My Highland Bride (Kingdoms of Meria Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Seeing her alone outside of the tent, I’d forgotten my mission for a brief moment—distracted by her beauty, and by the mystery of how she could look both the same and also entirely different. I felt compelled to touch her, both because of the headache and because I wanted to, but it is probably not something I should do again if these negotiations are to go well.

  And that is what I am here for. Negotiations. Not, however pleasant as it might be, to become reacquainted with a childhood friend.

  “Stokerton.”

  His voice is deep and commanding, just how I remember it.

  “Lord Moray.” I bow though I am not required to do so. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  There is a reason Moray is so powerful among the Highland lords, and it is not as simple as the land he has amassed, which is considerable, or his reputation as a respected warrior, which is indisputable. Nay, people respect him for his refusal to send his warriors into a conflict he does not believe in.

  Though my father is not one of them.

  According to him, Moray’s obstinacy came at too high a cost. Men died because he refused to join the fight, leaving the burden to my father and other lords.

  Do you follow your leader even if you know they are wrong?

  For Moray, the answer is nay. For my father, it has always been aye.

  As for me? I am still undecided on that count. I don’t expect I’ll ever have to decide, for Cettina is a better queen than her father was a king. Her sister had been raised to take on that role, but I was convinced the right Borea inherited the crown. Before being named commander, I was Cettina’s personal guard, so I have known her for years. Which means I know what many are coming to learn.

  She is worthy of the title Queen of Edingham.

  But Moray knows none of this. He clearly sees me and the man who sired me as one and the same. My job here will be to convince him otherwise. To persuade him to treat with me despite his animosity toward my family.

  “A pleasure? I would say the same if I knew your purpose here at my tents, alone with my daughter.”

  “Father!”

  I do not blame the man for his suspicions.

  “I came here looking for you and happened upon Lady Reyne.”

  He grunts and addresses his daughter. “You missed your brother. He just won the stone throw.”

  I am not surprised. Warin has long been one of the strongest men I know.

  “I am sorry to have missed it,” she says, looking down.

  The conciliatory response surprises me. I do not remember Reyne as the sort to defer to anyone, even her father. The woman Reyne is much more subdued than I remember.

  “I would speak to you,” I finally manage as the Highland lord turns his attention back to me. Only one of his men accompanied him from the field, and any fool could see how he looks at Reyne.

  Moray gestures toward the biggest of the cluster of tents. While most of the occupants are off at either that day’s games or the makeshift market that springs up for the tournament, a few stragglers, including ourselves, remain.

  Following Moray into the tent, I glance back and give his man a look of warning. I’ve no right to do so, of course, but I doubt Reyne or her father would appreciate his leering if they were to notice. For his part, the man seems surprised by my interference.

  “I’d have thought you too busy at court to come here,” Moray says, taking a seat and gesturing for me to do the same. This tent, unlike my own, is not for sleeping but for entertaining. The table is equipped with a pitcher and mugs and candleholders for the evening, surrounded by four chairs, nicer than the low slingback ones Gille insisted on bringing. It must have required at least two separate wagons to bring the furnishings for this one tent.

  Moray never did do anything in half measures.

  I accept his offer of wine and then sit.

  “I’ve been kept busy,” I admit, “with Galfrid’s attempted attack and the return of the queen’s sister and brother-in-law.” The latter I admit only because of my family’s history with this man. Moray and my father may no longer be allies, but I can trust him. That much I know well.

  “’Tis true, then? The rumors of Whitley’s meddling?”

  “Aye, ’tis true enough.”

  Moray grunts. “Once a bastard . . .”

  He has no love for the man, nor for any of the border lords, from what I can remember.

  “And Galfrid? Does the queen intend to strike back at him?”

  So much for idle chatter.

  “The course forward is still undecided. There are many factors at play.”

  King Galfrid seems genuinely interested in peace. Having lost his son and heir, he has larger problems than the never-ending conflict between our nations. And with his men in Breywood opening discussions with Cettina, and ours in Meria’s capital, I think it almost possible.

  But only if the Highlanders fall into line.

  “That is why I am here. I must speak to you about the future,” I say.

  Before he answers, I realize I’ve not spoken to him since Fara’s death.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Moray. I would have come to the funeral had I not been detained at the capital.”

  A shadow crosses his expression, though briefly, and a quick nod is the only indication he’s heard me.

  “I bear no grudge against you, lad.”

  Though it’s been some time since I’ve been called as such, I hold my tongue.

  “Neither do I wish your father ill,” he continues. “But you traveled a long way for naught. I will not encourage the Highland lords to stand down.”

  I don’t flinch at his correct assessment of the situation.

  “Do some believe King Galfrid’s actions cannot stand?” he asks. “Aye. Do I wish to involve myself in the capital’s politics? Nay. Never again. I’ve no interest in the king’s troubles. No one thinks much of his nephew, but it matters naught to me whom he chooses as heir.”

  Stubborn old goat. Elric Hinton would be a nightmare for Meria, and for us too, yet the church is committed to seeing him installed as the heir. They’ve gone so far as to say it is God’s will.

  “The capital’s politics are yours,” I start out, but Moray shakes his head.

  “Spoken like your father.”

  That is where he is wrong.

  “I don’t blame you for not sending men to fight in a battle of King Malcom’s making. But surely you can see what King Galfrid’s troubles would bring to our shores? Many of our people claim ’tis time to strike Meria. But if the church is successful in installing a man such as Hinton to the throne, ’twill cause problems for all of us. And do you not fear Father Silvester’s increased influence?”

  As the Prima and leader of the church, Father Silvester has more than once used his Shadow Warriors to exert influence he should not have. Left unchecked, the man would surely wreak havoc well beyond Meria’s borders.

  “Malcom embraced the man,” Moray says of Silvester.

  “The queen does not,” I insist. “She has no love for a man who cares more for his own power and influence than for the people who so dutifully follow him.”

  “What does the queen want?” Moray asks.

  A fair question.

  “Peace,” I say, unequivocally.

  Moray snorts. “We’ve never had peace on the Isle and never will.”

  I can’t help but smile. “For a man so at odds with my father, you sound remarkably like him.”

  Moray doesn’t budge.

  “I will not become involved. The Council can make decisions for itself.”

  He drinks, so I do as well. Having expected this response, I try another angle.

  “If Whitley keeps stirring up trouble along the border, she will be pressed into a war that will not serve Edingham . . . unless she has enough support to prevent it.”

  “She should not have allowed him back.”

  Him being Cettina’s brother-in-law. And while I agree, I cannot say as much. Lord Whitley ha
s been making trouble for years, his every action guided by his thirst for power. The two were sent away after Cettina’s sister, Lady Hilla, had an affair. Or possibly had the affair. She never admitted to it, and the king beheaded the man who was supposedly involved. I personally think King Malcom had grown quite mad. Near the end of his life, he railed more and more often against his enemies, real and imagined, losing even his most loyal supporters, like my father.

  He damaged the kingdom, and now it is up to Cettina, with the Curia’s help, to repair it.

  “Lady Hilla is the queen’s sister.” I take another sip, biding my time. I need him comfortable for my proposal to be considered. “She could not bring her back without reinstating her husband too. Lord Whitley is the price she pays for supporting her sister.”

  “A pity.” Moray makes another sound low in his throat before drinking deeply from his goblet. “But as I said, I cannot help you.”

  Ah, but he could. If Moray ordered the others to cease their instigations of war, they would listen. At least for a time. And if Cettina is able to avoid another war, perhaps Edingham could unite long enough to repel any designs Father Silvester has on increasing his power here as he is doing in Meria. Many of the Eldermen who serve him agree privately that the church’s current corruption stems from one person alone: the man in charge. When the Prima is gone—and the man seems older than my father and Moray together—there may be a real chance for lasting peace.

  “I met with the king’s commander in Murwood End,” I tell him, laying most of my cards on the table for Moray to see.

  “And did the Voyagers pledge to join you if a battle becomes inevitable?”

  In fact, they did not. The fierce ship captains of Murwood End are steadfast in their neutrality. More’s the pity. Except I find that I wish for peace more than I do for victory.

  “We hope it does not come to that.”

  “It will.” Moray finishes his wine and stands to refill his goblet. “It always does.”

  Ignoring him, I forge ahead. “Commander d’Abella believes peace is achievable.”

  Moray snorts. “Of course he does. Now that they lost a ship full of their best fighters, along with the heir to the throne. I’m sure he is desperate for it.”

  I find myself defending Galfrid’s commander.

  “Would we not do the same if over half a village was slaughtered in the dead of night? The Borderlands must be contained.”

  “And the queen proposes to do that by unleashing Lord Whitley?”

  He raises a good point. The once-powerful border lord has regained some of his former influence now that his lands have been restored. I understand Cettina’s reasoning—punishing Whitley also punishes her sister—but I wish she’d listened to the Curia’s advice.

  A right mess, without a doubt.

  “Whitley will be controlled.”

  Moray looks as skeptical as I feel.

  “But we need the Highlanders’ support.” Time to make my offer. “I will fight for you in the tournament. Cettina is prepared to offer you a large sum of gold as well.”

  Sitting back, he actually seems to consider my offer. The gold would not be motivation enough for Moray. Backing Cettina will not garner him any favors with the other Highlanders . . . but he also desires to win here. Perhaps he wants it enough to tip the scales.

  Suddenly, without warning, Moray smiles. The hairs on my neck rise up. I cannot remember the man smiling so broadly before, and my stomach lurches at the implications.

  Slamming his goblet on the table, Moray leans forward and plants a hand on each knee.

  “I care little for gold.”

  I do not like his expression.

  “But you do wish for your side to be victorious here?”

  “I do. And it will.” A pause. “But I wish for something else more.”

  I imagine Moray meeting with the Council at this very tournament. Returning to the capital to tell Cettina she has their support against those whose calls for war grow increasingly shrill.

  I would give him anything.

  “Name it.”

  “I would see Reyne wed.”

  I blink, unsure I’ve heard correctly.

  “I would see our lands united, despite your father’s stubbornness.”

  Moray’s land borders ours, and such a union would be advantageous to both families.

  I think of Reyne. Of her as my wife. I’ve not considered the possibility before, but the idea is not without merit.

  I also think of how Cettina might react.

  “Wed my daughter. Unite our lands. I would welcome a man such as you into our family.”

  Though honored and intrigued by the possibility, I do wonder one thing.

  “How will Reyne feel about such an arrangement?”

  That’s when Moray’s smile returns.

  “She will not like it. Reyne believes in love,” he scoffed like the idea was absurd. “And has been resistant to the idea of marriage. I fear that my wife and I are to blame.”

  All know the Morays’ marriage was a love match, which is why his disdain for his daughter’s wishes is curious.

  “And I’ve been indulgent since . . .”

  He stops, but I know what he meant to say. Since Fara’s death.

  “It is time.”

  Was I really going to agree to such a thing? I did not come here to bargain for a wife, but one such as Reyne might be welcome. My father would be angry at first, but even he could be made to see the wisdom of uniting our lands. And this one act would win the Highland lords’ support for Cettina. And not just on this one issue, but for all time.

  There is only one answer in the end.

  “I will do it.”

  “Ah. . .” Moray waves his finger in the air. “I did not explain my stipulation yet. One you’ll find difficult to meet.”

  “Which is?”

  Moray appears even more amused than ever.

  “You will have to get Reyne to agree first.”

  6

  Reyne

  “Is Father acting strangely today?”

  Warin appears less comfortable here in the market than he did earlier, attempting to cut down fellow Highlanders. I will admit, though I enjoyed my first full day at the tourney, I was not prepared for the violence of the games.

  I’ve seen our men train many times. But this was different. While they fought with blunted weapons, they wielded them with a vigor that had made me nervous for my brother.

  “I don’t believe so,” Warin answers.

  As we stroll through the wooden market stalls erected for this tournament, passing everything from fruits to fabrics, Warin doesn’t seem to notice the appreciative glances the ladies are giving him—their attention more on him than the wares. A handsome man, he has never before mentioned marriage, although as the eldest sibling and heir to Blackwell, he will be duty bound to marry someday.

  “Have you thought of marriage lately?” I ask.

  It isn’t something we’ve discussed in a long while, given Warin has spent so much time away on his quest to “discover the Isle.”

  “Rarely,” he says, giving me a look brimming with curiosity. “What makes you consider such a thing? Has Father mentioned it?”

  I stop at a stand with two women behind it. Their table includes many things, from wax to jewelry, which is obviously handmade.

  Since I cannot admit that the subject occurred to me after my encounter with Erik Stokerton earlier that day, I shift my focus to the vendors and inquire about their hair pins.

  “I would like this one,” I say, picking up a lovely bronze pin topped with an intricate carving. “Is this what it appears?”

  The younger of the two leans forward to see which one I’ve chosen.

  “Aye, that is the Kona,” she responds. A closer examination reveals she is correct. Which is when I notice the small gem in the woman’s nose. Saying nothing more than asking for the cost, I hand her a coin and take the pin with me.

  “They were Ga
rra,” I whisper to Warin, trying not to look back.

  He does not seem to be as impressed as I am.

  “Did you hear me?”

  I’ve missed my brother’s smile.

  “Aye, Reyne, I heard you.”

  “I forgot I’m speaking with Warin the traveler, and not Warin the boy who once got himself into trouble for sneaking into the hall to see King Malcom’s commander. You were as sheltered as I am.”

  “I met a Garra in Murwood End,” he says. “She was like any other woman.”

  Nay, not exactly like any other woman. The Garra are special healers, loathed by the church and loved by most of the common people, and some say they have powers well beyond those of a physician or healer.

  “Speaking of a king’s commander . . .” He looks down at me, but there is nowhere to hide the flush on my cheeks.

  He whistles. “So it is true. Rory said you were keen on him, but I didn’t believe it. I remember Erik as a skinny boy who was always tripping over his own feet.”

  The sound I make is less than ladylike.

  “He is not such any longer, I take it?”

  Erik Stokerton is neither skinny nor awkward. Of course, my brother already knows as such. While they may not have fought together, all in the Highlands know Lord Stokerton’s son was awarded a position at court for his bravery on the battlefield. Besides which, the two have fought against each other in this very tournament. My brother’s side lost. Nay, he is surely not the same boy we knew when our fathers were allied.

  “No answer?”

  I’d give one, but the subject of our discussion stands a short distance before us. Erik and his companion are facing one of the booths, speaking to the merchant, although I can’t see what he or she is selling. There are more women here than in the fields.

  This could be any marketplace except that it has been erected in the courtyard of the host castle. As of yet, Blackwell has not had the honor of hosting the tournament. Father does not wish for it, truthfully, for the tournament is a drain on the host’s coffers.

  “Why have we stopped?” asks my brother.

  “Because.”

  It’s not my most eloquent answer ever.