My Highland Bride (Kingdoms of Meria Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Her demeanor has changed, understandably. This is not how I wished this conversation to begin, but mayhap it is the way it needs to go. A shame, as the light above us, the music behind us, and the free-flowing wine could have made this a very different evening. But there is no time for fanciful notions.

  Not for me. Not for Edingham.

  “And so I came here, to this tourney, to speak to your father.”

  Reyne raises her chin. “And you’ve done so. What did he say?”

  I do not mince words.

  “That he would not give his support.” Her nod says she expected as such, but I press on. “Unless he counts me as son-in-law. Then, and only then, will he give me his support.”

  It takes her a moment, but when she understands, Reyne shoots up. I stand as well, reaching out a calming hand and laying it on her shoulder. She will not be pacified.

  “He . . . he has no right,” she seethes.

  Although we both know that he does.

  “Why would he do such a thing?” Reyne shoves my hand from her, so I back away. Neither of us sit down. I attempt to take the goblet from her hand, as it tilts precariously to the left, but she pulls it away.

  “Our lands border each other’s and”—I attempt a smile—“I am not a monster, Reyne. Your father knows me as well as any man.”

  Her shoulders rise and fall in anger. But at least she has not fled. Instead, she raises the jeweled goblet to her lips and drinks. Deeply. She does not stop until it is empty, at which point she does hand it to me.

  Only to take my mostly full one.

  Not the reaction I’d expected.

  “You agreed to this?” Another sip, this time of my wine.

  “I did.”

  Her laugh is bitter. “Of course you did. You are the queen’s commander, and would do anything for”—she pauses—“Edingham.”

  But we both know she meant to say the queen.

  On both accounts, she is correct.

  Any attempt to charm her will not work. So I do not try. I tell her only the truth. “I agreed because I find the idea appealing.” I pause, then come out with the rest of it. “He told me that you would not marry me, that you wish to marry for love.”

  If I wanted to make her angrier, I’ve accomplished the feat.

  “I accepted the challenge,” I say, perhaps too bluntly. “Gladly.”

  Her eyes pierce mine, and then she takes another sip of the wine. When she hands me the second empty goblet, I turn to place them on the ground next to the stone seat. When I pull upright to face her again, Reyne is already two steps away.

  I grab her arm gently, unwilling for her to misunderstand.

  “Would you have preferred for me to continue to hide the truth? In telling you, I risk any chance at gaining the Highland lords’ support. We march another step toward war, which is precisely what some of our own men wish for. I risk . . .”

  I let her go. I’d speak to her, make Reyne understand, but I will not keep her here against her will.

  “You risk angering the queen.”

  I was going to say, I risk losing you before you were even mine. But I know she’d not believe me. While I did not come to Ledenhill for a wife, I would gladly leave here with one, if that wife were the redheaded siren in front of me.

  This, I realize, is the girl I knew. The one with fire in her eyes. Lady Reyne Moray, before she lost her sister. Before life beat her down and tried to turn her meek.

  “I might have done it,” she says, still not turning to leave but clearly unhappy with her present company. “He will force me to marry soon enough. ’Tis my duty to do so, as it is my brother’s. And you . . .” Her eyes soften, for just a moment. “Despite your deception, or perhaps because you told me of it when my father, and I am assuming my brother, did not see it necessary to do so . . . aye, I might have done it . . . if not for the fact that you are in love with the queen.”

  It is as if she punched me in the chest.

  “I cannot marry a man who loves another.”

  With that, Reyne walks away. This time, I will not try to stop her. For what, precisely, would I say?

  12

  Reyne

  It stuns me to return to the courtyard and find it as it was before my world was turned upside down. While the other guests have seemingly been enjoying the food and music, and most especially the wine, I’ve been learning how very little my own father and brother care for me.

  So that was why Warin acted so strangely. And Father? I am less angry with him, for such a thing could almost be expected from him. Accustomed to giving orders without asking for input, he is exactly the sort of man who would conspire with another over his own daughter’s future.

  How many times I’ve wished to be a man. Or if not a man, then a woman who actually wields power. Like an abbess. A Garra.

  Or even a queen.

  Why I should be angry at Cettina, as Erik calls her, I do not know. In fact, before this tourney, I was proud to live in a kingdom ruled by a woman. And though many worry she is ill-equipped to rule, my mother insists it’s a victory that she has been mostly accepted as the Isle’s first queen.

  Victory, indeed.

  “Wine, my lady?” a servant says, coming around with a tray.

  I’ve drunk two full goblets, rather quickly.

  “Aye,” I say, despite it. Taking the goblet from her, I move to a darkened corner as Erik emerges. I left him in a rage, not considering how I would return to the tents. I could walk, of course. It is far, but not so far as to be impossible. But what if I wander in the wrong direction under the cover of darkness, toward the river?

  Shuddering at the thought, I sip my wine and decide to ask our host for an escort back. Of course, Erik, who is looking for me, is standing directly next to the man.

  Why must he be so handsome? And kind?

  And in love with the queen?

  It is clear the rumors are true, and he did not even trouble himself to deny them. As I said to him, the idea of marrying a man who loves another . . . I would prefer to be wed to the doddering old fool who visited Blackwell during our May Day celebrations to ask my father to accept a union between us.

  Since then, Father has broached the subject more often, but I always deflect the topic back to my brother. He is both older and the heir to Blackwell. Surely he should marry first? But nay, he is allowed to wander the Isle to discover himself while I remain in the mountains with no prospects for a husband and a father increasingly inclined to find me one.

  Indeed, Erik Stokerton would have been more than acceptable.

  I thought he would kiss me. And I’d have let him do it. What would it be like to kiss a man such as he? He would be well-practiced, a fact that does not exactly recommend him. But still . . .

  “Do you think a woman such as you could possibly hide, Reyne?”

  My shoulders sag in defeat. I turn, wondering how he managed to sneak up on me when I was looking at him just a moment ago.

  “You clearly know nothing of your own appeal.”

  My traitorous heart flutters at his compliment. Weak. I am a weak little fool to be wooed by his honeyed words now that he’s shared his true intention.

  “I am not hiding.” I hold up my goblet. “Merely enjoying a bit of wine.”

  I expect him to chastise me, as my father would surely do at such excess, but he merely smiles.

  “Then I shall stand with you, enjoying . . .” He looks around, but there is no maidservant nearby. Having satisfied himself that we are alone, he turns his attention back to me. “. . . you enjoying your wine.”

  Oh dear. Resist, Reyne.

  “I’d have left already.” I take a sip. “But alas, I’ve no mount or sense of which direction our tents lie.”

  “I am aware.”

  “Though I’d have found my way.”

  “I am aware of that as well.”

  I cannot think normally when he is this near.

  “Would you like me to escort you back now, Lady Reyn
e?”

  Before I can answer that, aye, I would like that, and also, nay, I would not, the musicians stop and the lord and lady of Ledenhill hold up their hands. We move away from the bonfire toward them.

  “Greetings. Have you enjoyed your evening thus far?”

  A cheer rises up. I pay mind to my goblet, and not to my companion.

  “You are here, past and present champions and former hosts of the Tournament of Loigh.”

  Father would never willingly miss such an honor. His decision to stay behind this eve shocked me, both because he has spoken highly of the event in the past and because he allowed me to be escorted alone. His behavior convinced me something was amiss, just like Warin’s, although both steadfastly denied any wrongdoing.

  Liars, both of them.

  “We gather as a reminder of our triumph over those who would conquer us. These are games, aye, but they represent unity of the Highland way. We also welcome a special guest this eve, the queen’s commander, Lord Erik Stokerton.”

  One by one, the guests turn toward us.

  “To Queen Cettina”—the host raises his goblet—“to Edingham, and to the Mountain Men.”

  “And women,” I mutter, drinking.

  “And women,” Erik repeats. “You would like her,” he tells me as a maidservant hands him a new goblet. I do not need to ask of whom he speaks. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him he’s wrong, but I refrain from saying so. The musicians have struck up another song, so at least the attention is no longer so squarely on us.

  So this is envy. I know the signs from “Roman de la Lily,” a poem where a man falls in love with a flower.

  Aye. A flower.

  His friends and family become jealous of his love, and they all eventually leave him.

  “A smile? The first since I ruined your evening.”

  I would tell Erik he did not, but I do not make it a practice of lying.

  “I was thinking of ‘Roman de la Lily.’ It’s a—”

  “Poem. LaRus falls in love with a lily. He wakes each day thinking of his love. Written during King Onry’s reign, I believe.”

  “You read poetry?”

  Also, why am I still speaking to him, precisely? Blast him for being so interesting.

  “Nay, I am sorry to say I do not. But ’tis often read at court, and I remember that one for its absurd topic and how, despite being simple, it manages to address politics, medicine, gender, envy, and even religion. It was the topic of conversation for nearly a fortnight.”

  “That is the brilliance of it.”

  Laughter beside us draws our attention. The gathering becomes increasingly jovial as sweets begin to circulate. I cannot resist a sugared pear when it’s offered to me. Erik takes my drink so smoothly, I hardly realize he’s done so until I’m finished with the half pear.

  “’Tis delicious,” I say, wiping its juice from the corner of my mouth.

  Erik watches me, and despite myself, I feel another flutter between my legs. When he hands back the goblet, his fingers touch mine, lingering there long enough to make me forget, albeit temporarily, that he is here only to forge an alliance with my father.

  “It looks delicious.”

  I’d say he was speaking of the pear, but it is gone. And Erik stares directly at my mouth, looking very much like he did earlier. As if he desires me.

  Which he does.

  As a wife, to please his queen.

  “Dance with me.”

  My answer is swift. I enjoy dancing, but I am quite ready to leave. And I tell Erik as much.

  He does not respond at first.

  “I am sorry for deceiving you, Reyne. I never thought to involve you in this. When your father proposed a union, it came as a surprise, as you can imagine. I should have told you straightaway. I’d not want to be deceived as you were.”

  I hate myself for wanting to stay. To dance. To have him continue to look at me as if he wants to be here with me, and not because of my father.

  For still wanting him to kiss me.

  “You do not trust me. Nor should you, Reyne. But dance with me. Forgive me for just this eve. Enjoy this”—he waves his arms in the air—“and then tomorrow, you can choose never speak to me again if you so desire.”

  While I attempt to decide, he deftly takes my goblet once more, places it onto a wooden tray propped atop a barrel for such a purpose, and takes my hand. His grip is strong and sure, and although I know he’d free me if I pulled away, I can’t lie to myself. I don’t want to.

  When he splays a hand on my lower back, the fingers of his other hand wrap around my hand. I’ve danced this way many times, but never, not once, have I felt this way. This is no simple dance.

  We both sense as much, I think.

  The sleeve of my dress falls, revealing the lower part of my arm. He looks at it, as if imagining what else it might reveal, then glances up at my face. Erik’s eyes, hooded and piercing, so much more serious than his usual jovial look, bore into my own.

  “So you enjoy poetry still.”

  “Aye.”

  “You adored your tutor, from what I recall.”

  “He was like a second brother to me.”

  “Was?”

  “He left Blackwell the year after Fara died. It had become a different sort of place, for a time. Her absence weighed heavily on all. Also, Warin and I could read and write easily by then. He traveled to the Borderlands first, and then into Meria.”

  Although it is unusual for someone from Edingham to live across the border, and the same is true for Merians, some people travel where work takes them, either out of necessity or wanderlust, even across the Terese River, the natural border between our kingdoms.

  “And I do some writing of my own,” I blurt.

  Erik smiles. “What do you write?”

  That is something I do not wish to reveal.

  “I cannot say.”

  “Hmmm. Cannot.” He spins me around in a dramatic fashion, and some begin to stare. “Or will not?”

  His hand is warm against my back. “They are watching us.”

  Erik leans into me and whispers into my ear. “They are watching you. You are a beautiful woman, Reyne.”

  Spinning me around again, he does not allow me to respond. But as the dance begins to slow, he looks me in the eyes once again.

  “I have a proposal for you.”

  I make a sound in my throat. He laughs aloud at the most unladylike noise. I attempt to purse my lips together, as if I am still angry, but it fails.

  I should be.

  I want to be.

  But Erik Stokerton is making it very difficult with his easy smiles and flirty behavior.

  “Give me more than one eve. Give me the tournament to win your hand, with your full knowledge of what I seek.”

  “But I’ve told you . . .”

  “You’ve told me you will not marry a man who loves another. And yet, I’ve not confessed to doing so. You judge me without knowing me, but I’d not begrudge you that, as I’ve wronged you sorely as well. Give me these ten days. If, when the melee is over, you wish to never see me again, then you return home to Blackwell, and I shall become nothing more than a memory.”

  I despise how little I want that very thing.

  “But if, at the end of the tourney, I’ve convinced you that an alliance between us would be desirable not just to our families but both of us, then we will marry.”

  I begin to object when he stops me.

  “Marriages have been forged on much less than two neighbors joining their lands and two people who very clearly desire each other.”

  Desire each other. Do I desire Erik Stokerton?

  It is foolish of me to even pose the question. None other has affected me this way. And maybe he desires me as well. The look he’s giving me now says he does.

  But can I really marry a man who pines for another?

  Many noblewomen do, and few are given the luxury of a choice. But would it not be less painful to marry a man I do n
ot desire than to marry one I do who desires another?

  “I am not asking for you to pledge your troth to me this very eve, Reyne. Ten days. And then, if you wish it, I will be gone.”

  I am about to answer when we are interrupted.

  “Commander Stokerton?”

  The man who interrupted our dance is tall, even taller than Erik. But he is not built like Erik. This man is thin. And very clearly drunk.

  “You do not remember me,” he says with the thick accent of a Highlander who spends little time at court. “But I remember you. Your betrothed was my niece.”

  13

  Reyne

  Your betrothed was my niece.

  For once, my headaches have come in handy. As the men play their games in the tourney, I sit outside the tent watching the squires and pages tidy up their masters’ belongings.

  Instead of confronting my father and brother, I begged their leave to remain out here to think. Still unsure what to do after last evening’s revelations, I wish I were back home to ask my mother for guidance.

  But then, I already know what she would say. Marry him. It is your duty to this family, and he is a good man. And I might have listened to her once. But then I think of my beautiful sister, so full of love and life. Our tutor, Ciaran, gave Fara a book once, when she was but a young girl of ten and three. La flamme et la fleur. It was a long poem, really. But Fara was a romantic—that’s what Ciaran called her—and the old text confirmed her beliefs.

  Love, she said, was all there was in life.

  She filled her head with teachings of Garra, fascinated by their customs and beliefs and the idea that healers roamed the Isle with the sole purpose of treating ailments of the heart. She loved to debate the “great question,” as it had come to be known.

  Was Athea, the original Garra, responsible for the division between Meria and Edingham? After all, had she not given Lady Edina a love potion, making King Onry fall in love with her, he would have married his original betrothed. They would not have begotten two sons, twins, and have then had to choose which would sit on the throne. Sir Aiden would not have fled to the Loigh Mountains with his followers.