he'd never imagined this. Sweeping lands, a fortress to defy the devil himself, cattle, sheep, artisans, masons, an entire feudal community. He was sorry about his bride as well, but for this great a prize …

Well, she could just rot in a tower, if that was what she so chose.

“We will come to an understanding,” Waryk said.

“The wedding will come in two weeks' time now, for the night of the full moon. I want as many of my nobles and warriors—and even my enemies—present so that there is never any question about the legitimacy of the marriage.”

“Two weeks' time,” Waryk mused dryly. The night of the next full moon. When the lady in question had sworn to meet another man as payment in her quest to be free from him. “It seems a long time with the lady not my wife, and yet in my keeping. What do I do with her until then?”

The king was angry and his tone was as harsh as his words. “Chain her, drug her, tie her down!” he swore impatiently. “As I told you before, do with her what you will. Before the wedding, though, see to it that she is properly dressed and groomed, by her woman and ladies of the court. We will follow every tradition.”

Waryk arched an amused brow. “Chain, drug her, cast her in a dungeon. Ah, sire! Would that be appropriate behavior for a bridal groom?”

“When she leaves your chambers for her own, I'll see that the windows are barred, no scaffolding is near, and that guards line the corridors.” The king poured wine, bringing a chalice to Waryk. “To your future, sir. May God give you strength.”

“You, sire, have given me power. May God help me wield it well.” Again, he hesitated. “David, your ward is capable of being very stubborn.”

“Of that I'm well aware. But I am stubborn as well. I'll drag her down the aisle to the altar.”

“She may still refuse to wed.”

“If she chooses to be that stubborn,” David said, eyes narrowing, “she will suffer for it, as I told you before. If I'm forced, I will seize her lands and bestow them upon you. I will not lose land my father claimed back from William the Conqueror. I will not let it happen. Rather Mellyora should live out her days in a stone chamber in a deep, dark dungeon. And though I would be sorry, I do mean that.”

David spoke with a gravity that was chilling, though Waryk could not believe that so just a king would deal so cruelly with a young woman.

“We might have difficulty there, sire. I'm certain the people of her homeland must be very fond of her. Her mother's family are the ancient rulers. Adin proved himself a just and mighty lord. To dishonor the rightful issue of those two—”

“It will mean insurrection, and it will mean that people will die, and that you will live a hell for years to come. But I will not let that property fall prey to any man who is not my loyal champion. Not with the English unrest, and certainly not when a Viking threat remains so close. You've seen why.”

Waryk stared at David, and the king lifted his powerful arms in an expression of aggravation. “I wish the lady no harm, Waryk. But I am the king, and by God, she will honor me!”

“Aye, David. As you say.”

“You may tell her where she stands in this.”

Waryk decided that he must do so.

The truth of her situation might be the strongest weapon he could wield against her.

At the archway, Mellyora stood with her uncle, shaking, excited, afraid. She hadn't thought that he was coming, she hadn't believed that he
could
come. She had given up almost all hope of help.

She had spent so many hours alone! Waiting, terrified, defiant. She dreaded Waryk returning; then she grew angry that he did not. The hour came when she knew that all the fortress would have assembled for the evening banquet, and she knew that he would be there, while she remained a prisoner.

Then Daro had come. And his urgency had sent her into a burst of speed. Now, she waited with him, because they were not escaping alone, Anne was escaping with them. Theirs was a daring and bold plan, with no help available to them should they make any mistakes. They were on their own; she had to move with the greatest secrecy.

With each passing second, she grew more anxious. She was greatly relieved that they hadn't killed Angus.

She was terrified that they would be discovered, and that swords would be drawn.

And blood would be spilled.

“Why is she taking so long?” she whispered to her uncle, referring to Anne.

His face was stone hard, impassive. Then he bowed his head. “If she doesn't come soon, we'll have to leave.”

“Oh, God, no, Anne is the one who made it possible for you to free me—”

“And you kept Anne from being discovered behind the tapestries,” Daro said impatiently. He smiled as she stared at him. “Anne told me so,” he explained. “If I leave here with you, I have regained some dignity. I have a right to a say in your life, while perhaps it's true that I have no right to Anne.”

“Daro—”

“Mellyora, I'm going for the horses, cloaks, and helmets. Keep a sharp eye out for Anne. We have but one opportunity to escape.”

“Aye, and we must escape now,” she murmured. They had already fled Waryk's chambers, they were together, and on their way to the Viking camp.

Aye, they had to escape.

Escape, or die the death of traitors.

During the day, Waryk would never have noticed Anne MacInnish's behavior. He knew Anne, though not well, because she was distant kin to Michael MacInnish, the border laird on the spit of land where so many had been slaughtered by Lord Renfrew's greedy quest for greater gain. She had grown into a lovely young woman with large, doelike hazel eyes and chestnut hair, a lithe figure, and a talent for warmth and laughter. Tonight, however, she was behaving strangely, hurrying down the corridor with her head lowered and hands folded. Her eyes darted nervously side to side every few steps, as if she were certain she was being followed. He leaned against the wall, into the shadows, as he watched her approach.

It was ridiculously late—or far too early—for her to be up and about. And moving so furtively. He was both curious, and worried about the young woman, kin to his friend. And he was not anxious to return to his own chambers too quickly; he had kept his distance from Mellyora, but now it was time to explain to her that the king meant to have her disinherited if she didn't obey his orders.

He couldn't have her waiting in his chambers for two weeks, not unless he found somewhere else to sleep. He had mocked her, but was the one now paying a price. She was far too provocative, and he meant to keep his distance until he was certain that any child created within her would be his own. With Angus on guard, she was safe. From all men, he thought, including himself.

Indeed, the castle at Stirling was a safe place, yet it seemed that Anne was furtive, as if she was afraid. As she neared him, he stepped out of the shadows, politely accosting her.

“Anne.”

She stopped dead, staring at him, her face parchment white.

“L—Laird Lion!”

“What are you doing out at this late hour?” Seeing a lover? It seemed the only feasible answer. She had always been a sweet, gentle young woman, but her family had sometimes treated her harshly due to the circumstances of her birth.

“I'm—I'm returning to my chambers.”

“From?”

“From … visiting with a sick friend.” She was lying, and she didn't lie well.

“At this hour?” he queried.

She lowered her head, then looked up at him. “I may not have much time left for the freedom to visit anyone at any time. Padraic has determined that I'm to be given to the Church.”

She had definitely been seeing a lover, and, from the tone of her voice, he thought she had been seeing someone who meant a great deal to her. Young women were prone to fall in and out of love, and most often, inappropriately.

“You do not feel a religious vocation?”

“Nay, I do not,” she said simply. “I wish to wed.”

“Have you said this to your uncle?”

The white left her cheeks; color flooded them. She lowered her head again. “He thinks my father's blood has created something of a wanton out of me. If I enter a nunnery, I help purge the sins of the Vikings against the Church in this country.”

“Men sin against other men, mostly, so it seems, and a man who was not a Christian and didn't understand the meaning could not have been said to sin against the Catholic Church.”

Anne gasped. “Laird Lion! That is all but blasphemy.”

“I am not being blasphemous, Anne. I was raised in the Church. And many Vikings converted to Christianity; if your father had lived, he would have done so. But he was slain, and you should not be left to pay for his sins, real or imagined.”

Her eyes were very bright on his, a glimmer of hope within them. “If you were to say such things to my family, they would listen. If only I could speak so to my uncle, make him understand … if only someone were to speak with Michael, since he is the head of the family. But he fights these days, and does little else, and he has left my future to Padraic. But he admires you so, if only …”

She broke off, as if she had said too much, as if she were suddenly confused.

Then her eyes widened with alarm as Jillian, Mellyora's woman, came rushing up. Seeing Anne, Jillian bit into her lip, standing anxiously at Waryk's side. “Laird Lion, I must speak with you. It's urgent.”

“Aye, then, Jillian. Anne, we'll speak again. Perhaps, if you can convince me that what you're seeking is not against God or king, I can help you,” Waryk said. He stepped back, allowing her to pass.

“Laird Lion, Mellyora is …”

The woman broke off as if she were choking. As if she couldn't quite draw in the breath to finish the sentence.

“Mellyora is what?”

“Gone again, sir!”

“How do you know?”

“I went to bring her some clothing. But—she is gone.”

“That's impossible!” he said harshly. “A heavy bolt was slid across the door; Angus was on guard—” He broke off. Looking into the woman's eyes, he knew that she was speaking the truth.

“Angus would not let any man by him,” he said, striding down the corridor with Jillian following behind him.

The door to his chambers stood open. Angus was within, knocking at the walls, searching under the alcove bed, swearing. He stood, facing Waryk, and looking very strange, for Angus was so huge, so fierce-looking a warrior, though a kind man. He had probably not looked so sheepish before in all his life. He had known the importance of guarding Mellyora, and Waryk had warned him that she was as slippery as an eel.

“Waryk, she's disappeared like mist on the moor. The bolt remained on the door when Jillian arrived, but she is not within, as you can see,” Angus said. “I'd lay down my life for you, and you know that—”

“Aye, I do,” Waryk assured him.

“She's slipped out of this room somehow.”

“There are no exits,” Waryk said.

“The chimney?” Jillian suggested hopefully behind them.

Waryk turned to her. She was a handsome woman with soft silvering hair, an oval face and fine features that would make her lovely no matter how many years passed her by. She was anxious now, and he thought that she loved her young mistress, but realized something Mellyora did not—the king had spoken. Her fate involved the defense and strength of Scotland, and, therefore, she was nothing more than a pawn.

“Jillian,” he said, not unkindly, “if she went up the chimney, she is well charred, for there is a fire burning still.”

Angus let out an oath of frustration. “The bolt remained locked when Jillian arrived!” he repeated.

“Did you leave the corridor?”

“Nay, ye know I'd not—” Angus began, then broke off. He shook his head. “I didn't leave the corridor, but I moved around the corner when I heard the woman screaming. It was a terrible sound; I thought we were being attacked—”

“What woman?” Waryk demanded.

“The lass, Anne MacInnish—” Angus began.

“Ah, Angus, we've been tricked!” he swore, exiting the room with long strides, his man following quickly behind him.

“Tricked? By a slip of a lass? She was alone, Waryk, I swear it—”

“Aye, she was alone. For her part in the charade!” Waryk hurried along the corridor, long strides carrying him toward the southern arch, the direction in which Anne MacInnish had gone when she'd slipped on by him at Jillian's arrival.