My Highland Bride (Kingdoms of Meria Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Sighing, I spot him. Safe, for now.

  “Nay. He is the queen’s second commander,” I tell her, watching her expression.

  Lady Arabelle’s jaw drops. “You are to marry Lord Stokerton?”

  I wait for her to understand.

  “But he is,” her voice trails off.

  “Precisely.”

  “Oh.”

  Is there anyone who has not heard of Cettina and Erik? None know he was betrothed to one of her ladies. Or of his role in the Hilla affair. But all seem to be aware of the rumors about him and the queen.

  “I do not wish to marry a man who loves another.”

  Lady Arabelle spins toward me suddenly, taking me by surprise.

  “I know you not at all, so please, I beg you to forgive my forwardness. I am unable to read or write, and have traveled little, save from my old home to the new one. But I fancied myself in love with a young man once. The son of the village butcher. But now I do very much love my husband.”

  She blinks rapidly, as if awaiting my response. It strikes me that I miss this—having another woman to confide in. I lost that when Fara died. She was my sister, aye, but also my best friend.

  “Even if he loves her,” she whispers, “that does not mean he cannot love you more. She may be the Queen of Edingham”—Lady Arabelle smiles—“but you would be his wife.”

  Another cheer pulls our attention to the field. Many men were eliminated during our talk, it seems.

  “Is that not him?” she asks, pointing to Erik as he stands over an opponent, his sword tip to the man’s chest.

  “Aye,” I say, watching, holding my breath until he pulls back the sword. The man gets up and runs off toward our line. Lady Arabelle and I say nothing more as the few remaining combatants fight on foot. I cannot say part of me isn’t relieved when Warin is “taken,” for at least I know he is safe. And it is clear Azure has won, with at least twice as many men remaining as the other side. But there is an individual champion as well, the last man remaining on the field. The champion of the tourney, an honor Erik has claimed before.

  And it is clear he intends to do so again this day. Only two men remain on the field, Erik being one of them.

  “They say King Malcom himself brought Lord Stokerton to the capital after seeing him fight,” Lady Arabelle says. “I don’t recall seeing him here these past few years, but I suppose ’tis well enough he’s let others be crowned champion. I do believe he would have won each year.”

  As he does now, Erik’s opponent’s sword flying from his hands as he deals the final blow. With shouts and cheers from both the stands and those watching from the sides of the field, the melee is declared at an end. My father, acting as marshal, takes off Erik’s helmet and raises his hand into the air.

  “He’s looking this way!” Lady Arabelle exclaims.

  Indeed, even from this distance, I can see his head swivel toward us. Does he know I am in these stands. Is he looking for me?

  “He comes this way,” Arabelle shrieks. “Do you see? He is coming here.”

  I see, quite clearly.

  Amidst the cheers of the crowd around us, Erik leaves the field and, with each stride toward me, marks his intentions clearly.

  My heart begins to slam inside my chest as I look at Arabelle.

  “He is not marrying the queen,” she says. “Go.”

  Could I possibly compete with a queen? Do I wish to try?

  I stand and raise my skirts, feeling so many eyes on me as I descend the wooden stands, hastened along by the advice of a friendly stranger. How I wish I had taken my maid with me to the tournament. Someone, anyone I could speak to about this. My father and Warin would care little for my only objection to Erik. They would say I am being silly. But Fara would have understood my dilemma.

  With my back to the stands, I wait. Finally, after what feels like days rather than minutes, Erik is before me. His face is streaked with dirt, the crest on his surcoat barely visible from the same. He says nothing but lays his sword on the ground at my feet, a distinctly Highland custom to show complete trust in another person. Then he kneels before me.

  “I’ve captured ten men, two horses, and three swords this day. They are all yours, Lady Reyne, if you will have them.”

  The fighters on the winning side can choose to ransom those they’ve captured or return them for naught. They can apparently do the same with their property, some knights having made their fortunes this way. Others, like Arabelle’s husband, have lost more than they can afford, although he will find mercy today.

  Only one man, the tourney champion, can gift his earnings to another.

  I alone know what he is asking. He offers me a wedding gift.

  I look into his eyes as the crowd holds their collective breath behind me.

  Accept the gift, accept him. Compete with a queen for his love.

  Deny the gift, deny Erik, and return home to wonder what may have been.

  This is my choice, and in my heart, I know I have already decided even as I pretend it is not so. I am a pawn, but the same is true of Erik in some ways.

  “I accept your gift,” I say, resolved. “And your hand in marriage.”

  20

  Erik

  “He’s waiting for you.”

  Having just returned from our late-night meeting with the Elderman, I’m grateful to still have my head . . . yet there is still a chance I might lose it. I’ve not spoken to Moray since he learned Reyne has known about our agreement from the start. It is entirely possible he may withdraw his support.

  Support the queen needs more than ever, given what we’ve just learned.

  “Are you joining us?” I ask Warin.

  He steps away from me and toward Gille.

  “Nay,” he says, “I think I will remain out here.”

  Traitor.

  Instinctively, I look toward the tent where Reyne has stayed this past fortnight, even though I know she is no longer there, nor will she be coming back this eve.

  With a final glance at the others, I lift the flap and enter the tent. Lord Moray is sitting at the table, wine goblet in hand, and he gestures to a seat across from him.

  “Sit.”

  I am about to do so when he stops me.

  “Pour yourself some wine first,” he says gruffly.

  Once seated, I wait for him to speak.

  “A toast.”

  I can finally breathe again.

  This is a betrothal agreement we are discussing. Not a secondary concern any longer, but one that drove me so hard this day. Cettina asked that I remind everyone why she chose me as commander. But I did not win for her today. I did so out of respect for this very man, and for his daughter.

  “To a new alliance,” he says, lifting his goblet.

  “A new alliance,” I agree.

  Both of us drink, although he finishes first. “And if you ever lie to me again, I will serve your bollocks to the queen on a platter, commander or nay.”

  I nearly spit out my wine.

  Thankfully, though Moray isn’t exactly smiling, the twinkle in his eyes leads me to believe he is, possibly, jesting. Or not. It is hard to discern.

  Either way, I refuse to make a promise I cannot keep.

  “My allegiance will be to your daughter first, as it’s been these past weeks. Barring that, I would never lie to you, Lord Moray.”

  I can’t tell if the answer pleases him or angers him even more, but it matters not. It is the only answer I have.

  “She deserved to know,” I press, realizing I may well be making matters worse.

  Moray’s grunt indicates he clearly does not agree.

  “Tell me of the Elderman,” he says.

  Moray already knew the details of that morning’s meeting. But after Reyne agreed to become my wife—and then proceeded to give back every hard-earned prize I’d won that day, a gesture that pleased me more than she realized—we had little time to celebrate.

  While Moray made arrangements for a small ceremony wi
thin Ledenhill’s hall for the next day, all understanding the necessity of a quick return to the capital, I set off with Warin, Elliott, and six other Moray men.

  Men who proved unnecessary.

  “He was alone, just as he claimed he would be. He warned of another attack in one month’s time.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “It matters not. Either way, we must send men to Firley Dinch. Either to stop an attack or defend against one. Neither of which will please the queen.” Firley Dinch, the Merian border town, is one of the largest on either side of the Terese River.

  Indeed, Cettina and the Curia will be enraged to learn that the attack on Saitford was no border dispute at all, but a concerted attempt to drag Edingham into a war with Meria, also engaged in by the Prima and several Highland lords.

  And it is going to happen again.

  “He could not have known, or planned for us to be in those woods this morn.”

  “How did he find you?”

  There was only one answer that I could discern.

  “I doubt not the man is a Shadow Warrior. Though why he works against the Prima now, I do not know. Mayhap the killing of innocents swayed him?”

  Moray scowls. “If he is truly a Shadow Warrior, no death is more abhorrent than disobedience to the Prima.”

  I silently agree. They were trained to fight for and protect the Prima beyond all other duties. But I have no other explanation.

  “Whatever his reasons for helping us, if that is his true intention, it matters not. If Rawlins and the others are exposed as traitors, I would expect the other Highlanders to stand down.”

  “They will do so. You have my word.”

  And now that he’s given it, I must know.

  “If your daughter had not agreed to marry me, what would you have done, knowing of this treachery from within? Would you have stood idly by and allowed Edingham to be drawn into a false war?”

  Aside from Reyne, I’ve thought of little else. Moray chose once not to get involved, and our families’ alliance paid the price. Would he have done the same again, even though innocents, albeit Merians, paid the ultimate price? Or would he have lent his support without this new alliance of ours?

  Moray smiles, much as he did that first day.

  “I suppose we will never know.”

  This is not at all what I expected my wedding ceremony to be. For a time, I imagined it would be held at court, Isolda by my side. Though I cannot say I loved her, she was a beautiful woman, and my father was pleased by the prospective alliance between our families. She cared for me too.

  It had felt like enough.

  After she fled, I trusted my instincts with women as little as my ability to make decisions devoid of emotion. I retreated into myself, doing my duties but attending no meals or feasts, training every spare moment. Still, I knew it could not last forever, that I would, one day, have to marry. The arrangement, I had thought, would be like my parents’ wedding ceremony, made solely for the families’ betterment.

  I think of my parents, who should be here now. My mother will be disappointed, as will Reyne’s, I am sure. My father will balk at first but be pleased by the outcome. He hates being at odds with a man he respects, whose lands border his own.

  Some might say my wedding to Reyne is little different than theirs was all those years ago. The idea was not mine, but Moray’s, and yet it feels different. I desire Reyne very much, but I also like her.

  “She’s coming.”

  Flanked by her father on one side, her brother on the other, Reyne appears at the hall’s entrance, its inhabitants clearly happy to have capped their tournament celebrations with an impromptu wedding. The only one not so pleased is the Elderman, who has reluctantly agreed to marry us. He protested the lack of proper time between announcing the betrothal and this quick ceremony, arguing at least a sennight should pass between the two. His appeal for our exchange of vows to be held in front of Ledenhill’s chapel had even been overruled, our host preferring to provide enough room for all wishing to attend the festivities.

  I watch as Reyne approaches me through a sea of mostly strangers, pausing to kiss her father and then Warin, both of whom she has forgiven for their deceit. They peel away, leaving just the two of us. Or so it seems. Wearing the dress she donned the eve of Havefest, her hair falling around her shoulders in red waves of fire, Reyne looks at me.

  In a few moments, this woman will be my wife. And although our wedding night may not be the one I’d like to give her, as we leave immediately after this ceremony for Breywood, I vow it will be memorable nonetheless. That small taste of her was not enough.

  I take her hand in mine and promise to her, without words, that she will not regret this day. My cheeks hurt from smiling by the time the Elderman finishes the requisite prayers. I want this. But does she? Or is Reyne marrying me out of the same duty that brought me to her?

  “Repeat my words, Lord Stokerton.”

  So I do.

  “I take thee, Lady Reyne, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward.” Reyne’s eyes look wide and nervous. “For better or for worse, for fairer or fouler, to love and to cherish, till death us depart. According to God’s holy ordinance, and thereunto I plight thee my troth.”

  Reyne, her voice more hesitant than I’d wish it to be, repeats the words, and we are proclaimed husband and wife.

  Cheers erupt in the hall. I am pulled from Reyne almost immediately, embraced by Gille and my squire too. Hand grabbed and shaken by my new brother and father-in-law, and then the men who serve them. It is not until the hall has cleared out, save for about fifty people, and the trestle tables are pulled from the walls, that I am reunited with Reyne once more.

  Not Lady Reyne, I remind myself, but my wife.

  “Is that typical?” she asks as we are seated at a table for the two of us alone. As is customary, we are placed just below the dais and off to the side. And though many people are gazing at us with open curiosity, we can at last speak with each other. “To be pulled away after the ceremony as we were? I’ve not seen that before.”

  Our trenchers and goblets are filled, and the host and hostess make a toast that once again interrupts our conversation. All seem in good spirits, which is as it should be at a wedding. Even one that was conceived of just a few weeks earlier and planned in less than a day. Reyne slept here in the keep last eve. Bathed, her hair pulled back from her face by two braided strands, she looks as refreshed as I feel after a long dip in the river this morn. The same one we will need to cross as we head back to the capital.

  As we toast, our eyes meet. A wave of desire surges through me. Which reminds me.

  “Our wedding night,” I say, lowering my voice, “should not be in a tent. If we leave just after the meal, we can make Rymerden by sunset.”

  Lips slightly parted, my wife is, I hope, remembering the kisses we’ve shared. I’ve so much more to teach her. So much more for us to explore with each other.

  And a lifetime to do it. Though I’d prefer not to wait quite so long.

  “I’d have hoped,” she pauses. “I’d have hoped to speak with my mother, or even my maid, before a wedding night I’m little prepared for.”

  I’d thought of that as well.

  “We are husband and wife. There is naught you cannot ask me, naught you need be shy to say”—I smile—“or do with me. This night or any other. Do you understand?”

  It is not the same, I realize that. But I will have to do, as both her husband and her confidant.

  She nods.

  “But first I must tell you.” The look on her face reminds me that the boldness of her youth has largely been stolen from her, replaced with a fear I wish I could take away. “There are two river crossings, as there were on your way here, and another which is bridged. I will be by your side each time. You may ride with me, or on your own if you’d like. You will be safe, Reyne. I give you my word.”

  Although she licks her lips in distraction, not as an entice
ment, I cannot help but stare, growing more and more uncomfortable with each passing moment. There’s no help for it but to look away, and to bide my time until this eve.

  When Reyne becomes my wife in every way.

  21

  Reyne

  How is it possible I am here, in a bedchamber of a castle I’ve never heard of before, in a place I never knew existed, waiting for a man who is now my husband?

  Was it just this morn I walked into the great hall at Ledenhill and said the vows that saw me wed? After bidding goodbye to Warin and my father, who promised to send my belongings to Breywood Castle, we set off for Rymerden. Everything is moving impossibly fast, but Erik promised we will return home to see Mother as soon as it is safe.

  After the wedding, we had a long day of travel, punctuated by a terrifying river crossing that had me clinging to Erik. Once we arrived, the maid who was sent to help me was kind enough to have a bath drawn, but that was long ago.

  I expected Erik long before now.

  The bedchamber is pleasant enough—decorated with two large blue wall coverings bearing the Tree of Loigh and an overly large, ominous-looking bed—but is nevertheless as foreign as the one I slept in last eve.

  Nothing since I’ve left Blackwell has felt familiar. Perhaps that is the nature of marriage, of tying your life to someone outside of your home. It is to be expected, I suppose, but it is jarring nonetheless.

  The door opens, and Erik enters just as I place my wooden brush back into the trunk along with my other belongings. It is the first time we have been alone all day, and even in the candlelight I can see he is glad for it.

  Before I can utter a word, Erik strides toward me. He does not pause before hauling me to him, his head swooping down to mine. My lips open of their own accord, and just as he did before, all those days ago, he persuades me to open for him with his tongue. I have fretted over this decision a thousand times in the last few days, but every last doubt flees with his kiss.

  I can feel his desire. His hips press to mine as a flutter in my stomach moves lower. Erik groans, his hands suddenly everywhere. At first, they are pressed flat against my back. But then one moves toward my waist, grasping the material there before sliding up the front of my shift.