My Highland Bride (Kingdoms of Meria Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  “But you do love her.”

  I cannot do this any longer . . . not without touching her. So I lower onto the small stone seat beside her and take her hands in mine.

  “The rumors are understandable,” I say. “She is a beautiful woman.” Reyne tries to pull her hands away, but I squeeze them tighter instead. “And a young woman. I am the only member of the Curia within ten years of her age. And perhaps there was a spark of something once, but that was born of loneliness and grief. It was not this . . . it was nothing like what is between us.”

  Her laugh is a bitter one. “You mean a spark born out of a possible alliance?”

  I refuse to let her leave here thinking that is all that exists between us. “There is more here, and well you know it, Reyne.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “I am not in love with Cettina as you imagine it. Love takes many forms, does it not? You’ve read the Garra’s teachings. Love of your siblings. Your parents. Love, for you, of reading and writing. And for me, of training boys like Bradyn. I did not answer your question the first time you asked it, Reyne, because I wanted us to get the chance to know each other as we are now. Now, the choice is yours.”

  If there’s any hope she will give any indication of her answer, that hope is dashed when she stands, pulling me up with her.

  “We will be missed.”

  I cannot let her leave like this.

  “Reyne.” I cup her beautiful face. “Know this. Your father offered your hand to me, but only you can truly give it. I know many men who falsely believe they know better than a woman simply because they’ve a prick in their pants, but I can assure you I’m not one of them.”

  Finally, a smile.

  “I have told you from the start what we plan here. And if you do consent to marry me, you will never be treated as if your opinion is unimportant or inconsequential. You won’t just be my seat partner at meals or the manager of the castle staff after we return to the Highlands. You will be my wife in all things, and you will have my devotion, always.”

  But she wants more. I can see it in her eyes.

  Reyne wants my love as well.

  I adore her. Desire her. Want to feel her underneath me as I claim her body. I want to be the man to bring the light back into her eyes.

  But I cannot say I love her. Not yet. We need more than a sennight to know each other, but Reyne and I are out of time.

  “There!” Warin whispers. “Do you see it?”

  We are hidden in the trees so well that it is difficult to discern much at all. I see the dovecote but nothing else.

  “Nay,” I whisper back. “Where?”

  But no sooner have the words left my lips than I notice it. A barely perceptible movement, and then two men emerge.

  “MacKinnish,” Gille says. “Not a surprise at all.”

  Nay, though it is a surprise that we guessed correctly about the location. Were these men truly responsible for the attack on Saitford Village? And for planning another similar attack?

  Gille moves, but I hold him back.

  “Nay, we wait until all arrive.”

  We’ve little choice but to arrest these men, and it’s been agreed we will do so on my authority as the queen’s commander. But first, I’d learn how many others are involved.

  “There he is,” Gille says.

  Rawlins. And two men with him. My hand itches as it rests upon my sword hilt. I crane my neck upward as a bird calls out above us, as if to give away our location. But none of the men now entering the dovecote even glance our way. They’ve no suspicion they might be watched. At least that is to our advantage.

  A few moments later, MacKinnish emerges, as if waiting for someone. He looks in every direction, including ours, but doesn’t find what he seeks.

  Who is he waiting for?

  I listen to Warin and Gille breathing. I listen to the leaves rustling in the trees above us, the quiet, as always, more disconcerting than sounds of battle. With swords clanging and horses neighing, there is no doubt about what lies ahead.

  Blood. Death. Families torn apart.

  But here, in this silent field as we witness the worst sort of treachery, the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I turn, sensing something is amiss. Warin and Gille seem on alert too, but nothing moves around us.

  Thankfully, we look back just in time to see him. Another man, walking alone, from a different direction than the others. I squint, knowing he is familiar to me but not recognizing him until his face fully comes into view.

  The queen’s brother-in-law.

  “Goddammit.”

  Warin doesn’t react, but Gille does, and strongly too.

  “That bastard. I will send him to hell myself.”

  If anyone were to send him to hell, it would be me. Though no one truly knows the details of what happened between us, I stand, prepared to do just that, when someone behind us growls out, “Do not move.”

  How did he get so close without making a sound?

  “Father Aiken,” Gille correctly says. “We’d heard you might be here.”

  The Elderman’s hood covers the top portion of his face. His sword at the ready, Father Aiken prepares to fight.

  So he is a Shadow Warrior? For no mortal man could sneak up on us that way.

  Of course, I know the stories are not true. Gille and I have speculated the Prima is responsible for the rumors, that he perhaps spread them to gain more power. This man is mortal, as are the other Shadow Warriors, even though this is the first time I’ve come face-to-face with one who is known to me.

  I defy him and unsheathe my sword.

  “You are outnumbered,” I say, offering a silent prayer that I am speaking the truth. There are several men in the dovecote, aye, but we are a distance away.

  Without removing his hood, he says, “If I wanted you dead, all three of you would be so already.”

  His voice is low but piercing.

  “You do not want to go down there,” he says. I can only assume he speaks of the dovecote.

  “Nay?” Warin taunts back. “Instead, you’d have your friends butcher more innocent women and children?”

  He does not flinch. “They are not my friends. Put down your swords, and I will do the same.”

  Gille laughs. “I think not, Elderman.”

  I was little more than a boy when I faced thousands of enemy soldiers at the Battle of Hendrelds. But now, standing across from this lone man, I am more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. He did have the advantage, and lost it by revealing himself. Even so, the Shadow Warrior has the look of a man who is confident he will win if we force a fight on him. And, illogical as it seems, I believe him . . . such a fight would probably leave him mortally wounded, but that would be little comfort to three dead men.

  Fighting Father Aiken is not something I wish to do this day. Not until I learn what he came here to tell us.

  “Do it,” I command.

  Both Gille and Warin hesitate.

  “That was not a request.”

  I’ve no desire to pull rank on either of them, most especially Warin, who barely recognizes me as his superior. But neither will I get them killed this day.

  “Now,” I repeat.

  When they sheathe their swords, I do the same. Only then does Aiken set down his own weapon. We may no longer be armed, but the mood is like death sitting at the very tip of a sword.

  “I am expected at that meeting, and plan to attend,” Aiken says.

  We should not have lowered our weapons.

  “We will meet here after the melee,” he continues, “and I will tell you of what they plan.”

  Another bitter laugh, this time from Warin. “So you can return with those bastards to kill us all for discovering your treachery?”

  “Why would we do such a thing?” I ask, studying him.

  The Elderman lowers his hood.

  One word comes to mind: deadly. His eyes, most especially.

  “If you do not, those who believe as these men do,
and there are more of them, will carry out the very attack you are here to prevent. Arrest them with no proof of anything other than conducting a secret meeting, and you accomplish nothing. Would you have the blood of another Saitford on your hands?”

  I can feel the anger oozing off both men beside me, but I keep my eyes on Aiken, looking for any sign of treachery. He is too skilled to reveal anything, however.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  His answer is immediate. “That”—he nods toward the dovecote—“is my mission.”

  “To discover the men who plan an attack on innocent people?” Warin guesses.

  Aiken looks directly at me. “To help them carry out that attack.”

  Gille gasps. “You . . .”

  For the first time since he appeared, I relax my stance, defeated. Aiken represents the Prima, which means the church is indeed involved. They are supporting Lord Hinton as the heir to King Galfrid, and now they are trying to goad us into battle with Meria. Why?

  “They knew Saitford would happen?” I ask.

  “We helped,” he says calmly, as if not wishing to admit he took part in a massacre against innocents.

  “We? The church?”

  “The Prima,” he clarifies.

  It is an important distinction. Although the Prima is the head of the church and the one person who should perpetuate its teachings, Father Silvester’s extreme views have alienated some.

  Maybe even within their own ranks?

  “You are the devil,” Gille spits, and I do not disagree.

  Aiken keeps his gaze on me. “Will you deal with the devil, then? You must decide, and quickly.”

  I could ask why he does this, why he so obviously goes against the orders of the man he serves, if Aiken’s true purpose is to stop the next attack. But I have a feeling he won’t freely reveal his motivations.

  Our choice is a simple one. We march across the field in front of us, arrest the men within the dovecote, and take them back to the capital for punishment. One they will receive, for Cettina will certainly believe us.

  But will anyone else? Those who oppose the queen could use this as a reason to condemn her . . . especially if she punishes these men and the attack happens anyway.

  Our other choice? As Aiken so aptly put it, a deal with the devil. If we agree to treat with him, we may learn enough to prevent the slaughter from happening at all—and to completely hamstring those who would wish for another Saitford.

  Or we may be cut down this very night by an ambush of men wishing to silence those who would expose them.

  “I raise suspicions by being late,” he says in that deadly calm, deadpan voice.

  There is no good choice here, but one must be made.

  “Go. We will return when the melee has ended.”

  Gille and Warin immediately begin to protest, but I put my hand up to silence them. I’ve made my decision and will not waver.

  With luck, I will be alive long enough to learn Reyne’s answer. And perhaps even long enough to know if the decision I just made was the correct one.

  19

  Reyne

  I watch with horror as the two sides prepare to cut down, kidnap, and otherwise decimate the men across the field from them. My father, leader of Team Azure, is positioned at the edge of the field with a Highland lord I do not recognize, who, judging by his green surcoat, is marshal and leader of Team Vert. Their mounts dance under them.

  I can easily spot Erik among them, riding side by side with my brother. I assume the man riding the black destrier on Erik’s other side is Gille. The crowd around me is cheering wildly, but by the time the horn sounds, I am torn between closing my eyes and running down to the field for a better view.

  As the men charge toward one another, I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “’Tis a horrific sight, is it not?”

  When I open them again, the woman next to me points to the painted white lines now visible on the field.

  “If they are able to push men from the opposing side across that line, they are well and truly captured.”

  The woman smiles. She is not much older than me, dressed in a simple but well-made kirtle. Her hair is loose, long, and brown, and her eyes are warm and bright. Like sunshine beams out from within her.

  “Lady Arabelle,” she says, “pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “I am Lady Reyne, daughter of Lord Moray. And very pleased to make yours.”

  I’ve lost Erik and my brother in the chaos. Some of the men have already lost their mounts in the melee. Squires lead horses to the side of the field as the echoes of swordplay reach us, even from this far away.

  “’Tis brutal,” I say.

  “Meant to prepare them for real battle. Aye.”

  Warin explained the modifications to their weapons. The lances are all blunted, making the fight as safe as possible, but it looks very real from this vantage point.

  “Do you cheer for Vert or Azure?” I ask Lady Arabelle.

  “Vert,” she says, “though I mostly cheer for my husband not to be injured. Did you know a man died three years ago at this tourney?”

  “Aye,” I say, wincing as one rider’s horse topples with him on it.

  “In that very way,” she says, “crushed by the weight of his horse.”

  Thankfully, it seems that sad incident will not be repeated this day. Or at least not yet. Both horse and rider are righted but also captured and brought across the white line to Azure.

  “So you are from the North?” I ask.

  The two sides that fight in the melee are almost always split by region, and this year it is north versus south. Our castle sits closer to the capital, but not so far south we could ever be mistaken as anything other than Highlanders. My homeland, surrounded by mountains on every side, is as wild as it is beautiful.

  “Aye,” she says, “though I am not a Highlander born. I was raised just south of Galmouth Bay.”

  My attention is torn from the field.

  “Where Meria was to attack?”

  She nods. “Aye.”

  If the Oryan had not sunk, they say it would have landed in Galmouth Bay, its soldiers heading northwest to the border from there.

  I shudder, wondering so many things as we watch the false battle play out before us, men kidnapping and injuring each other in a much tamer version of what could very well unfold if Erik is unsuccessful in averting war.

  I cannot watch any longer.

  Instead, I stare across the field to the treetops beyond it. I don’t know what transpired this morn. Erik and my brother slept among the trees last eve, and the first time I saw them today was on the field.

  Did they discover anything at the dovecote?

  And what, precisely, am I to do this day?

  Erik’s answer last eve left me with more questions. I wish for more time, but I know we’ve run out.

  A loud cheer forces my attention back onto the field. Soon no lances remain on the field, and as more and more men are “kidnapped,” the remainder are left unseated and on their feet. I find some measure of peace in knowing neither Warin nor Erik will be trampled or crushed to death.

  “There is my husband,” Lady Arabelle cries. She points to a man wearing the green emblazoned surcoat. “Oh dear,” she says just as two men in blue capture him, one on each side.

  Her shoulders sag. “He can little afford the price he’ll pay for that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I know some of the rules of the melee but not all.

  “Is it not just one silver coin to be released?”

  She shakes her head. “Aye, but look more closely. Both he and his weapon must be ransomed, and a different man picked up his sword.”

  Looking more closely, I realize that although Lady Arabelle’s kirtle is well-made, it is simply adorned.

  “Does it not cost more to ransom a man than his sword?”

  My companion shakes her head.

  “Not a sword forged in Murwood End. It was given to
him by his grandfather. I told him not to bring it here, but my husband is stubborn.”

  I look more closely and realize the man now armed with two swords is none but Erik. I scream as he is ambushed from behind. He fights his opponent off as poor Lady Arabelle’s husband is dragged down the lengthy field.

  The attacker retreats, and Erik appears safe, for now.

  “Is that your husband?”

  “Nay.” I watch as Bradyn runs onto the field in full armor and takes the sword from Erik.

  “Your relative?”

  I search the field for Warin but do not see him.

  “He is either a man I knew in my childhood,” I say as the crowd cheers, though I cannot discern the reason, “or he will be my husband.”

  Lady Arabelle’s eyes widen.

  “Truly?”

  There is no simple way to explain.

  “He and my father wish to forge an alliance with our marriage. The decision, it seems, has been left to me.”

  If she was surprised by my announcement of a possible marriage, she is much more so at this bit of news.

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing before.”

  She speaks in earnest, her words a needed reminder that despite this week’s deception my father has treated me kindly since Fara’s passing. And yet . . .

  “Should we not all be given such a choice? In Pedair Cainc y Hempswood, the author, a Garra and direct descendant of Athea, says that even married women should be allowed to make and sign agreements and bear witness in disputes.”

  Lady Arabelle does not seem to agree. “I know nothing of Pedair Cainc y Hempswood, but my father says the teachings of the Garra are dangerous. Even my mother forbids mention of them.”

  Dangerous indeed. Though not for women, surely.

  “If given the choice, I do believe I would have married my husband,” she continues. “He is not wealthy but treats me kindly. Is your knight not kind?”

  I look for Erik.

  “He is very much so.”

  “Old, then?”

  I scan the field but can make out nothing beyond a tangle of men and bodies and swords.

  “Nay. He is young, and quite comely.”

  “Ah, so he is poor?”