My Highland Bride (Kingdoms of Meria Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Handsome, though not nearly as so as Erik, Sir Edward was also extremely courteous. But that kiss . . . it was nothing like the tales my sister was so fond of reading about, kisses so wondrous they made men, and women, do reckless things.

  Before Fara died, I didn’t think to marry for love. I expected to be matched with someone who might strengthen Moray alliances. But my sister dreamed of a match like our parents’ marriage, and after she died, I started to imagine what Fara would have said about each of my suitors. This one was a bore. That one would never let me alone. Another would not allow me an opinion.

  I still wait for the day Father’s patience will run out, and I will be told to marry. But, thankfully, it did not happen with Sir Edward.

  “We bore your sister with talk of Rawlins and the match.”

  I realize both men are looking at me. They’re so in sync it’s hard to remember our fathers now despise each other. I’m glad for it. Their quarrel needn’t be ours.

  “As champion of the Triumph,” Erik says, “I’ve been invited to Havefest.”

  Havefest. I’ve heard of the celebration, of course. Father has attended it more than once. Aside from it being held out of doors with a small, exclusive guest list, I know little else.

  Erik and Warin exchange a look.

  “Would you join me, Lady Reyne?”

  It is as if I am suddenly aware of every sound, every movement around us. I inhale deeply, attempting not to attract undue notice.

  “You are allowed a guest?” My voice sounds so calm. Well done, Reyne.

  He glances at Warin.

  “One, aye.”

  That means . . .

  “Will your companion not be sorry to miss it?”

  His answer is swift. “Nay.”

  “My father will be there as well? As a past champion?”

  Again, my brother gives him that look. I will ask Warin about it the moment Erik leaves, for I’m now convinced he’s hiding something . . . something to do with Erik.

  “I believe he will, but I would escort you there as my guest.”

  “I would be delighted.”

  “Very good,” he says, a bit formally. “I shall ask your father’s permission and see you at your tents this eve.”

  Bowing, he returns to the constable and a few others who have been waiting to speak to him.

  “I’ve never been to Havefest,” Warin comments. “Imagine, this is your first tourney, and you’ll be attending the most coveted event of all.”

  We walk toward the field where Warin will compete next in the hammer throw. Shouts erupt to our left, though from this distance I cannot see precisely which event is unfolding there.

  “Do you believe Father will approve?”

  Warin stops and looks at me.

  “Warin? Tell me.”

  When he doesn’t answer, I remind him, “Do you remember the day when you and Fara snuck into the dungeons?”

  Though they’ve not been used for many years, Blackwell still has dungeons. My brother had a particular fascination with them, despite being told to stay away. It was only when my sister conspired to go down there with him that he was finally punished for it.

  The shadow that crosses his face is quickly replaced by a sad smile.

  “Aye,” he says.

  “I knew before you confessed. How? Because you are my brother. I can sense it now as I did then. You are hiding something from me.”

  Warin’s next act is odder still. He takes my hands.

  Though he loves me, my brother is not particularly affectionate. Of the three of us, Fara was the warmest. Always hugging, even when decorum was required. She was like Mother in that way, whereas Warin and I are more like our father.

  “I love you, Reyne. Know that, above all.”

  “You’re acting strangely, Warin, and I would know the reason.”

  He glances over my shoulder, then squeezes my hands and releases them.

  “Walk with me this way,” he says, his tone a little strained now. “Quickly.”

  I do as he asks, but he’s mistaken if he believes I’ll allow him to change the subject so easily.

  “What was that . . . ?”

  Warin shakes his head. “Later. Look in the direction of the market.”

  I do as he asks, finally understanding. Someone is behind us, someone whose conversation Warin wishes to overhear. He points as if explaining something to me but says nothing.

  I do not know who stands behind us, but I can hear their words clearly. Both are men, their voices unfamiliar.

  “Before the melee,” one says.

  “He will be there?” his companion replies.

  “Aye.”

  “Is it not risky, coming here?”

  “Not as risky as inaction. Now is the time to strike.”

  The men grow quiet. And then, the voices are gone.

  “Come. We must talk to Father,” Warin says, turning about and walking toward the lists. There’s no sign of the men whose conversation we overheard. I try to look for them, but Warin stops me.

  “Don’t look. I think they grew suspicious.”

  My brother is fairly running now.

  “They?”

  As we continue moving forward, hustling at an uncomfortable pace, Warin explains.

  “One of those men was with Lord Rawlins earlier, just before the Triumph. They looked suspicious enough that I sent my page to listen to their conversation.”

  “Do you make a practice of eavesdropping?”

  Warin rolls his eyes at me. “You know I do not. But Rawlins cannot be trusted. Father does not like or trust the man. He’s both Borderer and Highlander, and some resent him for attempting to be both.”

  Something I’ve never quite been able to understand.

  “Are we not all one? Meria is the enemy, aye? Why must we fight each other?”

  I lift my skirts as Warin increases his pace.

  “We’ve different interests. Borderers would have us fighting always with Meria.”

  A fact I know well, for they are constantly trying to pull Father into their battles.

  “They accuse us of lending support to Meria by our inaction.”

  “I know all of this,” I charge. “Even still, we are one. We must find common ground or risk being made weaker against Meria.”

  Warin smiles. “Spoken like a Moray. But this time, I fear things are different. The Borderers are not alone in their thirst for war. After the failed attack of the Oryan, some of the Highland lords are calling for war too.”

  I know they are the enemy, but still I cannot help but feel for the men who sank with that ship. One moment, they rode atop the water, safe and secure, and the next they were being pulled into it, compelled by a force so strong that it felled two hundred of Meria’s best warriors.

  Just like it did my poor, innocent, Fara.

  “Reyne?”

  My pace had slowed, my mind caught up in its dark, cycling thoughts.

  “Apologies,” I say. “So what does all of this mean? Who is the ‘he’ they spoke of?”

  “I’m uncertain. But the page reported something quite interesting.”

  We’re approaching the lists now, and I see Father in the distance, practicing for one of the events he has chosen to enter this year. Though he no longer participates in the melee, he still can toss a poleaxe farther than anyone and is preparing to show as much.

  What will he say to Erik about this eve?

  But I force myself to ask a different question of my brother. “What did he report?”

  My brother does not slow down, prompting odd looks from those closest to us.

  “Rawlins told him, ‘The time has come. Another Saitford is necessary.’”

  Allowing Warin to rush toward our father, I stop completely.

  Another Saitford.

  The attack that saw half a village slaughtered, women and children among them.

  None know who did it, just that the perpetrators were seen crossing the border back to Ed
ingham. Some said the Borderers were responsible. Others blamed the queen herself. Still other rumors named the Shadow Warriors, as they are the only force of men known for their ability to blend into the landscape, unseen, and those who attacked the village of Saitford disappeared.

  It was that attack that prompted King Galfrid to send a ship full of men to our shores.

  Another Saitford?

  I watch as Warin reaches my father. What plot has my brother stumbled on? And who was coming here, to Ledenhill, on the morning of the melee? And then there was Warin’s peculiar behavior before we witnessed the conversation. He’s only professed his love to me a handful of times before. Why now?

  What did it all mean?

  If such intrigue is customary at the Tournament of Loigh, it is no wonder my father nearly missed my sister’s birth to attend it.

  9

  Erik

  I navigate the sea of tents, proof that I’m not the only one who failed to take our host up on his offer to stay within the castle walls. Normally, such an offer would be welcome at a tournament. Men like Moray would be staying inside Ledenhill Castle too. But this tourney is different, its purpose to solidify the unofficial Highland oath, that the Mountain Men, as they were called years ago, swear allegiance first and foremost to each other. It is an opportunity to reconnect. To strengthen allegiances. Those who stay within the castle walls were met with suspicion.

  I round the corner and ride toward Moray’s tents. He and Warin sit around a fire with at least six other men. But there’s no sign of Reyne.

  Before I can approach, Warin stands and rushes toward me. At first, I think he means to revoke his permission for me to escort Reyne tonight. Something I’ve looked forward to all day. But something else flashes in his eyes.

  “I’d speak to you before you leave.”

  He pulls me off to the side even as I make eye contact with Moray, who does not appear to be dressed for the feast.

  “Do you know a man by the name of Edward Kyle?”

  I think for a moment before shaking my head. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I’m going to tell you something, Stokerton, as you’re courting my sister. And because I know you to be a good and honorable man. But if our paths should not converge, you must vow to pursue this matter using the connections available to you.”

  “It would be easier to make such a vow if I knew of what we discuss?”

  He glances at the smaller tent to the left of the one where Moray and I first met. I know it is Reyne’s and that she’s likely inside with her handmaiden, preparing.

  “She will be out any moment,” Warin confirms.

  His behavior is slightly alarming. From what I remember of the boy, Warin was much like his father. As stoic as I am not. A trait I could admire though am unable to emulate. But this eve he is anything but.

  “Go on,” I say, unwilling to fully commit to him until I know more.

  “Earlier today I spied a man, apparently his name is Edward Kyle, the third son of a minor Borderland family, speaking with Rawlins. It seemed suspicious enough that I sent a page to listen to their conversation. Rawlins told him, ‘Another Saitford is necessary.’ I saw the man again later, speaking with someone I do not know. Reyne and I were able to listen to enough of their conversation to learn something will occur the morning of the melee while everyone is distracted. Kyle said, ‘He will be there’ and that ‘now is the time to strike.’”

  Becoming more and more alarmed as Warin speaks, I attempt to put all of this information together.

  “Who will be there? And what is happening the morning of the melee?”

  He gives me a flat stare. Of course he does not know the answer to either question. But Warin is correct about one thing. This matter must be pursued.

  “When Rawlins said another Saitford was necessary, my stomach turned, knowing what happened in that village. Knowing it was our own countrymen who did such a thing,” Warin says.

  Could Lord Rawlins be personally responsible for the attack?

  I consider what I know about the man. His land lies at the foot of the Loigh Mountains. Hempswood Castle was one of the first built here in Edingham, but it has changed hands many times, moving back and forth between Rawlins and the Merians. Most recently, Rawlins took it back with the help of mercenaries at a considerable loss.

  “How long ago did Rawlins regain Hempswood?”

  Warin frowns. “My father remembers the battle well and says it was nearly ten years ago.”

  “What would he have to gain were Cettina to agree to an attack on Meria?” I ask, not expecting a response. The meaning is clear to both of us—if Rawlins did such a thing, his intention was to provoke the queen to attack Meria. And, since it did not work, he aims to do it again to force her hand.

  A stillness descends around us, prompting me to turn toward the tents.

  I can no longer move or talk, struck dumb by the sight of Reyne in the deepest of royal blue dresses, its sleeves nearly down to the floor, her hair free-flowing with not one adornment . . . she is magnificent.

  I want her.

  Not for the allegiance her father brings. But for her. I want her against me, her lips pressed on mine.

  “I’ve not seen you look so serious before,” she says to me as Warin and I rejoin the others at the fire.

  “This is a serious occasion,” I respond. “A first for us both.”

  “Father”—she leans down to kiss him on the cheek—“thank you.”

  Apparently he has decided to allow me to escort her alone? Does she not think such a thing strange? He doesn’t appear at all guilty for accepting the thanks of the daughter he’d deceived, however well-intentioned the deception. Warin, on the other hand, looks as if he might be ill. Because of what he learned? Or because his sister knows nothing of our plan?

  “I will return her safely,” I vow. “You have my word.”

  Warin levels a stern gaze at me. “We will take you at it.”

  As the others gathered around the fire go back to their conversation, I offer my arm to Reyne. She tucks her hands into it, and together we move toward the horses.

  “Will you ride with me?”

  She looks at a beautiful white mare, considering, and then back to me.

  “Aye.”

  Though at first I’m glad for her agreement, we’re not far away from the tents before I begin to regret the offer. Reyne fits snugly in front of me, her hair just inches from my nose, the scent of roses particularly pleasant compared to the stench I’ve been subjected to all day: men who’ve not bathed in days despite participating in various events.

  One of the oddities at the capital is that baths are regular occurrences, and it’s something I’ve become accustomed to. I’m unsure how Reyne manages to smell so sweet.

  “I am a bit nervous,” she says, turning back toward me. In the growing darkness, I cannot see her freckles.

  “This is really nothing more than an out of doors feast.”

  She looks to the left of us, away from the castle.

  In truth, I am nervous too, but the problem of Rawlins’s cryptic meeting and the possibility of an impending disaster cannot be solved this night. I vow to put it out of my mind and concentrate on winning the hand of the woman I’ve now resolved to make my own.

  She doesn’t answer. There is nothing to the left of us save the woods and a vast stretch of marshland beyond it. Up ahead, the castle and its many torchlights. Behind us and to the right, the fields and tents from which we just came.

  “Reyne?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “What is out here that worries you so?”

  She turns away from me so that I cannot see her face any longer. A pity.

  “The stream.”

  The stream?

  “’Tis that way, is it not?” she presses.

  “Aye.”

  I do not understand. Until I do.

  Fear is as irrational as it is powerful. It is a lesson I’ve had occasion
to learn.

  “We will be nowhere near it. That stream cannot hurt you. Do you understand? You are safe, Reyne.”

  “I am, aye. ’Tis such a silly thing.”

  I pull on the reins, stopping us completely. When she turns back toward me, I resist the urge to kiss her as a way to appease her fear.

  “It is not a silly thing. You were there when she drowned, weren’t you?” I guess.

  “Aye.”

  “There is nothing more painful than watching someone die, especially someone you love.”

  Or someone you had a direct hand in killing. Unfortunately, I know what that is like from experience.

  “That pain will never go away,” I say, as much to her as myself. “But you will learn to live with it, and to think of your sister without guilt.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “I will not tell you ’twas not your fault, because you will likely never believe me. But I will tell you this, Reyne. Someday you will stand along a riverbank without fear.”

  She shakes her head, but I saw the look in her eyes. I know why she hasn’t come to this tournament before. Why she seems less carefree than the girl I once knew. Why the light within her has dimmed.

  “Nay,” she says, not believing me. But she does not have to. I can believe in her enough for us both.

  10

  Reyne

  When Erik suggested we ride together, I could not think of a reason to say nay. I knew there was a stream beyond the castle. My father had readily agreed to enter the castle grounds from the west gate, farther away, but I didn’t feel comfortable telling Erik to do so. If I’d been on my own horse . . . but I wasn’t, and I found it impossible to admit my fear to him.

  I should have expected Erik to react the way he did. A perfect knight, his manners refined from years at court, he knew precisely what to say. When we were children, I cannot say Erik Stokerton and I were friends, precisely. I saw him few times, and much of his visits he spent with my brother.

  Now, as he gives the groom the horse’s reins, I’m sorry our fathers stopped speaking. Perhaps we could have been true friends.