Shana Abe (32 page)

“Because,” she said again, trying not to sound too small in the echoing emptiness around them.

“Because why?”

His hair hung down loose, just as wild as hers, just as sure an indication to everyone as to how they had spent their night. His eyes were bright and beautiful.

“Because I made a vow that I wouldn’t!” Avalon cried, pushed over the edge by this last thing, his beauty, and what could have been between them. “Because your father made me hate you before I even knew who you were! Because you’re his son!” Her hands twisted nervously before her; she looked down at them, away from everything else in the room because it was all hinging on her. Her voice grew quieter. There was that terrible knot in her throat again, like last night.

“Because I’m afraid you’re going to turn into him.”

Marcus stared down at her, the bent head, the wringing hands, and felt the shock settle through him.

Turn into Hanoch? Good God, turn into his father, a
man he had spent almost his entire life trying either to forget or ignore?
Turn into him?

“No,” he said, instinctive, from his heart, shaking his head. “Avalon, no. I could never do such a thing.”

She looked up and there were tears in her eyes, those gorgeous eyes, looking off to the side, away.

“Truelove,” he said softly, not moving to touch her, afraid to spill those tears for her. “My life. I would never harm you on purpose. I would never do anything to make you hate me.”

“You did!” she said, a tremor to her voice. “You did! You kidnapped me and brought me here; you did it for you and for them”—her hand swept around, indicated the stunned people surrounding them—“but you cared nothing for me! You don’t even know who I am!”

“I do,” he said. “I do know who you are—”

“No! You know only your legend! You listened to your father, to a story, and you made me fit your mold, because that’s convenient for you, and that’s what will satisfy you. But it has nothing to do with me.”

She took a backward step, as if to get away from him, but then stopped and lifted her chin—so proud, so beautiful, and her emotions in such delicate balance that irrationally Marcus wanted to protect her from himself.

“The only reason you want to be with me is for your legend,” Avalon said in a soft, fragile voice. “You would wed me to strengthen it, to make it as true as you could. But I would lose myself to it, and you would allow that. You would help it to happen. I can’t give up who I am for you—for anyone, or anything.”

She was wrong, she was so wrong about him, but Marcus could see that convincing her of that was going
to be close to impossible, and he could even see why, when everything was laid out as she saw it, a chain of terrible happenings to trap her.

“If I were to marry you,” she continued, and the tears began slowly to spill down her cheeks, “then Hanoch would win, and you would have the power to destroy me. And I can’t let you do that.”

There was a profound silence shrouding the hall, letting her words fade away against the stone walls, her anguish impossible to dismiss.

Marcus shook his head, weary. “Very well,” he said, and heard a hushed gasp whisper through the people. He spoke around the clenching pain in his chest. “If that’s truly what you think, that I would turn into Hanoch, that I only want you for this legend, then I must release you. You are free to leave Sauveur.”

The clanspeople exploded into comment, denials, shouts at him to take back his words. Marcus raised a hand to them and the noise died down, everyone staring.

Avalon looked up at him, and he could tell by the way she held her shoulders—stiff and straight, battle stance—that she thought it a trick of some sort, to fool her into following his will.

“You were right,” he said. “I can’t marry you. Not like this.”

There was a moan filtering through the crowd now, men and women both, all of them dismayed, thinking he had lost his mind. They were terrified of losing the bride.

But not nearly as terrified as Marcus was of losing Avalon.

Her hands were still now, clasped together in front of her, half-hidden amid the tartan and the silk of her hair. Marcus had to look away from her, afraid she would see the stark need in him and think it something else, something that would tilt the scales of her fate even further against him. He didn’t know what else to do.

“All I wanted was to make you happy,” he said at last, very quiet. “You, Avalon, not some legend. Not a myth. You. I want
you.”

He watched her fingers tighten on each other, nervous, and waited. She was about to shatter his whole life. She was about to render everything he had ever done, ever said, ever hoped, moot with her rejection of him. It was unbearable, waiting for the death knell of his dreams.

Her hands gradually released their grip; she rubbed her flattened palms against the folds of her skirts.

“If you ever hurt me—” she began, husky, and he had to look up to catch the rest of her thought on her face.

Words failed him. Slowly, deliberately, he shook his head at her, denying it, rejecting it as even a possibility. His jaw was locked too tight for the pleas he wanted to shower on her to escape him.

Avalon stared over at him, all moonlight and heather and jet, and he saw her let out her breath.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll marry you.”

Chapter Thirteen
 

A
valon watched his face change; a slow comprehension of her words, desperation to blankness to disbelief. And then he broke into a smile, that feral one that used to fill her with dismay but now only found something matching in her, an untamed spirit that leapt forward and made her glad, incredibly glad, that she had said what she did.

There was noise all around them, unfathomable sounds, a babble of people, a storm buffeting her. But Avalon saw only him, only Marcus standing calm, her anchor, coming up to her now with hooded eyes.

“Are you certain?” he asked her, staying with her in the center of the storm that lashed them.

“Yes,” she answered, and the gladness did not retreat.

He gazed down at her and she felt his own satisfaction beyond even his smile, saw it clearly in the crystal blue of his eyes. Then he turned and looked up and away from her, taking in the rest of the room.

“We’ll do it now,” he announced, and this again did not dismay her, as if she had expected him to act this quickly, keeping a firm grasp on this dream moment.

The storm swirled and cleared in eddies, surges of cheering and loudness, dishes put aside, tables thrust
away, men were talking to Marcus and each other, women were touching her with soft hands, surrounding her, pulling her back into themselves.

She let them, it was fine to let them tuck her gown together, a curtain of bodies between her and the rest of the storm. They fixed her plaid for her, said things in bright, happy voices that she didn’t fully listen to, let them smooth back her hair—someone produced a comb, where did that come from?—and she had two fine braids again, divided and coiled and wrapped around her head.

Someone—it was Ellen—handed her the tip of a bough of fragrant pine, still crisply cold from outside, and a sprig of something glossy green and dark, with deep red berries. They tucked more of it into her hair, woven into the braids, a coronet of winter.

She started to laugh for some reason, she didn’t know why, except it was just so funny, standing here in the great hall of Sauveur with holly in her hair, clutching her bit of pine because she was going the
marry
the laird, just like the girl in the meadow, and it seemed so right.…

The women parted. When she looked past them Avalon saw the wizard waiting patiently before the tables and benches, a roaring fire behind him in the hearth.

Marcus was there as well, standing next to him with his tartan as neat and straight has her own, silhouetted against the fire, broad shoulders, dark visage, flames disguising his features.

But she could feel what he felt, and there was nothing dark about it. Indeed, it was a tremendous luminosity, so bright and stunning it almost hurt her to take it in. He reached for her as she drew closer to him, and then the
fire was her ally, letting her see the shimmering hope in him with her own eyes.

Her heart was beyond her control, beating so fast it was as if she had been running for hours, but all she had done was take a few steps to join his side. The stem of pine she held was echoed on his plaid; he had its twin fixed to his shoulder with a straight pin of silver.

“Lady, have you made your choice?”

The wizard spoke in calm tones that managed to carry throughout the entire room. Avalon faced him.

“I have,” she said.

Balthazar inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgment, and then continued.

“I have taken a charge to protect you, lady, and I must fulfill this before God. I must hand you over only to the one who is worthy, who will not fail in his duty to you. Is this the man?”

One robed arm swept out, indicated Marcus, still as a stone beside her.

“Yes,” she said clearly.

Bal looked to Marcus. “Are you the man I have described, Kincardine? Before God, do you vow to protect this woman in my stead?”

“Aye,” replied Marcus, in that deep and sure voice that gave her shivers.

The storm remained behind them, subdued but alive, tremors of excitement at each word, drops of anticipation into this sea of the moment.

“God is watching,” the wizard said now, much louder than before. “And He is listening. Those who go forward with a pure heart may greet Him, and kneel at His throne. Is your heart pure, lady? Is this your true desire?”

He pinned her with his gaze, unrelenting, and had she an ounce of uncertainty in her she knew this would have made her crumble, this darkly severe look, plumbing the depths of truth. But Avalon knew that her choice was a sound one.

“It is,” she said, almost as loud as he.

“And yours?” The wizard turned back to Marcus.

“Aye,” he said again.

The excitement mounted, Avalon could feel it almost as a living thing pressing against her back, pushing her on, decades and decades of watching eyes, hopeful hearts, all of it hanging on this moment, this union.

“Before God!” bellowed the wizard, pointing to the heavens. “Do you take this man now?”

“I do!” exclaimed Avalon.

“Do you take this woman?”

“I do,” said Marcus, forceful and strong voiced.

An unexpected wind came, blew open the main door and into the heated room, a brisk cold force that made the flames of the fire cower and then leap back to life, taller than before. Avalon stood still amid it, then looked up at Marcus. He met her gaze, then took her hand.

The wizard opened his arms wide and spoke over the rush of wind and the song of the people. “The flowering of these two spirits has been committed before you all today, in the sight of God, who rejoices in it. Let no man come between them! They are wedded true!”

As the people let out a great cheer the wind danced around them all, rushing past the door despite efforts to get it closed, and with it came a sudden shower of snow-flakes, glinting magic in the air, graceful and ethereal,
sifting down on everyone, everything, before melting into dewdrops.

Avalon turned her face up to it, laughing, and Marcus caught her there, took her laugh as his own as he kissed her, his hands firm on her shoulders. The cheer became deafening.

They were both smiling too much to continue the kiss, and so he lifted his head and pulled her close, a wordless embrace, and the light in him became impossible to her, impossible to gather together in her own mind, because it was so great.

At once they were surrounded by the clan, hearty laughter and cheerful shoving to get closer, to congratulate the laird and his bride, to be able to see for themselves the ending of the curse and the beginning of a new blessed age.

Avalon knew this and even it didn’t dim her own humming elation, the strange feeling of being light-headed and giddy as they were both jostled by the well-wishers.

The snow had collected in droplets on her lashes, and looking through their prisms she saw tilting colors on the edges of everything. She felt suspended in her joy, thick honey beating through her, and again Marcus became her anchor, warm beside her, her arm linked through his, his hand on top of hers.

Her caring women came up and kissed her cheeks, red eyed with tears. The warriors, Hew, David, Nathan, all of them filing past, even Tarroth, who had to bend down so she might catch his shy words.

And it was only when they all began to move to the
benches, laid out again for breakfast—the warmth of the people and the room so bountiful—that Avalon realized she had taken her vows as the bride of the Kincardine still in her bare feet, and so had he.