Shana Abe (33 page)

T
he lesson had disintegrated into nothing less than a rampant snowball fight, with the leader of the insurgency none other than the new wife of the laird, Avalon Kincardine.

Marcus watched from a safe distance, shielded from flying snow by the glass of his solar window, still close enough to watch his beautiful bride pack together the snow in her gloved hands and pass the projectiles off to the children, who chucked them at each other with glee.

She took no sides, staying somewhat in the middle of the war, ducking and laughing as the children ran around her in circles.

Her laughter was like music to him, like rain. Healing. He couldn’t believe it had only been four days since she married him. It felt like they had been partners all his life. He lived each day just to see her; each night to make love to her; each morning to wake to the sight of her, glorious and pure.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hew was saying to the others gathered behind Marcus. “We had the ceremony. She agreed to wed him. We all heard it.”

“Aye,” came the chorus of agreement, at least twenty men, standing firm in their resolve.

“There will be a challenge,” Marcus said, still watching
Avalon. “Warner d’Farouche will not give up so easily. It’s damnable luck.”

He turned around and caught the brooding agreement on his men’s faces, all of them looking at either the floor or at Sean, the leader of the group Marcus had sent to the MacFarlands.

“Dead these seven years,” Sean repeated, perhaps to get the taste of the bad news out of his mouth. “And no one stood for him, no one even wanted to talk of him. Keith MacFarland was not a liked man, even among his own clan.”

“I imagine not,” said Marcus, “since he seemed to have no qualms over selling the lives of innocents.”

He caught the echo of Avalon’s laughter again, drowned out by the excited shouts of the children.

“What are we to do?” asked Hew. “We must be prepared for the challenge.”

“Aye,” said Marcus. “I’ve sent an announcement of the marriage to Malcolm, telling him that it took place in front of witnesses, with the lady’s open consent. Let Malcolm sort through the rest of it. He is our king. He will know best how to present it to Henry and the baron.”

“Will it be enough?” asked David.

“If not, then we will think of something else,” Marcus replied grimly. “There is still the note. At least one d’Farouche is implicated. We will bring it up if we have to, if the marriage is sufficiently threatened.”

He didn’t want to tell either king of Hanoch’s note just yet. Not without irrefutable proof that Warner or Bryce had been behind the raid of Trayleigh. A note such as this could be easily dismissed or accused of being
a forgery, opening up all sorts of ugly possibilities Marcus was not yet ready to handle.

Also, Avalon had not indicated to him that she wished to make it public. Against both the law and the common perception that a man need not defer to his wife, Marcus didn’t want to move behind her back. It didn’t seem right, and it certainly would not aid him in gathering her trust.

It was Sean who said the word they were all thinking, but no one had yet said:

“Annulment.”

A muffled thump made Marcus turn back to the window, where the melting remains of a snowball slid and dripped down the glass. He looked out to see Avalon standing alone in the trampled, snowy courtyard below him, her eyes shielded from the sun with one hand as she looked up at him. She waved.

“There will be no grounds for an annulment,” Marcus said, placing his palm flat on the glass, so she could see it. “I’ll make sure of that.”

He joined her minutes later. She was still standing in the bailey, the children gone, light glistening all around her.

Avalon watched him walk closer, snow up to his ankles, his cloak billowing and his hair uncovered. A smile, just for her.

To her very great amazement—and relief—the sense of rightness she had felt that morning four days ago in the great hall had not faded. In fact, looking at the remarkable sight of Marcus striding to her through the winter whiteness, it grew more honed, sharper and clearer, like the air around her.

It felt good, what she had done, in spite of all the
bitterness of the past, in spite of her own broken vows, rooted in reasons that had been real enough at the rime.

And who was to blame for those lost vows, when Marcus had turned out to be nothing like what she had feared? He was
not
Hanoch, and at the moment he had promised her he would never harm her, she had known he was telling her the truth.

As for that other thing, that magnificent thing that he said, that he could separate her from his myth—well, she was having to close her eyes and take his words on faith. She had no proof of it. Perhaps there was none that could be offered that was sufficient.

The clan reeled around her these past few days, almost crazed with delight that she had wed the laird in front of them, that their curse was lifted.

It was preposterous, silly, and even dangerous, to feel as immune to trouble as they did.

But she could not deny them to their faces what they wanted so badly. How much harm could it cause to keep her opinions to herself as they went on and on about the legend, about the golden times ahead? None, she hoped. She had no wish to harm any of them. They were truly her family now.

Forgiveness. Trust. These were the things, she thought, that seemed to speak out to her. If the wizard had been right, that long-ago day in the meadow glen, if there really were lessons to be learned from each lifetime, then Avalon thought perhaps these might be hen.

Forgive the past.

Trust in the future.

But it was the present she was having the most trouble with.

Clan Kincardine and their legend: her traditional enemy. The fight had been going on too long to forget about it in the blink of an eye. She had to combat their superstition with all her reserves, or else admit that she was a part of something vast and incomprehensible and frightening. Something as strange as a chimera made real. And that could not be true.

Most chilling of all, it would be too easy to become lost in this world—warmth, comfort, superstition, and faith in such mad ideas. It would take her in and never release her. She must always be on guard against it.

Yet amid all the confusion, the strange whirlwind of her emotions, Avalon was slowly discovering something solid beneath it all, something ultimately satisfying: a reason to live, not for Hanoch or a legend, not even for Marcus—but for herself, her new life here.

It was an extraordinary and momentous thing, so new she couldn’t even fully grasp it yet.

Marcus had made it across the bailey. He picked her up by her waist and swung her around. She clung to him, laughing in spite of herself as the world circled by her, blue and green and white.

He set her down carefully so she could find her footing.

“You should come inside. Warm up.” The air iced into puffs between them.

“I’m warm,” she said.

Now that she could look straight up into his eyes she saw something beyond the plain intent of his words; there was something more he wanted to say but was not saying.

Revenge?
suggested the chimera, that not real thing inside of her.

“Have you news?” she asked, unable to help herself.

“Come inside,” Marcus repeated, drawing her back to the shadow of the castle.

He took her to the sewing room, led her to the marble pink-laced hearth and helped her off with her cloak and her wet gloves, taking her reddened fingers between his own and raising them to his lips, blowing warm breath on them.

“You shouldn’t stay outside too long in this cold,” he reproved.

Avalon shook her head at his concern. “I won’t freeze, my lord. I grew up in weather such as this, if you’ll recall.”

It wasn’t the cold that was bothering him, she knew it, but it was a prelude to his real concern, and so she waited for him to come around to it, to collect his thoughts and offer them to her. After a moment he did, staring at the great expanse of windows behind her.

“Keith MacFarland is dead.”

“Oh,” she said. Relief filled her that this was all it was. “I told you he would be.”

He inclined his head to her, still clasping her fingers, bringing their joined hands down closer to the fire.

“With him dies our hope of discovering if it was Bryce or Warner behind the raid,” Marcus said.

She frowned. “There must be another way.”

“There might be.”

“What, then?”

He gave her a sideways look, as if trying to ascertain
something about her that she would not readily reveal to him.

“Do you … see anything, Avalon?”

She took her hands back from his, her fingers inexplicably cold again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?”

Her voice grew a little too emphatic. “No.”

Marcus held out both hands, a gesture of peace. “All right. I’m sorry. Don’t be upset.”

“I’m not upset,” she said, striving to sound normal. “I have no reason to be upset.”

“Truelove.” He stepped closer and brought her to him, holding her until the stiffness in her back loosened somewhat, and her hands crept up around his waist. Marcus leaned his head down, kissed her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I just thought that you might—”

“No,” she interrupted. “You are mistaken. Do not confuse me with your legend, my lord.”

“I didn’t think I was,” he sighed. “I know you don’t want to talk about this, but don’t you think it’s time you came to some sort of …”

She pulled back and looked up at him, the light of something deep and unhappy in her eyes.

“… understanding,”
he finished stubbornly, “about who you are, and this gift you have?”

He felt her clench up inside, felt it as sure as if she had shut her mind and run away from him, instead of remaining utterly still in his arms, aloof.

“There is no gift,” she said, very soft.

“You tamed a wild stallion when he should have killed you.” Marcus kept his grip firm around her. “You smelled the sulphur with me in the glen. And I know,
though you denied it, that you saw something when you handled the note sent to me about your engagement to Warner.”

Her lower lip began to quiver, the unhappiness in her became a strength that allowed her to jerk away from him, every inch of her shouting out denial at him, a desperate rejection. He hated this; he hated to do this to her, but there was so much to gain now, and everything to lose.

“Avalon! I’m not asking you for Hanoch, or for the sake of a story. I’m asking you for
us
, you and me! Don’t you think that Warner will challenge our marriage? Don’t you know how easy it is to buy an annulment? We are running out of options. We need help. A clue. Something!”

She paused, lips still not quite steady, his beloved bride, his cherished wife.

“Please,” he said simply. “I need your help. I know you can do it, if you want to.”

“Don’t you think I want to help you?” she asked, and the tremble was more pronounced. “Don’t you think I would if I could? What you ask is impossible! It does not exist!”

He had pushed her too far; he could see it clearly. She wasn’t ready for this, she couldn’t think beyond her fear right now, and how it hurt to watch her struggle against him, against his beliefs and hopes. Worst of all, to cause her pain.

“No, all right,” he said, soothing. “I’m sorry, truelove. I’m sorry. I know you want to help.”

He crossed to her and kissed her quickly, before she could reject him physically, on top of her words.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, against her lips. “Forget what I said.”

He kissed her again, slower, softer, letting her tension drain away, until she was kissing him back, returning his heat with a new ardor, the desire in her awakened again. His own responded instantly and their embrace changed to match this new purpose; together they sank down on the carpet of flowers in front of the fireplace.

He put her on top of him, relishing the slight weight of her, the way her hair loosened easily from its pins when he found them, the way it fell down in heavy locks of silver and ivory around him when he stroked her cheeks and brought her closer to him, the way her eyes grew sleepy yet full of violet fire. All for him.

Marcus let his hands roam her back, her hair, across the tartan she wore, his own mark on her, and then underneath it, to the plain gown, closer to her body.

She stretched against him, answering his unspoken lead with her movements, with an understanding that wasn’t there just days ago, but now, oh yes, how sweetly she knew what to do to him, how to touch him, where to kiss him—

“Laird? Are ye there?”

Avalon became perfectly still; Marcus kept his hands in place on her, holding her to him, and turned his head to the door. Thank God he had shut it behind them when they entered.

“Not now,” he said distinctly.

“Begging yer pardon, laird, but the Moor sent me for ye. We’ve got a problem in the stables.”

“What problem?” Marcus asked, beginning to caress his wife’s hair again.
“Part of the roof’s come down, laird, from the snow, mayhap. Five of the stalls are ruined, and young Jack near broke his arm trying to get to one of the horses—”

Avalon sat up and Marcus came up with her, pulling her to her feet.

“I’ll be right there,” he said to the door.

She looked up at him, and the violent fire had transformed to worry.

“I’m sorry,” he began, his same old refrain with her.

“Shall I come with you?”

“Nay,” he replied. “Stay inside, where it’s warm.” He caressed her cheek. “I wish that we had time—”

“Go,” she said, smiling. “And be careful. There’ll be time enough tonight. I had promised Tegan I would visit about now, anyway.”

He looked at her, blank.

“The cook,” she said gently.

They went to the door together, and he gave her one last kiss, hard and passionate so she would be thinking of this, and not of his ill-timed request, before walking away from her.