English, Elizabeth (7 page)

When
he turned his head Alyson saw the gold ring glistening at his ear and despite
the Kirallen colors he wore, she had the feeling that he did not belong here at
all. He belonged in some other world entirely, a world of blazing color and
adventure.

A
pirate, Sir Robert had said. Yes, Alyson could see where one might think that.
His long, dark eyes were wary as they went over the crowded hall, and she could
see the tension of his form beneath the festive garb. He looked like a man
accustomed to danger, formidable and more than a little frightening. The taut
line of his mouth seemed incapable of anything as frivolous as laughter.

But
Alyson had marked his quick smile when he walked into the hall. It changed
everything, that smile. There was no pirate's cruelty about it, but a merry
charm that had sent a flush of warmth tingling through her body. The heat still
lingered in the pit of her stomach, intensifying the icy knot of fear just
below her breastbone. Between the two, she could scarcely catch her breath.

He
didn't even seem aware of her. And yet he must be. For all he knew, she was
really Lady Maude, his own wedded wife. And tonight, later, when the feast was
done, he would lie beside her naked in a bed. Her mouth went dry and she
glanced at him again, but his head was turned from her.

As
he conversed with his father he idly turned the stem of his goblet between
long, brown fingers. Sailor's hands, she thought, strong and capable, the palms
criss-crossed with small lines and hard with calluses. Yet for all their
strength, they had been very gentle in the chapel when he wound his fingers in
her hair, sending bright hot shivers racing down her spine...

She
felt his gaze upon her and resisted the impulse to look into his eyes. Instead
she continued to stare down at his hands, seeing a twisted silver scar running
up the back of one wrist, vanishing into the green sleeve of his tunic. She
wondered what he'd say if she was to ask him how he'd gotten it, then knew she
never would. She'd never have the courage, for one thing, but even if she did,
she didn't want to know, not this or anything else about him.

Somehow
she had never stopped to think that he would not be simply a Kirallen, but a
living, breathing man. A man she was leading to his death. A man who expected—
who had every right to expect—to lie with her tonight. She shivered, remembering
the rough scrape of his beard against her face, the iron strength of his
arms... but his lips had been as warm and soft as swans-down.

What
if—dear God—what if a child came of this? Never, not once, had she considered
that possibility, but it could easily happen. Then what would she do? Whatever
could she tell the poor babe about its father? Her stomach clenched and she was
certain she would be sick right here and now, but then the moment passed.

Her
eye fell on the tapestry again, and now she knew the hind would never make the
leap. It was doomed, fated to be dragged down by the hounds, struggling vainly
as they tore it limb from limb.

"My
lady?"

Her
heart leaped in terror at the sound of Jemmy's voice. It was deep and rich with
just the slightest suggestion of an accent, more a matter of cadence than
pronunciation. She composed herself and turned to him.

"You
should try to eat something," he suggested.

She
flicked a glance at the trencher before her, then back to his face. It was one
of Maude's favorite tricks to dismiss something—an offered gift, a dish not
prepared precisely to her liking—as beneath contempt. From the way Jemmy's
polite half-smile vanished, Alyson knew that she had done it well.

"There
is nothing here I care for."

"I
could send for something else," he offered, coolly courteous, a host doing
his duty to a difficult and unwelcome guest.

"No."

The
single word hung in the air between them. Alyson clenched her jaw against the
almost irresistible desire to add an expression of gratitude. But in the month
she had spent in Maude's company, she had never once heard her half sister
thank anyone for anything.

Jemmy
shrugged and turned back to his father. Alyson sat, spine rigid, face set in a
mask of indifference, as the interminable meal dragged on. At last the cloth
was drawn, the trestles taken down, and the wild sweet music of the pipes
began. Several men stood up to dance, their arms linked as they moved with such
speed and grace that Alyson could scarcely follow their steps. For a moment she
forgot everything but the beauty of their movements. She caught her breath as
they executed one particularly fine leap and twirl, ending with a flourishing
bow to her. She wanted to clap her hands and laugh. Instead she yawned
delicately.

"I'm
weary," she said to no one in particular. "I shall retire now."

When
she stood the music screeched to a dissonant halt. Everyone in the hall was
staring, and she felt the hot blood rush to her cheeks. What would Maude do
now? she wondered frantically, then turned and started for the door.

Jemmy's
voice halted her. "So eager for our marriage bed?" he drawled.
"I'm afraid you'll have to wait." Wine splashed into his goblet as he
refilled it.

Alyson's
overstrung nerves gave way with a snap. Rounding on him, she sent the goblet
spinning from his hand.

"How
dare you speak to me like that?" she demanded. He rose slowly to his feet
and looked down at her. His lips curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Take
care," he said softly. "If I were you,
wife,
I'd take great
care, indeed. This isn't your father's hall, you know. It's mine. And these are
my men all around you."

She
held his gaze while she counted ten, a trick she'd learned at her mother's knee
to control her hasty temper. Then she nodded. "I understand," she
said carefully. "I still wish to retire. If—if that's acceptable to
you."

And
because she was very tired and very frightened there was a quaver in her voice
on the last words. She hoped he wouldn't hear it, but he must have, for his
voice was not quite so hard as he answered, "It is."

Two
women hurried forward at his signal. As Alyson followed them from the hall the
music broke out again and there was a sudden gust of laughter.

"For
pity's sake, will no one dance with the bridegroom?"

Alyson
turned to see Jemmy on his feet. A girl stepped forward, crying, "I will,
my lord!" and he gave her a flashing smile, his teeth very white against
his sun-bronzed skin.

Alyson
started up the dim stairway, stumbling a little on the long hem of her gown.

"Ah,
that's the worst of luck," the younger of the women breathed, staring with
round eyes. "To fall up stairs."

"Be
still," the other one said sharply. "Would ye ill-wish the lass on
her wedding night? Come along now, my lady," she added kindly. "
'Tisn't far."

What
would Maude do? Alyson asked herself again. Make some cutting remark, no doubt,
and put the woman in her place. But Alyson couldn't do it. She simply nodded
and followed them.

The
chamber was not so large as Maude's, nor so well appointed, but to Alyson it
seemed very fine indeed. The bed was hung with crimson draperies, and a fire
burned brightly on the hearth as the women went about the business of disrobing
her. Alyson hardly noticed their silence; she was too busy worrying about what
was to happen next. At last they pressed a goblet of spiced wine into her hand
and left her there alone.

She
sank into a deep chair before the hearth and stared into the flames. There was
a step in the hall and she stiffened, then relaxed as it passed by the door.
Not him, then. Not yet. But sooner or later he'd appear and then...

She
finished the wine and poured the goblet full again, draining it without taking
it from her lips. Pot valiant, she thought wryly. That's what she was hoping
for. Well and why not? It was better than shaking with fright. But she grew no
braver, only sleepy. At last she climbed into the bed and lay staring at the
canopy. Where was Robin tonight? She wondered if he cried for her and then it
was she who was crying, stifling her sobs in the feather pillow.

Never
in her life had she felt so dreadfully alone. Even God seemed to have gone over
to the side of her enemies. She had appealed to Lord Darnley's manor priest,
thinking that he must in good conscience help her. For surely this was sin,
this mocking of sacred vows, both Darnley's and the one Alyson had taken in the
chapel today.

"Lord
Darnley has confessed already," Father Aidan had said sternly. "His
soul is in my care, not yours. As for the rest... it is sin, true. But to send
our lady Maude there would be a far worse sin. Now, as to the groom..."
he'd considered, then said, "so long as he takes the vow in good
conscience, his soul will not be imperiled."

But
what about me? a voice cried in Alyson's heart. Do I really matter so little?
She knew what Father Aidan would say: God's plan had set Maude far above her;
it was her duty to bear anything for her lady's sake. "Bugger God,"
she whispered. "What's He ever done for me?"

She
sat up with a gasp, shocked at her own blasphemy. Why, God had given her Robin,
of course. And that alone was worth everything else. She breathed a fervent
prayer of contrition, asking that she be given the strength to bear what was to
come.

As
she hovered on the edge of sleep, it seemed someone sat beside her on the bed
and a faint scent of rosemary wafted through the chamber.

"Mam?"
she murmured drowsily.

"Hush,
now, hinny," a voice whispered, and a soft hand smoothed her hair in a
gesture both comforting and familiar. "Dinna greet, I'm here, all will be
well..."

Alyson
struggled to open her eyes, but the effort was too much. With a little sigh she
tumbled into sleep.

The
fire had burned to embers before Jemmy set his candle on the table and stood
beside the bed, watching his sleeping bride. Thick auburn curls lay across her
face, but he could see the marks of tears and the dampness of the pillow
beneath her cheek. She is Darnley's daughter, he reminded himself sharply,
treacherous Darnley, who for years had cut a swath of death through the
Kirallen clan. And now, God damn his black soul to Hell, he had killed Ian.

She
stirred and murmured something about a robin and burning bread. He leaned down
and brushed a shining strand of hair from her face, his fingers gentle on her
sleep-flushed cheek and the line of her slender neck. She sighed, a smile
curving her full lips.

She
looked soft and vulnerable and dangerously enticing, and for a moment he was
tempted to climb into bed beside her, bury his face in her bright hair, and
forget everything that had happened to him since he came back to this place.

But
after a moment his hand dropped to his side. He couldn't do it. Not tonight.
She had done well today, all things considered, but her courage had been tested
to the breaking point already. What if she fought him? And cried? Or worse,
submitted with silent endurance? He'd go so far for the clan, but he drew the
line at forcing himself on any woman, wife or not. Let her sleep tonight, and
then tomorrow... or the next day... or the one after that...

What's
the hurry, after all, he thought with sudden bitterness. I have three months to
make the marriage real. And after that, I'll never see her again.

In
the hall the feast continued. There was some disappointment
at not
having the traditional songs and jokes as the couple was brought to bed, but
everyone agreed that it was a strange sort of wedding and in most ways no cause
for celebration. But a feast was still a feast, and there were few enough of
them to lighten the round of work and prayer that made up daily life. Soon the
guests forgot everything but the fact that their bellies were full, the wine
still flowing, and the music bright and hot.

As
the night went on the sounds of merriment drifted from the hall and echoed down
the passageways. It could hardly be heard at all in the chapel, where the
Presence Lamp cast its lonely glow over the altar, fading into shadows before
it reached the doorway to the crypt. In the stairway there was only silence,
growing deeper as it descended into gloomy depths. And yet far beneath the
halls of Ravenspur, something stirred in the impenetrable darkness.

What
was that?

Not
sound or scent or touch, for those words had no meaning for him now. Yet
something had pierced the empty darkness where he dwelt.

He
did not live. His body lay forgotten in the crypt, a cast-off shell whose
purpose had been served. He did not sleep or dream, for he had neither rest nor
imaginings of other times or places. And yet he was not dead. Death lay beyond
the door, in the realm of light and music, a place he dared not go. He simply
was.

How
long he had existed thus he did not know, though if he tried very hard he could
catch glimpses of a time when he had borne a name. In the beginning he had
clung to those memories, had made the effort to retain the form that defined
him as a man, separate from all other men. But little by little he let it go,
all but the one memory he must hold, the thing that bound him to this place.