Come the Morning (47 page)

She lifted her chin. “That's she, I assume?” she murmured, indicating the table.

“Aye, that is.”

“She's exquisite.”

“She is,” he agreed, and he smiled, taking her hand. “Eleanora and Peter. Come meet them both.”

“Waryk, no, I—”

“You were curious, I insist.” He drew her forward, to the table, and once there, he introduced her. “Eleanora, Peter, my wife, Mellyora. My dear, Peter of Tyne, and his sister, Lady Eleanora.”

“My dear …” Eleanora murmured, studying her.

“Peter, Lady Eleanora,” Mellyora murmured.

“Will you have some wine?” Eleanora inquired. “Your husband's chalice is there.”

“Are you hungry?” Peter asked. “After dancing so …”

“Peter!” Eleanora murmured, rolling her eyes.

“Well, she was … spectacular.”

“Peter, dear, don't let Waryk forget we're all friends. Would you like something to eat, Mellyora?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you, we dined in the village.”

“We?” Eleanora asked politely.

“Angus is with me, of course. I wouldn't ride out alone.”

Waryk looked across the clearing. Angus was indeed there, grave, heavily armed. Waryk tried not to smile. Angus did the same, but then shrugged helplessly and grinned. His nod indicated that he had been on watch, and would remain on watch.

“Well, if there's nothing you require …” Waryk murmured absently to Mellyora. “If you'll excuse us?” he said to Peter and Eleanora, suddenly entirely focused on his intent. “I'm anxious to hear about Blue Isle in my absence.”

He steered Mellyora from the table and down a trail in the forest. The moon was full, high in the sky, casting down a golden glow to guide them. Waryk knew, from the resistance he felt from his wife, that she had come here, anxious to see him—and anxious to spy on him—and now that her performance had been carried out, she was slightly unnerved, and uncertain as to what his reaction would be.

“Where are we going?” she asked him.

“Down by the loch.”

“Why?”

He smiled wickedly. “Because no one will hear you scream there.”

She stopped, trying to tug free from him. “Waryk, you've no right to be angry, to throw out threats! You should be pleased that your wife came out to meet you and see—”

“If I was sleeping with Eleanora?” he inquired.

She flushed, and he knew that had been her plan exactly. She hadn't sent ahead any messages, she had wanted to catch him by surprise.

“You were very close.”

“Aye. Let's go, come on.”

He caught her hand. She tried to pull free. “Waryk—”

“Come, my love, down to the loch. And by the way, how is Ewan? Hale and hearty and strong, so I hear.”

“Out of danger, at best!” she protested. “And I am here, having left Ewan, while I arrive to find you head to head with Eleanora—”

“Ah! So you did come to spy, and for no other reason!”

The trail curved. They came upon the loch in the middle of the night, with the full globe of the moon playing upon it. The water rippled in a soft reflection, the earth beside it was soft and redolent and the trees grew with great trooping branches that cast gentle fingers upon the strangely glowing landscape. Soft leaves carpeted the ground, and Waryk drew her around to stand before him just at the water's edge. He caught both her hands, lacing his fingers with hers, and pinning her arms behind her back. “Indeed, my love, you came to spy.”

“I came to—” she began, but he didn't really care why she had come. She was there. He had wanted her. She had tormented his dreams, left him lying awake and wanting, and now she was with him. She couldn't finish speaking because his lips found hers. Hard, hungry. He ravished her lips, plundered the depths of her mouth. Searched and delved and tasted. And at last he lifted his head, and she tried to speak again. “Waryk, she is beautiful, and if you've been with her—”

“Aye?” He touched her lips again with his own, softly now, seductively.

“Waryk!” she struggled to free her arms. He would not let her go. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “If you've been with her …”

“Aye …” He pressed his lips to her throat, teased her earlobe with a brush of his teeth and tongue, found her throat again, and again.

“Let me go … because …”

“Because?”

“I will not have it. I won't … I can't …”

He lifted his head, and her eyes were absolutely beautiful, and he'd never seen her so vulnerable. “You will not have it?” he asked softly. “Why?”

“Because … I have some pride, Waryk.”

“Pride? Aye, well, we all have pride. Not good enough. Give me another reason.”

“Because … you're my husband.”

“Ah, good, but still, not good enough …”

She leaned her head against his chest.

“Mellyora?” he persisted.

She murmured, “Because I want you myself.”

He released her wrists, finding her chin, tilting her head upward. “Not completely what I had in mind, but … it will do for now. Because I cannot bear for it not to do!” he whispered hoarsely. He pulled his mantle over his head, casting it down on the spongy bank. Then he swept her up, kneeling down upon the mantle with her in his arms. She clung to him. “Waryk …”

“I've not betrayed you, my lady.”

“But …”

He laid her upon the mantle. He leaned next to her on an elbow, his hands beneath her soft woolen knit gown. Her flesh seemed as soft as a rose petal, as hot as the sun. He cupped the fullness of her breasts, and they seemed fuller, her nipples seemed larger, harder. Her gown was annoying; he shoved it up, and dragged it over her head. “Waryk, we're in the woods …”

“Angus is on guard, no one will come near us.” He pressed her back to the ground. She smelled like a field of flowers. He buried his face into her flesh, her breasts, reveled in the scent of her, found himself aroused to hardness in just wanting her, touching her. His body seemed to burn. He tried to hold back, not to want her so urgently, to touch and stroke and tease …

Her hands were on him. She fumbled with his clothing, his scabbard, the awkwardness of his sword. He stripped himself of scabbard and weapons, tore off linen and wool, hose and boots. The ivory cast of the moon lay upon them. Eleanora had called her a sprite. She was more like a goddess, made flesh from the lake, golden tresses silver in the light. She touched him with fingers as fevered as his own. He bore her down to the earth, breathed in her sensuous scent and the redolence of the earth. She cast her arms around him, but he drew back. He caught her knees, parted her limbs slowly, meeting her eyes. Then he drew his fingers down her inner thigh. He followed each touch with a kiss, the brush of his tongue, light … here, there. Her thigh, her knee, her belly, her hip, her thighs, one, the other, and then between …

When he came to her at last, she writhed and thrashed in a fierce fury of desire that enwrapped him with his every movement. She clung to him more tightly each time he thrust within her, and each time he thrust, he felt himself move deeper, harder, faster. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, staved off climax until he could stave no more … it burst upon him, sweat beading his shoulders, his brow, the seed that burst from him draining him as if he were suddenly left lifeless, rendered helpless, as his very soul seemed to slip into her. His heart thundered, his blood rushed, and a feeling of sweet, saturating ecstasy swept over the length of him. Her nails curled into his shoulders, she cried out, and lay still.

At his side, she shivered. He drew her against him, taking his surcoat from the ground where it had been strewn and cast it over her as a cover against the sudden chill. She curled against him, and lay in silence for long seconds. Then she asked softly, “Must you go into Stirling with Peter and—his sister?”

“Aye. We will go into Stirling with them.”

“We?”

“Aye.”

She seemed pleased with that. She shifted, looking up into his eyes. “Waryk, I wrote to Daro and Anne, telling them that Vikings attack us—and accuse Daro. They remain just outside Stirling. I want to meet with them and the king, and let Daro proclaim his innocence.”

Waryk frowned, suddenly uneasy. He shifted to an elbow to better see his wife. “You told them that you were coming to meet me?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“I don't think that was wise—” he began, but even as he spoke, Mellyora suddenly screamed, looking over his shoulders.

“Waryk!”

He rolled, just in time. Where he had lain, a battle-ax thudded into the earth. Mellyora flew to her feet as he did, but they were parted by the width of the copse then, and Waryk suddenly found himself facing four men.

Vikings … Normans?

Two blond and bearded; two reddish. They wore full beards. Their bascinets or helmets appeared to be Viking; their long, plated chain mail seemed more Norman. But looking at one man among them, he knew that he had seen the battle gear before.

On Daro Thorsson. Aye, and it was Daro's banner being carried by another of the men.

Four of them. One wielded a mace, two carried axes …

Daro wielded a blade.

And he was naked as a newborn. His sword was ten feet away, his wife …

Clutching the surcoat to her breasts, she stood staring, frozen and transfixed.

Stunned?

He could not help the suspicion that crawled into his mind.
Was she so surprised? She had just told him that she had written to Daro, telling him they would meet with him, warning that his name was being cast about …

But why tell him?

Why not?

Just as Peter of Tyne took extreme care with the way he surrendered to the Scottish king, maybe she watched her every step with him. Maybe she pretended not to be involved in any moves against him, because if he won the battle, she would be lost …

“At last, Waryk!” one of the men spat out. “The king's great champion, the boy murderer! Well, here we meet at last. And look, sir, there you are, milord, naked as a fish, without so much as a sword. How cowardly! We should give you a weapon, a fighting chance. But I think not! You may die like a dog, sir, cowering down in the dirt!”

The first man strode toward him, ax swinging. As he came Waryk dived in a roll forward, leaping to his feet across the copse again.

“Waryk!”

She was beside him suddenly, thrusting his sword into his hand. His father's claymore. Double-handed, he started forward, swinging at his enemies.

“Get behind me, Mellyora.”

“Waryk, I can—”

“You can't fight without a weapon!”

One of the men with the axes took a swing. Waryk sidestepped and brought his claymore crashing down. The sound of crunching flesh and bone was terrible, but the second man let out a sound like a berserker, rushing forward.

He took longer to kill. Waryk lunged and retreated, lunged and retreated—spun around when he felt the man with the mace behind him. He was a fool. Threatening with his swing and harsh taunts, he forgot to watch for his own vulnerability. Waryk stepped swiftly forward, swinging. He sliced the man across his midsection, deeply enough to kill with the single motion. Yet he barely turned back to his other opponent quickly enough. He missed the man's ax blow by a hair; in fact, he felt shaven down the arm, the blow came so close. Yet he reacted quickly, bringing his sword up to catch the man from groin to throat, knowing full well that if he didn't kill then, and kill quick, the man's next move would crush in his skull.

But the man lay dead. Waryk spun quickly, expecting the fourth man to rush him. But he did not.

He spun again.

No one rushed him. The fourth man was gone. Along with Waryk's wife.

Daro. Daro was gone …

And he had taken his niece with him.

She had gone for the ax. That had been her mistake.

Bending to retrieve the weapon, she had found herself scooped up from around the middle. She had screamed in pure surprise as well as panic, but Waryk hadn't heard her, because two men had been trying to kill him at that moment.

Her fingers had reached out ….

And missed the ax. And she had been grappled, and dragged, and thrown over a man's shoulders, and taken swiftly atop a horse. She was tangled in her husband's surcoat, and she couldn't fight her assailant because he was clad in plates and mail. She wouldn't release her husband's surcoat; it was the only cover she had. Her only relief was in seeing that one man fell, and Waryk was swinging at the other as they disappeared from view.

They rode hard. Very hard, and very long. The night seemed unending. The wind grew colder. They came at last to a copse, near to the sea, and she realized they had come closer to Blue Isle. She was, in fact, now far closer to her home than to Waryk's camp.

The horse came to a halt, and she was dragged back over the man's shoulder. Because of his mail and plate, her flesh was scratched and bruised. He slid her to the ground, nearly dropping her, before dismounting from his horse. She clutched Waryk's surcoat with its flying-falcon emblem to her and backed warily away from her captor.

He wore Daro's helmet, Daro's emblem.

She narrowed her eyes, staring at him. “Who are you?”

“Daro.”

She shook her head. “You are a coward, a liar. You're not my uncle. Do you think that I don't know my own uncle, my own kin? You bastard, how dare you use him, how—” she broke off, suddenly thinking that she did know the man. She didn't know his name, or why he was so relentless, but she did know him.

“It's you again. You think that you will convince Waryk that it is my uncle who is so determined to pillage, rape, maim, and kill our people. Well, he's not a fool. He knows better. And he will catch you, and find out who you are, and—”