Hugh lowered her to the ground. “Shall we wander about and greet our guests?”
“ ’Twould be proper.”
The hand she placed on his arm trembled. When he covered it with his own, fire burst through him.
There was a flurry upon the knoll leading to the castle.
Both Hugh and Morrigan looked. She noted how he angled her to the back of him, just a hair.
“Maman!” Rhys roared from his place up the glen between two burly MacKays. He ran toward her, legs and arms pumping, falling and getting up again to race faster than the two MacKays at his heels.
MacKay cursed, allowing her to move to the side of him again.
Still dazed she turned to the boy, opening her arms wide. He threw himself into them. “They’s said I’m to be them. I aren’t, are I? I’m Welsh like you.”
Hugh felt a stab of feeling unknown to him. Damn! To watch her cuddle the child, rain kisses on his face, raised his ire, and more. He wanted her touch over him instead of on the boy. “You are MacKay, and Welsh,” he told Rhys, lifting him away from his mother, more than irked when she showed reluctance to release the boy.
Lifting him high, Hugh commanded that Rhys look about him. “All that you see belongs to MacKay. A portion is yours one day.”
White-faced, Morrigan watched.
Hugh felt her glance. Was it through a veil of deceit? As her husband he’d just offered land to the boy and made him an heir to a portion of MacKay holdings. Did she resent the offer? He knew that her Welsh hectares would go to the boy. Did she think he should have more than he’d bestowed on the lad?
“I do not think you need to worry about estates, Rhys.” Morrigan lifted her arms, but his circled Hugh’s neck.
“No, maman, I’ll stay here.” He shoved his thumb in his mouth and grinned around it at Hugh. “I can see everything.”
Taken aback, Morrigan could only stare.
Father Monteith came up to her side. “The boy surprised you, milady?”
“Yes. Rhys connects with few people. He’s very possessive of me, and short-tempered with most, including his peers, Father.” She bit her lip. “Sometimes I’ve worried that he might be too attached to me after our arrival in Scotland.” She shook her head. “He takes me aback, Father. To see him look around him, cuddled up to Hugh’s shoulder, feeling at home, seeming content, is a relief.”
“Children find their way,” the priest whispered.
Morrigan nodded, listening to what Hugh was saying to the boy.
“And why do you speak the patois of the Galls, Rhys Llywelyn?”
Rhys removed his thumb. “Maman says I must.”
“Then you must speak Gaelic as well.” Hugh laughed when the boy rolled his eyes. “Go with Tor and Andrus. They would show you your horse.”
Rhys’s eyes widened. “A horse? Truly?”
“A MacKay is never false to his own, by word or deed, nor does he walk when he can ride. You have a horse.”
“Oh.” Rhys pondered that. “And am I MacKay or a Llywelyn?”
“Both,” Hugh told him.
Rhys smiled. “Good. I want to see my horse.”
Morrigan put out her hand.
Hugh could see she wanted to protest that the boy had been given more than enough. He didn’t need anything else. Hugh shook his head and she paused.
“I wouldn’t wipe the joy from his eyes,” she murmured. “Be good for Tor and Andrus.” She took him from Hugh and hugged him. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes. And I’ll be good.” He pushed against her, wriggling to get down and run ahead of the two warriors who were after him in an instant.
It crossed Hugh’s mind that the boy was as dark of eyes and tress as other Welsh he’d known. Neither did he resemble his mother with his stocky build and skin that would brown in the sun. He would be a big man one day and he, Hugh of MacKay, would call him firstborn.
“I fear Tor would rather fight a boar than monitor your son.”
Morrigan chuckled. “He’s a handful.”
“But you don’t mind.”
“I love him,” she said, looking up at Hugh.
A terrific force hit him in the chest. He’d never needed what some referred to as love. The power to lead his clan and protect it was all he craved. Now another potency had taken the breath from his body, and had his heart hammering against his ribs. Used to seeking, finding, and nailing down his needs and wants by cajolery, battle, or intrigue, it stunned him that he was all but impotent to gain what he desired most. The woman and all the feeling she could have. It would have to be freely given, for in no other way could he savor the passion he knew was there, embedded in those eyes and in his wife’s wonderful form. He wanted it all, not from duty, but from the same emotion that spurred her feelings toward the boy.
Hugh was glad when a border laird caught her attention. It allowed him to study her, and steady himself. It wouldn’t do to let her know how many times she’d shaken his equanimity. She had power enough.
“Och, milady, you honor all of Scotland wi’ your words.”
Hugh blinked, concentrating. What had she said to old Gordon?
“Not at all, sirrah. I’ve been to your border lands and seen your wondrous herds of sheep and stoat. Marvelous they are, to be sure.” She swept her hand in a small arc. “The hills so green and purple, the sky so blue. Even your mist has magic.” Morrigan felt Hugh’s gaze even as she conversed with the bluff borderer. “I’ve also heard of your family, er, clan, Laird Gordon. Their wondrous deeds are sung far and wide.”
Pushing out his chest, he put his ham hand on her arm. “You’ll do, missy, you’ll do.” He gazed at Hugh. “ ’Tis blest you are, MacKay. So I’ve said it. Give her good care or answer to me.”
Hugh ground his teeth staring at Gordon. When the borderer glared for a moment, then roared with mirth, Hugh’s fists ached to connect with the older man’s jaw. Ian Gordon had been like a father to him. Damn his eyes!
“Be on your guard, missy. Your laird is a jealous lump.”
“What…” She was talking to air. Gordon had wandered off. “What did he—?”
“Nothing. We’ll tarry here, and taste the sweets that’ve come from the kitchen.” Hugh took hold of her waist and swung her over the nearby bench, then seated himself at her side. As custom demanded, he tasted the cakes and buns first, then fed them to her. He didn’t hear the ribald remarks. His attention was on his bride, who had only bites of the sweets and sips of the wine.
Much of the time she continued to bow, smile, and greet those who dared to approach, despite the glares from the Earl of MacKay. His own clan gave his trencher board a wide berth. Others were not so wise.
FOUR
Now Eros had shaken my thoughts, like a windamong the highland oaks.
Sappho
Interminable platters of food, crocks of wines and ales continued long after most had finished and contributed to a queasiness that shook Morrigan. She declined offer after offer, understanding the generosity, the labor, the honor, bestowed by the many workers, but she wasn’t able to swallow anything more. She stared at the mounds of food left after most were sated.
“What is it, wife?”
His smile, his golden eyes that seemed molten, went over her, heating her. He was too appealing. She’d not expected that. Not just a brawny barbarian, but a perceptive man, one who’d showed care to a five-year-old. Such gestures were not common in the known world. Since meeting him she’d come to understand that most women would find him attractive. The shock was that she’d come to agree with that and hate that other women would look upon him so. She should seek a priest and confess her vagaries. Ponder something else, anything. “I want what’s not eaten given to the indigent.”
“None without food or shelter reside upon your land, Princess. MacKays see to their own.” He touched the heavy ring on her finger. “So the princess from Wales considers her people. Wife, I didn’t need to find more of your virtue. You entice me enough.”
&nbs
p; Morrigan just stared. He’d shocked her once more. He wanted to see her hair. He’d called her a woman of virtue when all believed her to be whore. When he touched her headdress she trembled and blushed. “Sirrah, I…”
“Pardon. You said?”
“What of neighboring—”
“It shall be done. ’Tis your bride’s day, so it shall be as you wish.”
“Thank you.” She couldn’t look at him, though she sensed he wished she would. He made her dizzy, as though she suffered from the winter weakening.
The worst of it was ahead of her. It hurt to admit that she’d come to feel a measure of admiration, and a liking for her spouse though they’d only met hours ago. What was there about him that made her blood rise, that caused her innards to squeeze, her heart to jerk instead of pump? Such had never occurred even with Tarquin of Cardiff, who’d told her he would approach the elders in the Llywelyn family and request a betrothal. Not once had she had this uncomfortable beating of blood, the hammering of heart that occurred each time Hugh MacKay was near. MacKay had a strange effect, indeed.
What would he be like in a temper? He could rage and beat her. None would interfere. That could happen that very evening. The knowledge that she came to him a virgin… with a son, could be too much to bear. He could scream perfidy, and the thrashings could begin. To some it was the normal way of things. The pain of lashings made her fearful. She’d not ever been struck. Her father had been a gentle man.
Even more it sickened her to think of the contempt that could mar those strong features of Hugh MacKay when he discovered she’d deceived him, that she hadn’t birthed a child. He might consider it an even more pernicious act that she’d dared to request and receive the regency of Trevelyan lands, when she’d hidden the heir to the holdings under the guise he was her son. Would he see her as greedy schemer? He might perceive her dealings with Edward Baliol as dire intrigue, as taking control of the estate under false pretenses for her own uses. He could be angered that her actions could jeopardize his own holdings, his fragile, new grasp on his ancestral lands.
To her eyes there was nothing about the night ahead that boded anything but ill for her. If only he’d been an unconscionable boor, an ignoramus, or a gross barbarian. Hugh MacKay was none of those. Nay, he was a man of many parts. She sought distraction from her black thoughts and found none. Woe to the woman who carries a secret to her marriage bed!
“Have all these festivities tired you, Morrigan?”
His whisper went through her like a sweet knife. “No… no, I can carry on, milord.”
“ ’Tis not necessary. I shall—”
A sudden flurry at the gates was a welcome sound until she saw Rhys coming at her again, this time riding a horse! Not a small steed, but a destrier. “Sweet mother of God.”
“Shhh. Don’t fret.”
“Good Lord! He shouldn’t have had such a large horse, should he? Is that not a destrier used for war?” She moved around Hugh, fully intent on intercepting the cantering beast and Rhys, who hung on to the mane, his short legs flapping on the animal’s back, his mouth wide open.
“Ma-man! Lo-ok a-at me-e!”
Before she could do more than take one step, Hugh moved in front of her. “Wait. Nothing must startle the animal. Trust me.” Then he strode toward the horse. “Everyone remain still.” He saw the harried MacKays behind the steed, but spared them barely a glance.
“Hugh! There were four of us. He eluded us all. How the hell he mounted Orion, I don’t know.”
“I have him, Toric. No one move.” Hugh put his hands up. The destrier, independent and able to factor predicaments because of his highly intelligent ways, glared at Hugh, his ears back.
Morrigan held her breath, moving step by step toward Rhys.
“No, milady, you mustn’t interfere with the laird. Orion is one of his. The steed knows the master. ’Twill be fine. You’ll see.” Laird Gordon tried to pull her back. She wouldn’t budge. “So, you are as headstrong as your spouse. I see chaos in your future, but then again, ’twas what I had.” His dry laugh pulled no answering one from her. He held her at his side.
Hugh put his hand on the destrier’s snout. “You would defy me, old friend, when I’ve given so many gracious ladies to your keeping. Consider your mare, Eufeme. Was she not sweet and gracious?” Hugh’s soothing tone droned on, even as he took hold of the stallion by the nostrils with one hand, and reached for Rhys with the other.
“No,” Rhys said, edging backward, making the destrier quiver. “We’re friends. He wants me here. He said so.”
Morrigan’s hands twisted together. She fought for breath.
“Is that right?” Hugh said, seeming to ponder what Rhys said. “You’ve made a choice, then?”
“I have.”
“Fine. For now, you must come down so that Orion can be fed and pastured. Would you deny your friend his meal? He’s a great warrior and has earned good care.”
Rhys’s face screwed into thought. Then he nodded and moved toward Hugh’s hand that scooped him from the back of the huge horse.
The concerted sighs of relief drowned out Morrigan’s shaky thanks to God.
Hugh kept the boy on his shoulder and handed the reins to Toric.
“The boy reminds me of you,” Laird Gordon said to Hugh, keeping hold of Morrigan as they moved toward her husband. “You were always pigheaded.”
Morrigan didn’t see the humor. She had eyes for Rhys, catching him in her arms and hugging him.
“Maman! Don’t. I have to help Toric with the horse…” Before he could finish what he was saying a giant yawn caught his lips and parted them.
Morrigan looked at Hugh as she set Rhys on his feet. “I thank you, milord.”
His smile came and went. “You’re welcome.” He looked at Rhys. “As for you, for disobeying the Mac-Kays who were put in charge of you, you will clean out the stables for one week with Jaxe.”
Morrigan opened her mouth.
Rhys was ahead of her. “I will do that.”
She looked down at him, shaken that he would so easily accept his penance. His eyes were shining!
“And you’ll mount nothing unless Jaxe, Eamon, or Toric is with you.”
Rhys’s head bobbed up and down, his eyes fixed on Hugh, seeming unaware of the silenced party guests who watched.
Morrigan touched the top of the boy’s head, her hand only shaking a bit. “Come along. This party has gone on long enough for you. We’ll find your bed.”
“No. Don’ wanna’,” he told her, his mouth opening on another yawn.
“Yes, you do.” Grasping his hand firmly, she turned the boy. She was about to tell Hugh where she was going when she realized he was deep in conversation with Toric and Gordon. She hoped he’d know where she’d gone. Speed was necessary. If Rhys became too tired he’d cause another ruckus. His lung power could be awesome.
Whisking him from the dining and drinking guests took too much time as it was. Many had her pausing to comment on the courage of her son riding a destrier. She had every intention of telling Rhys he’d never ride another horse until he was a man if he ever attempted to mount a destrier again. She tried not to slight anyone, but Rhys was getting crabbier by the minute.
Finally she reached the castle and hurried him through the bailey, then in under the portico and through the wide open doors. She was all but running. She didn’t care. Throwing aside dignity was better than having a battle with a five-year-old with a mind of his own.
Passing no one, she all but carried the hefty lad up the stairs that hugged one wall. Getting him into the chamber that connected to her guest chamber took time. He whined for milk, for sweets, for ginger beer, for strawberry ale. His eyes were closing as she undressed him, gave him a quick wash, and put him beneath the covers. He was mumbling protests as she tucked him in and kissed his cheek.
“Oh! Milady, I didn’t think you’d be up here. I’ll take care of the boy, if you wish.”
“I wish to let him sleep. You are Li
lybet. I remember.”
At the nod, Morrigan continued. “He’s exhausted. Let him sleep. If he awakens before the last feast is served, he may wish to eat something else. Otherwise let him sleep the night away.”
Lilybet nodded. “I will.”
Morrigan tried to smile, but nothing quite buried the rising panic she felt at the coming night. The sun had gone. Flambeaux lit the glen and castle. Soon there’d be the awful “headache heaviness,” as the wedding night had come to be called. Taken from the Celtic and Latin customs by the Scots, they’d brought it to a methodology unheard of by the ancients, she was sure. It had become one of their cherished traditions. Charivari! The dreaded night of copulation when the bride would be sport for all the groom’s friends, where rape occurred at regular intervals, where women… She swayed, pondering what could occur.
“Milady! You are faint. Here, let me help you. Lie down—”
“No! I… I must go.”
“Ya canna gang awa’ this way,” the handmaiden broke into the patois of Gaelic and Anglo. “You’re fair sickened, swaying like a reed you were.”
Morrigan pushed at the hands that held her, the moist pieces of lint held to her head. “Please, I—”
The door crashed open. MacKay stood there, others of his clan behind him. His eyes found her, the sleeping child, the ministering women all faster than the light that courses the sky when Thor himself rumbles across the heavens. His Viking connections allowed the great gods into his life. Not that he believed in much beyond his own powers. She was sure he didn’t. Did the mighty MacKay believe in anything but himself? It scored her feelings to know that whatever small trust he had in her would be flayed alive that very night.
“What ails milady?”
His mild query didn’t fool Morrigan. His eyes danced with fury.
“Nothing,” she answered, cursing the hoarseness in her voice.
He went around the handmaiden hovering over Morrigan. She faded back as though a large besom had swept around the room. He lifted Morrigan’s hand, his fingers pressing on the inner wrist.
The Pledge Page 6