by Headlee, Kim
She gave him a startled look. He stabbed a finger toward the bandage, and she raised her arm as though to study it more closely. “Oh, this? Yes.” She sighed.
“I thought as much.” He’d heard about their match, of course—the men had been talking about little else all day—but not about her getting wounded. His battle fury ignited. “I have some business to attend to.” He spun toward the door.
She caught his hand to pull him back. “Per, please, no!” He faced her. Her eyes were wide with fear and…beseeching?
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill him.”
Horror crossed her face, followed by exasperation and, finally, resignation. “I’ll give you two good reasons. First, this wound is nothing. A scratch.” She enunciated each word as though speaking to a simpleton, which was exactly how he was starting to feel. “The attending physician got too zealous with the bandage roll.” She cocked the injured arm and punched him in the shoulder, hard.
“Hey! That hurt!” He massaged the spot, but it continued to throb.
She grinned. “You deserve it, you big idiot.” Circling her arm about his waist, she laid her head against his chest. “But I appreciate you wanting to protect me. I really do.” She looked at him plaintively. “I wish you could come with me to Maun.”
“For protection?” Certainly not from the Pendragon; Arthur would be remaining at legion headquarters. He felt his eyes narrow as he regarded his sister. “From whom?”
“Myself.” She shook her head and pushed away from him, expelling a noisy sigh. “Never mind. I’ve said too much.” She wandered to the table, braced both arms against its surface, and bowed her head.
Her defeated posture wrenched his heart. He walked around to the front of the table, bent over, and lifted her chin so he could see her face. “You haven’t said nearly enough. At least, you owe me that second reason of yours.”
“The second reason”—she jerked her chin free and dropped her gaze to the tabletop—“is a lost cause.”
Gods! Briefly, he studied the rafters. She hadn’t been this reluctant to divulge information since the day she’d hidden his first helmet down a well, furious that Ogryvan had declared her to be too young, at age six, to start training. Only after their father had relented did she consent to reveal the helmet’s location. And then, Per recalled with a slim smile, her first lesson with her new practice sword occurred when Ogryvan had applied the flat of its wooden blade to her bottom. She didn’t sit for days afterward, but Per could never decide whether that had been from the pain of Ogryvan’s “lesson” or because she’d been too busy fighting mock battles with the sword to engage in more sedate activities.
Wrestling his mind back to the present, he tried to piece together the hints to divine her problem. But Arthur and “lost cause” didn’t make any sense. If she preferred Arthur to Urien, well, the remedy for that was simple enough. Per wasn’t entirely ready to accept the idea of his little sister taking any man into her bed, no matter how worthy. But Argyll’s line of succession had to remain secure, and that was Gyan’s most important duty.
Quietly, he ventured a guess: “You love the Pendragon, don’t you?” She nodded but did not look up. Why, then, would she consider Arthur to be a lost cause, unless…“He has refused to become your consort.” Per smashed his fist to the tabletop and straightened. That got her attention. Wounding his sister in the heat of combat was one thing; wounding her heart was quite another. “Now I am going to kill him!”
The fiery intensity of her glare rooted him to the spot. “You do that, Peredur mac Hymar, and I’ll have your head so fast, I guarantee you will never know what happened.” And by all the gods, he believed her. The glare dimmed as she moved from behind the table to face him. “Arthur didn’t refuse me. I haven’t—” She took in a breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t choose him. Ever.” Her upraised hand prevented him from voicing the question forming on his lips. “Please don’t ask me to explain. It’s too complicated.”
Per caught her hand. “What can I do to help you?”
Not unexpectedly, she shook her head. “You are helping me, Per, more than you might realize. Your support, your love, your concern—” A hint of the old Gyan returned in the mischievous grin, and she gave his hand a squeeze. “Even your thick-witted overprotectiveness.” As their laughter faded, she adopted a pensive look.
“You’ve thought of something?” She could have asked him to die for her, and he’d do it a hundred times if the gods would consent.
Hands on hips, she regarded him levelly. “Serve Arthur the Pendragon of Breatein to the very best of your ability, you and all of Argyll with you.”
An odd request, but…“It shall be done as you command, Chieftainess.” He bent double in a bow, careful not to grin until he was sure his face was hidden from her view.
“Beast!” She clapped her hands to his shoulders and pushed him straight so quickly, he couldn’t suppress the grin in time. “I meant what I said. Treaty or no treaty, he deserves at least that much from…us.”
“I know.” Thinking about Arthur in a more rational fashion forced to mind Per’s mission. He snapped his fingers. She gave him a questioning look. “Just call me six kinds of fool, dear sister. I was supposed to deliver you a message.” He wasn’t at all sure how she would react to his next statement: “From the Pendragon.”
Chapter 15
CROSSING HER ARMS, she regarded her brother and mentally girded herself for the worst.
“You needn’t look so worried,” he said. “It’s just a dinner invitation.”
“Just a dinner invitation. Ha.” She’d plunged unwittingly into her emotional quagmire the night before by accepting “just a dinner invitation.” But her innate curiosity conquered her gut reaction to deliver an outright refusal. “Do you know any details?”
“Aye. It’s a sendoff for the officers traveling to Maun.” Urien would be invited too. Wonderful, she thought as Per gestured at her with his upturned hand. “And, of course, yourself.”
Of course. Vividly, the image of Arthur’s barely leashed fury as he left the training field coursed through her mind. Had she alienated him so badly that he was willing to go to all the trouble of hosting a farewell dinner just to prove that the sight of her and Urien together no longer bothered him? She dearly hoped that wasn’t the case, but no better explanation presented itself.
Again, she opened her mouth to refuse the invitation, but curiosity took control: “Where?”
“The garrison commander’s quarters. What’s that Ròmanaiche word of theirs? The pra-pray—”
“The praetorium.” Of course. “I’m somewhat familiar with the place.” In response to the question in his eyes, she said, “Please don’t ask, Per.” But when she saw his hurt, she relented a little. “All right, maybe later.” If she could find a time when they both had an hour or four to spare, which didn’t seem likely before the following morning, when her ship was to depart. “When is this dinner to take place?”
He twisted to glance out the window and gave a rueful laugh. She followed the line of his gaze. The vibrant red-gold of the sky—the color of Arthur’s hair, she noticed dismally—announced the sun’s retreat. “Now. I’m sorry, Gyan. We started talking, and I forgot, and I—I’m sorry.” Gone was all trace of his usual teasing mirth.
“Don’t be. It’s my fault. Have you eaten yet?”
“No. But I’m not—”
“But nothing. You’re coming with me.”
If her tunic and leggings didn’t constitute the expected attire for this event, so be it. Never mind that there wasn’t time to change; she couldn’t be sure what Arthur was planning to accomplish with this dinner ploy, so above all she wanted to feel comfortable, including having one true ally at her side. She gathered her clan mantle from the chair, flung it across her shoulders, and deftly fastened the dove brooch in place.
“As your protection?” Per’s impish grin returned in full force.
“Beast!” She playful
ly slapped the spot on his shoulder that she had punched earlier and was rewarded by his exaggerated wince. “As my escort.” Since there was no time to find Cynda, she smoothed her hair as best she could. Unlike the day before, though, she wasn’t concerned with trying to impress anyone.
“Just do me one favor, dear brother.” As he held the door open for her, he raised an eyebrow. “Let me be the diplomat.”
“Gladly, dear sister.” Echoing in the corridor, his hearty laugh was a joy to hear. “Gladly!”
In the courtyard of the praetorium, Gyan and Per were approached by the same guardsmen who had escorted her the night before. Although the men’s salutes were no less sharp, their demeanors seemed cooler. Probably, she mused, because they didn’t like anyone who could dump their war-chieftain on his backside. A chill crawled up her spine with the recollection of Urien’s words: “Least of all a woman.” Did they all feel that way, including Arthur?
“Are you all right, Gyan?” The concern in Per’s hushed tone was clear.
Nodding once with an air of finality, she quickened her stride.
Although she never would have believed it possible, releasing her sorrow into her brother’s arms had done wonders toward reasserting her grip on reality. Proof came when she discovered she could regard the soldiers’ dragon cloak-pins with only the slightest twinge: just as well. If reality decreed Arthur the Pendragon to be forever lost to her, there was no sense in mooning about him for the rest of her life.
“I could get accustomed to this,” Per murmured as they passed the set of saluting guardsmen at the building’s entrance.
She surmised that he was referring to the much stricter form of discipline enforced in the Pendragon’s army, which seemed to manifest in an almost godlike veneration of the officer corps. “They don’t know you from Lugh, Per.” Since they were speaking in Caledonaiche, she saw no need to keep her voice low. “They’re saluting your badge.”
He snorted. “That’s my sister,” he said to a guard, who probably didn’t comprehend a word and kept his gaze focused on a point across the corridor. “She really knows how to cheer a lad.”
The Ròmanach formality of the surroundings restrained her to a verbal retort. “You wouldn’t like me to lie to you, would you?”
Per’s expression was frank. “I don’t like partial truths, either.”
“Point taken.” She raised a hand to forestall further comment as they neared the closed doors of the dining chamber. As before, the escorts opened the doors, stepped inside to announce the visitors, and retreated to their posts. “Prepare yourself, Per,” she said with a smile, “for the way Ròmanaich like to—”
A gasp caught in her throat. The strange Ròmanach dining furniture was gone. Instead, the room was filled with long trestle tables and backless benches that might have graced any Caledonach feast hall. Even the sculptures had been removed. Only the floor mosaic reminded Gyan that she hadn’t been magically transported back to Arbroch.
But the feeling was so eerily strong, she half expected to see Ogryvan in the group that had risen from their seats upon the announcement of her arrival. He wasn’t, of course; Arbroch was days away even with a daily change of mounts. That didn’t stop her from wishing for her father’s presence, for more reasons than simply having another staunch ally beside her.
She didn’t recognize most of the men, including the two Caledonach warriors who had been chosen to command the cavalry squads Arthur was sending to Maun. Like Per, they had replaced their clan brooches with the Pendragon’s badge, though theirs were iron. Only by their cloak patterns could she identify one man as being of Clan Tarsuinn and the other Clan Rioghail. Even so, they greeted her with looks of unfettered admiration and fists upraised in the Caledonach warrior’s salute. Evidently, the results of her match with Arthur had spread faster than she’d expected. Perhaps if she, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, had led the Caledonach host at Abar-Gleann, she wouldn’t be faced with an unwanted marriage while having to bid farewell to…
No. Such a fantasy was worse than useless. What was done was done. An ocean of wishes could never change it.
And there he stood too, the invader of her heart, flanked by Merlin and a soldier she didn’t know—apparently a high-ranking one, if the silver of his badge was any sign. Conspicuous by his absence was Urien, which Gyan found odd.
Every man in the room seemed to be watching her, Arthur more intensely than the others, as though expecting her to make the first move. So she obliged them: she returned the Chaledonaich salutes with a flourish, brandishing her bandaged arm like a mark of honor. Perhaps, in a sense, it was. She doubted whether anyone could survive an encounter with Arthur the Pendragon unscathed…or unchanged.
As she lowered her arm, she couldn’t prevent her gaze from locking to Arthur’s. A tingling rush flooded her body. If her cheeks were as red as they felt, she hoped he wouldn’t notice—and in the same breath realized it was likely a vain wish. While she struggled to maintain a neutral demeanor, regret and longing assailed her heart with redoubled force.
Arthur grasped a goblet from the table before him and raised it level with his eyes. “Well met, Chieftainess Gyanhumara.” The sound of his voice speaking her name made her throat so dry, all she could do was incline her head in response. “Men, I present to you the first person in a long time to outmaneuver me in single combat.”
“Foolery is what I heard,” muttered the soldier beside him.
The glare Arthur turned on the man could have melted a snowdrift. “It was a fair fight, Cai.” Arthur regarded Gyan, that maddeningly enigmatic smile bending his lips. “An excellent fight.” His eyes narrowed as he shifted his gaze to something behind her, and she battled the impulse to turn and look. “I challenge any man to say otherwise.” He gestured at Gyan with the goblet, lifted it to his lips, and drank.
“What did he say?” whispered Per, in Caledonaiche.
“A commendation for my fighting skills.”
The question uppermost in her mind, though, was not what Arthur said but what he meant. Did he seriously think that a little flattery would send her flying into his arms? She was a chieftainess! With people and lands to consider, not just the whims of her heart, no matter how alluring those whims might be. If only her choices could be so simple. But Argyll could lose everything if she chose Arthur over Urien, and Urien chose to retaliate. Arthur too could lose much, and so could everyone who looked to him for protection. Didn’t he recognize that? Or even care?
Apparently not. Perhaps she’d been wrong about him.
“Lord Pendragon, I do thank you for this unique reception.” Her gesture indicated the room and its contents. “But it appears you’ve neglected to invite someone.”
“No, he didn’t.”
Hand to hilt, Per spun. Gyan didn’t bother; she knew that voice all too well. Flashing her a sheepish grin, Per relaxed and faced forward as Urien claimed his place on her other side.
Urien rendered the customary, if somewhat less than enthusiastic, salute, which Arthur acknowledged with a terse nod. “Forgive my delay, Lord Pendragon. I stopped at the mansio to escort Gyanhumara over here, but—” Disappointment reigned on his face as he glanced at her. “You’d already left, my dear. Escorted by your brother.”
She thought she heard a note of jealousy but chose to ignore it, instead expressing her appreciation for Urien’s thoughtfulness. On impulse she reached up to pull his face to hers and closed her eyes. From somewhere in the room came a muffled “alleluia.”
But as their lips met, she couldn’t purge Arthur from her mind…or her heart.
ARTHUR STARED into the dregs of his goblet—not that he was looking for anything in particular, and he certainly knew not to hunt for solutions there. But it was better than being ignored by the one person in the room he had hoped, with his special dinner arrangements, to please.
“Arthur?” He felt an elbow jab his side. “You awake?” The look Cai was giving him was not unlike the mouse that had stolen past the napping cat
to feast upon fallen crumbs. Arthur arched an eyebrow. “I asked if you had anything to add to the training drills for the Manx Cohort.”
He shook his head in answer to Cai—and in disbelief of what he, Arthur, had done by ordering Urien to command that unit. At the time, it had seemed an eminently sensible decision. Militarily, it remained a sensible decision. But for Arthur personally, it had become a disaster.
Again, he played out the likeliest scenario in his mind. Gyanhumara, who seemed to be sinking further under Urien’s influence each time Arthur saw her, would irrevocably come to love her betrothed while with him on Maun. Urien might be too ambitious for his own good and rash on occasion, but he was no imbecile. The heir of Clan Moray had repeatedly demonstrated the cunning necessary to achieve an objective on the battlefield. As Arthur watched Urien and Gyanhumara converse—he was too far away to hear the words, but he saw her laugh lightly at something Urien said—it became apparent that Urien knew how to achieve objectives off the battlefield, as well. And once they stepped onto that vessel in the morning, there would be nothing Arthur could do to stop him. He couldn’t even accompany them to Maun. As tempting as the idea was, four thousand men depended upon him, not just the eight hundred of the Manx Cohort. Forget the eyebrows it would raise on Merlin and Cai and Urien and everyone else if Arthur were to announce the relocation of headquarters to Maun. Effectively commanding the legion from that tiny island would be so bloody difficult, it wasn’t a viable option.
Merlin leaned over to whisper, “What’s wrong, Arthur?”
Arthur followed the line of Merlin’s gaze down to his own hand, which was curled so tightly around the goblet’s bowl that the silver had begun to distort. He gave a short laugh. “Nothing.” In confessional, he might concede the truth. He set the goblet down. “I think it’s time to put an end to this”—inwardly, he grimaced at his choice of the next word and the double meaning it engendered—“mess. If you would do the honors?”
Nodding, Merlin rose and bade everyone else to do the same. As the bishop intoned the benediction, Arthur stole a final glance, past all the bowed heads, at the woman who had enslaved his heart. To his surprise, she was looking at him, her expression a jumble of emotions he couldn’t begin to fathom. But when he offered her a smile, he saw in her eyes a brief but unmistakable flash of love. Hope rekindled. Another time, another place, he would have crossed the gap in an instant to crush her body to his, to revel in the feel of her sensuous lips, and the devil take anyone who disagreed with his choice of actions. And yet, despite the inappropriateness of the setting, his battle for self-restraint had never been harder fought.