by K. E. Saxon
Next, she went to kneel at her husband’s side. He’d fallen under the mystical spell woven by her song reverberating within the walls of the carn as well. Leaning down, she brushed her lips o’er his, then whispered his name in his ear. When that didn’t rouse him, she nibbled his earlobe. At last, she heard a low rumble come from his chest, and his arms enfolded her, taking her with him as he rolled onto his back.
He swept her up in a savage kiss, squeezing her so tight within his strong embrace, that she thought her ribs would crack. She cared not. For that lost, glorious moment, the world around them receded, and there were only the two of them. She answered his passion with the heat and need of her own. Aye, for that spare, wonderful moment, all her worry, all the reasons she’d given herself for fleeing him, were diminished, and all that existed between them was their mutual desire.
Robert broke the kiss first. “Where—” He blinked and craned his neck to look in the direction of the false priest. “Ah, I see. You’ll tell me later how you managed it, for now, I must take care of the other one.” He rolled her off him, and sat up, but swayed, dropping his head in his hands. “Blood of Christ!”
“Robert!” Morgana exclaimed, folding her arm around his shoulder. “Are—”
“—I didn’t think the blow to my head that red devil gave me so fierce that ‘twould render me weak as a lass, but my pate must not be as hard as I thought, for I fell into another swoon a moment ago, and into a strange dream as well, and now all about me spins.”
If she could lure the red-beard in here, she could weave the spell of the song and the carn on him as well. She started to rise. “Rob—”
Her husband startled her mid-rise by grasping her hand and pulling her back down. “Nay,” he told her, “stay here, but well away from the priest. For, tho’ he is well-bound, I will not risk your safety another time.” He maneuvered himself to his feet, taking up his sword where it had been flung by the man earlier as he did so, and continued, “When you hear the clash of steel, then flee. I will somehow loose a horse for you. Take it and get back on the road to Sruighlea. Go directly to the King’s castle, and I will meet you there—or, if fortune holds, on the road. You will give me then, in Sruighlea, the truth of why you left me.” He dropped his gaze to hers, seeming to take the briefest of moments to memorize the contours of her visage as he stroked his fingers o’er her cheek. When his silver gaze settled once more on her own, she saw the steel behind the look, heard the steel in the tone, when he said, “Stay.” Then, as she watched, pulse pounding, and nerves rioting, he squirmed his way out of the small opening to the carn, sword-first, and balanced in an iron-fisted hand.
When he was gone, her eyes tripped briefly to the still-dozing false priest. He’d not remain so for long, and she would not have him divine her ploy and use it against her, so she defied the first of her husband’s edicts and scooted over to her slumbering captor. Using her purloined dirk, which he’d tucked in his belt earlier, to cut away a strip from her linen chemise, she then muzzled him with the cloth. In the midst of doing so, his eyes shot wide, and Morgana was met with a look of venomous hatred just before the unmistakable sound of clashing swords and raised voices bounded in to them from outside.
Next, and once more defying her husband’s orders, she crawled far enough out of the opening of the underground chamber to get a view of what transpired outside it. She did this with the thought, again, that, if need be, she’d lure the red-beard into the carn and thrall him with her song, as she’d done so easily to the priest. She’d not leave Robert here, no matter his order to do so, not when she had such a weapon—and certainly not without knowing whether he would vanquish the other man. In most instances, she’d ne’er question, but with the strike to the head Robert had received—and the ensuing slumber it had caused—her surety was shaken.
Crouching low in the shadowed recesses next to the carn’s opening, Morgana swept the surroundings with her gaze, instantly noting that, as Robert had promised, one of the men’s horses looked to have bolted into the grasses some distance away, and now grazed there, fully tacked up and packed with his master’s burdens.
If not for the torch, the only light she’d have would be from the full moon and its neighboring stars. But thanks to the flame, she could see the battle that ensued between her husband and the red-beard very well. From behind her, she heard the muffled grunts and gyrations of the false priest as he fought to free himself, but couldn’t, and a small smile of satisfaction bloomed on her lips.
Taking in a deep breath to bolster her courage beforehand, she then began the slow, creeping, low-crouching movement down the side of the carn. Not toward the horse, as her husband had decreed, but toward the two fighting men, as her heart demanded.
CHAPTER 19
“I SHOULD GUT you now,” Robert growled as steel sparked against steel.
“Try it and die.”
Robert chuckled. “Nay, you are worth more to me”—with a swift twist of his wrist, he nicked the apprentice’s neck with the edge of his blade—“alive.”
“Ahhh. And—And—you are worth more to me...huh...dead.”
Robert grinned. As he circled his opponent, he caught a flash of moonspun hair behind the man’s shoulder, and taunted him no further. With a bloodthirsty cry, he hefted his sword o’er his head and came down hard with the broad side of his blade to the red devil’s skull, just as the man executed a strike of his own. ‘Twould have sliced Robert through from shoulder to hip, if not for the wild, star-kissed virago, who leapt on the man’s back with a voracious yell, sending the killing blow careening off mark. His opponent staggered back, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. He swayed, glass-eyed and gape-mouthed, dropped slowly to one knee with Morgana still clinging, clenching him in a stranglehold about his neck, then succumbed to Morpheus’ irresistible lure, crashing face-first to the ground like a great fallen oak.
In the short stretch of stunned silence that followed, his wife lay motionless, sprawled atop her would-be murderer, and Robert’s temper flared. Pulling her up by her waist, he said only, “Go and stand with your mount.”
‘Twas not until after he’d gotten the man bound that Robert felt his pulse begin to slow, and the eviscerating fear his wife’s antics had caused him begin to lessen. The ire at her rash daring, however, had grown.
* * *
From the corner of Morgana’s eye, she saw her husband approaching. She knew he was angry with her for not obeying him, but she’d not cringe from his anger. Morgana bit her lip. Much. She did not look his way, instead continuing her affectionate strokes to the horse’s mane.
When he was not more than a yard from where she stood, he rumbled, “You should be a mile up the road by now.”
She nodded, was about to explain, when he startled her by unceremoniously hoisting her up onto the back of the mount.
“You could have been killed—by my blow—you could have been killed.”
She leaned down and touched her hand to his shoulder and he flinched.
“Ro—”
“Nay. Later. After.” He led the animal back over to where the other was still tethered, then left her there with the bound red-beard and disappeared back inside the carn.
Many long minutes later, and with Morgana—and now the awakened red-beard—as audible witness to the sound of raised voices and battling bodies, Robert at last emerged from the underground chamber, grim-faced, blood-spattered, and gripping the false priest’s bonds in his hand. Tellingly, he was alone.
“Wh-what did you do?” she said, frantic. “Did you kill him?”
He did not answer, did not even meet her eye when he passed by her, heaved the red-beard to his feet, then adjusted the ropes around the man’s ankles. Afterward he untied the reins of the other horse, led it toward her, took hold of her reins as well, then shoved the red-beard in the direction of the path that led back to the road saying, “Walk.”
As Robert marched them away from the carn, Morgana’s alarm grew. Despite all inner
voices screaming for her not to do so, she looked behind her, struggling to gain one more glimpse of the carn where she’d played as a bairn, where she’d nearly lost her life, and where she’d left the false priest shackled...and still alive. But, the torch had been doused, and she was met with only deep purple shadows. Robert killed him. The false priest was a threat to her no longer. Twin waves of nausea and relief swept her being. After a moment, she sent a small prayer heavenward for the man’s soul, then resolutely turned to face forward once more.
* * *
Some time later, once they were well on the road to the King's court, and after Robert had hobbled the apprentice’s horse, tethered himself to the man by the waist, mounted his own courser, then granted the man a seat upon the fettered horse, he at last allowed his thoughts to shift back to his wife.
She’d attacked the apprentice with the fervor of a rabid beast, as a mother protects her young. Despite Robert’s ire at her reckless attack, now that ‘twas past, and she’d survived it,—and his pulse had at last slowed to its normal meter—he could permit the warm glow of gratitude and pride for her demonstration of loyalty to seep into his bones and bind his heart in gossamer ribands once more. He’d worried her fond regard for him had lessened, that ‘twas the true reason she’d so easily left him, no matter the words she’d writ. And her show of bravery, no matter how perilous to her own safety, made his chest expand with pride. His hands gripped the reins. Aye, the same chest that would have borne a fatal blow, if not for that rash action she’d taken. She'd saved his life.
His gaze drifted to her gently-cut profile and his heart tripped. Beautiful.
Yet. There was tension there as well, for her brows were furrowed and she worried her lip with her teeth. Her words when he’d come from the carn floated across his mind. Wh-what did you do? Did you kill him? Aye, she liked it not that he’d fought the priest to the death. But he’d done what needed to be done, and he’d not defend it. He’d given the priest a fare fight, and the man had lost. ‘Twas the way of battle—and the way of the world.
Wait.
Thunderstruck, Robert could do naught more than stare at Morgana, heart pounding, blood rushing. “You are mute no more.”
His wife laughed, and he was enchanted. ‘Twas the sound of tinkling faery bells. It wove a spell ‘round his being, tighter—and softer—than any man-made bonds he’d e’er known. It made him giddy.
“Aye, and my memory has returned as well,” she told him, darting a worried glance past him to the apprentice, before settling her sparkling blue eyes and radiant smile on Robert at last.
The reminder that they were not alone, as well as the reminder of his true purpose, brought him back to himself and he gave a short nod, then turned his attention back to the road. “We’ll arrive in Sruighlea sometime after nones”
From the corner of his eye, he saw his wife’s shoulders droop as she said, “So long? I thought—I remembered—Sruighlea being closer than that.”
Robert lifted a brow. Clearly, she had some familiarity with this area. Something else he’d have to wait to glean from her when this business was concluded. She was weary, that much was plain. “I shall inveigle the sheriff there to aid in the transport of my prisoner to where the King is holding court in Scone. While I do so, you will have a bed—and a bath—if it please you.”
Again she turned her delightful smile upon him. “Aye, ‘twill please me well.”
* * *
Robert had not been wrong. They’d arrived in Sruighlea not long after nones, and Morgana, after first washing the ink from her hair, was now avidly standing at the basin scrubbing the palpable grime, and the impalpable horror, from her quickly pinkening skin. The proprietor of the thriving inn had given her his own chamber to rest and bathe in, and the overstuffed mattress and soft bedding was calling to her. She’d not slept more than a few winks in the past two nights and now that the immediate danger was past, she could barely keep her lids open.
How her husband, who’d likely had as little sleep as she these past days, and had in addition sustained a blow to the head, still managed to remain sensate, she could not ken. She supposed ‘twas due to his long years of training for war, and warrioring as well, that gave him the power to endure and remain alert in such deprived circumstances.
The sound of the door handle rattling startled her from her thoughts and she jumped, flinging the wet cloth and her arms across her breasts and calling out o’er her shoulder, “I need naught more, my thanks!”
* * *
Robert stepped o’er the threshold saying “I’ve—” He stopped short, the remaining words dying on his lips as his eyes hungrily devoured the blessed sight before him. He’d not been witness to the lush, glowing flesh of her in far too long, and now every muscle, every tendon, in his frame went rigid with desire. His heart raced. Bed. No. She is not wanting to bear again yet. Seed wool, then bed. Nay, fool! You’ve still Donnach to deal with. Flaming hunger turned swiftly to leaden disappointment and he said brusquely, “I see all is well. I shall be keeping watch on the prisoner throughout the night. Be ready to leave at sunrise.” He dipped his head in quick salute saying, “Sleep well,” then took a step backward into the corridor once more, closing the door firmly as he did so. He stood there a full minute blindly staring at the wood portal and trying to catch his breath. Finally, and resolutely, he marched back to the sheriff’s garrison to spend the night outside the cell of his prisoner.
* * *
Morgana slowly slid her arms down and dropped the now-cold cloth into the basin of soapy water. Robert’s visage had been so harsh, so stern, and his tone the same. Would he ne’er forgive her for hurtling herself into the fray between him and the red-beard? Or was his anger more centered on her attempted desertion of her marriage vows? A small sigh escaped her throat, and she abandoned her bath, stepping over to her chemise and wiggling into it, before settling despondently curled on her side on top of the mattress.
Clearly, naught had changed between them. Tho’ Morgana admitted to herself, she had held some hope that his rush to find her, that his ensuing battle with her captors, and that the passionate kiss he’d given her, proved that he held some depth of feeling for her. But mayhap not.
Had his pursuit of her been driven more by his sense of duty and honor, and not by affection, as she’d so desperately hoped? And had the kiss been more a reaction to his relief that the priest had not slain her while he was still in the grip of his dark swoon, rather than actual passion and desire for her?
Aye. Mayhap.
For, there was still Vika. Still the unborn bairn.
Naught had changed. And when she arrived at court on the morrow, she’d beg a privy word with the King to request his aid in dissolving her and Robert’s union.
* * *
An hour before daybreak Robert coiled the woolen blanket he’d dozed on all night outside the apprentice’s cell into a tight roll and worked the stiffness from his shoulder.
“The cart is ready for your prisoner, Laird MacVie,” the sheriff said, striding down the corridor toward him. He was young for his office, Robert had noted that immediately upon meeting him. But he was ardent in his pursuit to fulfill his duties, which Robert found admirable. Tall and wiry, with more lean than fat on his bones, and with more down than bristle on his chin, he met Robert’s eye unflinchingly as he came nearer.
“Good. Let us secure him, then I shall fetch my wife and we can depart forthwith.”
Over the next half-hour, Robert oversaw the chaining of his captive inside the locked cage attached to the bed of the cart. He’d thoroughly questioned the man this day past, and even spoken again to him late in the night. After no small amount of brute persuasion, the apprentice had at last yielded, telling Robert all he knew of Donnach’s plot against both Morgana and her mother and father. Telling him also of the young kitchen maid he’d brought into the deadly deceit. He’d also given Robert the location of the ship which held the apprentice’s pay for his part in Donnach’s plot
. That would go a long way in implicating Donnach, because the copper bullion could be traced directly back to the mines he’d been bequeathed after Morgunn’s supposed death.
* * *
As she was led toward her mount with the assured pressure of Robert’s large hand in the small of her back, Morgana could not help but to glance at the prisoner when she passed by the caged cart. The brawny red-beard looked defeated, and resigned. Shackled as he was, and safe behind iron bars, he’d lost all his fearsome demeanor and now, with the threat he presented to her life quelled, she found herself feeling pity for him—pity for the fate he was to meet once they arrived at the King’s court.
In spite of her weariness, she’d not managed more than a few hours of fitful slumber the night before. Disappointment, dread, and a sense of finality weighed upon her heart and mind, keeping her just outside the misty portal to Hypnos’ realm.
“ ‘Tis not too late to acquire a covered cart,” Robert said to her as he was about to aid her ascent onto the back of her mount.
A memory flashed in her mind of her as a bairn inside such a cart, clinging to her mother’s breast, with the sounds of bloody battle outside it, and the fearful thought drumming through her young mind, Where have they taken my papa?
Her lungs seized.
“Morgana!” Robert said, lifting her into his arms, “You are unwell. You there! Make haste! A covered cart for my lady.”
Morgana wiggled, trying to drop her feet back to the ground, saying, “Nay. Nay, I am well.”
His gaze, steel in hue and intent, dropped back to hers. “You’ve lost all color. You will ride in the cart and rest. I’ll brook no argument.”
Placing her hand on his arm, she implored, “I beg you, do not force me do this. I—I’ve a memory of the attack on our caravan when I was a bairn. It...it makes me uneasy, unable to take in breath.”