The Pledge (38 page)

“Life is sweet, is it not?” Morrigan asked her husband, as she suckled her babe to her breast. “The air is so fresh. I had
to be out in it today. What think you of our Riordan, husband?”

Hugh was lying back on the ground studying her, one of his favorite things to do. “I think he’s a feckless lump with no gratitude.”

“What?” The mother in Morrigan rebelled at such words and she glared. “How can you? He’s the most perfect of babes. He sleeps
well. Dilla says there never was a better we’en.”

“He took his time at birthing. I’ll not forget that.”

“Dilla says ’twas not unusual.”

“What does she know?” Hugh reared up on his elbow, to make sure the tartan was around his wife. “Did she have to pace the
chamber while you suffered? No! I’ve never seen such agony in any battlefield as was in that birthing bed.”

“Not so.” Morrigan tried not to laugh as she recalled how it’d taken Diuran and Urdred to force him from the room when the
birthing was done, and she needed cleansing. How horrified the women had been when the laird had insisted he would do the
job.

“And don’t mention those MacKays that thought it amusing that I was ordered from my own chamber. I’ve still not factored how
I’ll repay them. Never did I think Dilla would turn against me. I’ve pondered the torture chamber for the lot.”

“You’ll do nothing,” Morrigan said, her face serene. “Or perhaps you’ll punish them as you did Carmody and Toric. Putting
them in charge of all that is MacKay, in land and monies, was a good plan. And a good job they’ve done.”

Hugh frowned. “They have. Would that I could’ve taken their assault on myself.”

Morrigan finished nursing and cuddling the baby and then returned him to the woven birthing sock that kept him so warm and
safe. “You have, time and again, husband. They’ve told me so. Now, you dignify their courage by making them lieutenants over
all your warriors.
You’ve given Diodura and Latura happiness and security. All love you for what you are, just as I do.” She touched her husband
with tenderness.

Hugh eyed her. “When I look at you I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten we loved that first time.” He shook his head. “You
told me of our nuptial night when we came home from Wales, and, in truth, I saw it all again, Morrigan.”

She slid down next to him, gazing at the sky, then at him. “I know. It pained me to keep the secret of Trevelyan from you.”
She stroked his cheek. “ ’Twas even worse to hold back about our loving.” She smiled. “You recalled it all in what you thought
was a dream, my love.”

He rolled over so that his body tented hers. “And was I gentle with you your first time, sweetling? That has bothered me since
you told me.”

He did not mention that she’d dissembled and kept a very important secret from him. Not once had Rhys’s true birthright, and
her reason for needing to be regent of Trevelyan, concerned him. Rather he worried whether he’d been gentle with her when
they’d loved the first time. This was not the first time he’d asked since she’d confessed all. She rubbed the Llywelyn medallion
that Cumhal had reclaimed from Goll.

“My dearest Hugh, you are all of goodness to me, and you were then.”

“Then I vow to keep and protect Trevelyan for our son Rhys. We will tell him, together, about his legacy, when he’s older.
There is enough of MacKay holdings and monies to provide for Conal, Riordan, and Avis.” He smiled. Then it faded. “You are
sure I was gentle with you, love?”

“You were and always will be all of beauty, all of passion and love. Our first loving was as grand and glorious as the others
have been since. You caught me in your web on first meeting, and I wouldn’t leave you if I could.”

Hugh kissed her, his mouth warm. “Nay, I’m in your sweet web, wife. And I love the tangle. Swear you’ll never leave me.”

“Not in this world or the next.”

They embraced, kissing over and over and murmuring love words as the laughter of their children echoed around them.

In the year of our Lord 1327, the king decreed that Morrigan Llywelyn of Wales was to wed Hugh of Clan MacKay, a Scottish
outlaw. Swearing never to bend to his will, Morrigan would tremble before the giant Scot, defeated not by force but by overwhelming
desire…

Pardoned by King Edward, the renegade MacKay gave no thought to his bride until their nuptials. Then he faced a beauty with
raven hair and dove-white skin he burned to touch, an innocent whose passion nearly drove him mad. And when fate tore her
from his arms, he began a desperate quest to find her—fighting for his kingdom, his honor, and the woman who had stolen his
heart.

As the clash of sword upon sword echoes across medieval Britain, Helen Mittermeyer spins a historical romance filled with
pageantry and passion, a book to transport the reader’s imagination into a fascinating era… and an unforgettable love.

“HELEN MITTERMEYER IS A MASTER

OF THE MEDIEVAL GENRE…. PASSION

OVERFLOWS AND BATHES THE READER IN

A ROMANTIC AFTERGLOW”

—
Rendezvous
on
The Veil