He read it quickly, once, then again.
“Bryce,” he said, and there was wrath in his tone.
“I think so,” she replied. “The woman I was visiting that night at the inn at Trayleigh, she told me the same thing. That Bryce had bought the Picts.”
“Why haven’t you informed me of this before?”
She set her pole down on the grass and leaned back on her hands. “I thought it none of your concern, frankly.”
He paused. “And now?”
Avalon sighed. “I suppose now I would like your opinion on it.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes, reading her so clearly. “What, had you planned to take revenge on Bryce alone, is that it? That’s why you didn’t say anything?”
She faced him fully. “Of course I did. I could not let this go unanswered.”
“No.” He read the note again. “I understand.”
“Good.”
“But it doesn’t actually condemn Bryce by name. It merely gives your family name.”
“I know. There’s the knot. And the coinage was French.”
“And Warner d’Farouche has been living in France for almost twenty years,” Marcus said slowly.
Avalon nodded. “You perceive my problem.”
“Hanoch never captured even one of those Picts, and he had the resources to do it, if anyone could. I know he tried. He told me that much.”
“Well, he captured someone, apparently. This MacFarland. It was enough.”
“The MacFarlands are southeast of here. I could have a man there in three days.”
“Don’t bother,” said Avalon. “I imagine he’s dead, as well”
Marcus looked away from her, out to the deep, still water before them and then the rushing falls beyond.
“Interesting,” he said.
Avalon’s line jerked, she had to leap for her pole as it began to slide into the water.
Marcus said, “Looks like your feathers have caught dinner.”
Chapter Eleven
Of course, Marcus sent an inquiry to the MacFarlands anyway. Despite what Avalon said about Keith MacFarland being dead—and his instinct told him she was correct—he couldn’t let the information lie. He needed confirmation.
She seemed content to allow him this liberty, and he did not doubt it was a liberty, bestowed upon him by her. She was a warrior indeed, fully capable of carrying out her own plans. Yet for reasons of her own she had brought him closer to her, had shared information vital to one of a warrior’s most intimate acts—revenge—not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
Another compliment, Marcus supposed. At least, he was going to take it as such. Now he had to do whatever he could to ensure she didn’t go off and get herself killed by her cousins.
His baser emotions told him to lock her up again, to hide her away in the secure little room he had chosen for her, protect her. Watching her proudly carry back the string of trout they had caught this morning, light-hearted from this simple pastime, it had taken a great deal of willpower to allow her to retire freely to her chamber. He had to go into his solar and focus on nothing for long minutes to rid himself of the desire to imprison her for her own good, to keep her safe here at Sauveur.
Eventually he had conquered this impulse and pulled together a group of men to go to the MacFarlands. Avalon had unwittingly handed him what might be the key to her own undoing: If he could prove that either of the d’Farouches were behind the raid on Trayleigh, Warner’s claim would be forfeit. Marcus would win.
And Avalon would be unequivocally his.
She would not be able to find her sanctuary. There could be no other outcome to this dance, as far as Marcus was concerned. She had to marry him.
Already she faltered in her determination to leave, he knew. Already he had found the chink in her defenses, and he had been steadily enlarging that chink ever since. She felt for the clan. She harmonized with Sauveur. She belonged here as surely as any of them did.
And, whether she knew it yet or not, she belonged to him. She would see this as well, with time. So time was what he intended to give her. At least for now.
Let her walk the halls of the castle. Let her converse with anyone she wished. Let her become so intertwined with life here that she could never disentangle herself from the clan, from Marcus. It would happen.
She paced above him now, outlining the perimeter of the castle. He knew this, though no one had come to tell him of it. Marcus knew it because he felt it. Because what he had told her about being able to find her had been, God help him, the simple truth. He could feel her with his thoughts. He could place her as sure as anything, and that was perhaps the final thing that made him allow her to remain free. Marcus knew where she was, anyway. So let her roam.
Avalon turned her face into the wind that blew in from the south, let it push back her hair and cool her brow. The day was finished but still she felt disinclined to go back to her room, which seemed to get smaller and smaller every time she walked in. She had been unable to nap after fishing, and spent her time instead tossing and turning on the pallet, struggling to clear her thoughts.
Marcus, framed against the scarlet and gold of the forest.
Marcus, smiling at her as he handed her the tart. Marcus, congratulating her as she pulled in her first trout.
Marcus.
At supper he had seemed removed again despite the fact that they all ate the trout she and Marcus had caught that morning, amid easy smiles and laughter. He was now very much the laird—that swift shifting in him that still managed to catch her off guard—talking to his people, holding a polite conversation with Ellen to inquire how the stewardship was going. Avalon knew he had sent out men to the MacFarlands, and this preoccupied him, too. But he had barely looked at her during the meal.
Sauveur was truly a stately castle, she thought as she continued her walk. The gray and black stones created an air of dignity and power, a very apt dwelling place for the chief of the Kincardines. Already repairs were in motion using some of her wealth, hastening to beat the onset of winter. Yesterday some of the men had worked in shifts on the stable roof, patching and strengthening it to bear the weight of the coming snow.
It gratified her, knowing it was her inheritance from her mother that made it possible; just a few coins traded for practical materials. There was so much more work to do. But now there was also the means to do it.
The sentries greeted her as she passed, and she called them each by name, pleased that she had remembered.
Avalon liked it up here at the very top of Sauveur, above the trees, scraping the sky. From here she could see for miles. It felt like freedom, though it was false.
Ahead of her, in a nook in the turret stones, a family of larks had made their nest. She could hear them contentedly crooning to each other as she approached.
But when she came around the corner she found it was the wizard crooning to the larks, and they who listened, looking down at the robed man.
He saw her and gave a short whistle, an exact replica of the lark’s song she had heard in her father’s garden on that fateful night, what seemed like ages ago.
She halted, staring, and he did it again, then bowed to her.
“You are a wizard,” she said before she could help herself.
Balthazar smiled. “I think not, lady.”
Avalon walked closer, crossing her arms together to block out the wind. It was growing colder. Perhaps it was that wisp of freedom she felt from being so close to the infinity of heaven. Perhaps it was the comforting shield of the darkness that made her feel safe, a blanket of obscurity to hide her differences. For whatever reason, she found herself saying to the wizard, “But the other night in the solar you told me to listen to the dream.”
“Yes. And did you?”
“You must know what happened.”
“I am but a lowly servant, lady. I know nothing.”
“Oh, a lowly servant indeed,” she scoffed. “That might work on those who cannot see y
ou, but I can.”
“Can you?”
Avalon hesitated, aware that she had trapped herself. “You are not just a servant,” she finished lamely.
Balthazar turned away from her, looking back up at the larks. “Not many see as you do, lady. Yet you scorn your gift. You hide from it. It is most puzzling.”
“I see nothing more than the next person,” she said, suddenly afraid for no good reason, except that now the cold stuck to her bones, and this man was leading her down a crooked trail she had no wish to follow.
“Did you not see the serpent? Did you not taste the water? Were you not in the desert?”
“No,” she lied. “Such a power is not real.”
“A sad contradiction, a willing blindness from the most sighted.”
“It is not a contradiction!” Avalon hugged herself tighter. “All I have seen or heard is nothing but the formation of logic! Nothing that any intelligent person could not reason out.”
Balthazar gave a song to the larks, and one of them answered him back, a sweet succession of notes.
“Superstition is for the ignorant,” Avalon whispered.
“Yes. But there are many things which cannot be explained away with superstition, lady. The world is vast. God is great. We cannot understand it all.”
“You said you renounced your vows,” she accused, feeling somehow betrayed.
“I did. But I have not renounced God, merely the church.” Now he laughed out loud, from his belly. “God would not stand to be renounced! He is everywhere, He is everything!”
The wizard turned to her, came close, so close she could follow the swirling lines of the tattoos on his cheeks. “God granted you your power, lady. God gave you this gift.” His voice was deep, hypnotic. “It is your destiny. You will succumb.”
“No!” She pushed past him, almost running down the wall-walk to the next turret, the next door that could take her away from this conversation.
Inside the winding stairway the murky light buried her, veiling her, and she began to slow down and take the stairs at an even pace.
How stupid, to run away like that! She had let her own fears take over her heart, and now she looked like nothing more than a frightened child, scared of spun stories in the dark.
She rued her actions, very much so, and actually considered going back up the stairs to find Balthazar again, to show him she was not intimidated by his words.
But the night was advancing in rapid steps, and this was reason enough, Avalon considered, not to return to the wall-walk. She was exhausted. She had not slept in so long. Better to sleep and let the accusations of the wizard retreat to nothingness over the course of the night. Better not to think about what he had said at all.
She had left her chamber well lit before she began her prowl, knowing it would be full evening before she returned. Yet to her surprise the lamps had gone out, all but one, a steadfast flame on the little table. And then she saw why the rest were dark.
Marcus was waiting for her, leaning out the narrow window as she so often did, though she doubted he did it for the same reason. Avalon hesitated as she entered the room, surprised and unsurprised, because she couldn’t deny there was a tiny part of her that had expected to see him here, that had wanted to see him.
She opened the door as wide as it would go and stood there.
“My lord. Is there something you require?”
He had moved her pallet to one side so that he could stand directly in front of the window.
“I was just wondering,” he said slowly but did not turn around, “what you thought might be the appeal of a nun’s life.”
She closed her eyes, not wanting to speak again on this topic, knowing there could be no answer that would satisfy him.
“My lord, I must ask you to leave. I am too tired to spar with you now.”
“I don’t want you to spar with me.” He turned to face her; the small curve to his lips showed her he had found some amusement in her words. “This may come as a surprise to you, Avalon, but I really don’t enjoy fighting at all.”
She looked away, down to the smoking flicker of the lone flame, then back up to him.
“Will you leave?”
“Are those my choices? Either we fight, or I leave?”
“It would seem so.”
His smile grew thinner—but still amused. “Am I that disagreeable to you?”
Avalon pressed herself back against the door, feeling surprisingly cornered. “If you wish to discuss my decision to join a nunnery, then yes, you are disagreeable to me.”
“And if I wish to discuss our marriage, then I am also disagreeable to you.”
“Since there is no marriage to discuss,” she retorted, “then yes.”
“And if I wish to discuss the fulfillment of the legend, then—”
“Why are you here?” she interrupted.
Marcus tilted his head, gave her a piercing look. “I am here to be disagreeable, obviously.”
“You are succeeding.”
“It’s nice to know I’m succeeding at something.” He moved away from the window and went over to the lamp, picking it up, studying the flame.
“I thought I could do it,” he said to the light after a moment. “I thought I could give you time, but I’m beginning to think that I can’t.”
She felt a strange tenderness as she watched him, the flame only complimenting his features, the strong profile, a rakish lock of ebony hair falling over his brow. She wanted to brush back his hair for him. She wanted to touch him. It almost hurt her, how much she wished she could do this simple thing.
“I just want to go to sleep,” she heard herself saying softly.
“Sleeping is easier than fighting, isn’t it?” he asked, again with that small smile.
She couldn’t reply to this; the tenderness melted away to annoyance that he seemed to defeat whatever she said with his unconventional reasoning. She walked over to him and took the lamp from his hands, placing it firmly on the table again.
“My lord, I will thank you to leave now.”
He looked up and met her eyes squarely amid the dancing shadows.
Avalon, truelove, come to bed with me.
Her mouth fell open at the surprise of it, the clarity of his thought deliberately reaching out to her, penetrating her, the force of his desire almost paralyzing her.
He watched her back up in halting steps, shaking her head now, a denial of his invitation or the entire experience, he couldn’t tell.
She turned away from him then and was almost running for the door, anything to get away from him. But he had to stop her, he couldn’t let her go like this—not like this, afraid and appalled, when all he had meant to do was bring her into his life and worship her.
Without thought, Marcus took the short steps needed to catch up with her in the hallway, reached out and caught her arm, meaning to say something to make her understand—
His arm was taken and turned and the world flipped around him in a dizzy streak, until he found himself lying on his back on the floor, staring up at Avalon framed against the sharp arch of the ceiling.
Her hands were still on his arm. She was pale, breathing hard, and looked as stunned as he felt.
“I’m sorry,” she said, releasing him. “I didn’t mean to. I just …”
She backed away from him, shaking her head again, no more words, and then she was gone back into her room, slamming the door shut.
Behind him came a low chuckle.
Marcus sat up, wincing, and didn’t bother to look at Balthazar.
“I have heard, Kincardine, that patience is listed as a virtue.”
Bal came over to where he sat on the stone floor, and continued, “Perhaps you should consider adding a virtue or two to your soul. I believe you would find it most beneficial.” He held out his hand, pulled Marcus to his feet. “In the meantime, I have an excellent salve for your head.”
“It is not my head,” Marcus replied, “which particularly hurts.”
<
br /> “Ah,” said Bal. “I have no salve for wounded pride.”
They began to move off down the hall, Marcus rubbing his head. “I was actually referring to a different portion of my anatomy.”
And Bal, who would never mistake his meaning, laughed again. “I have no salve for wounded hearts, either.”
Two more days passed under a haze of fog that blanketed the castle and the lands. Avalon moved her lessons indoors, with plenty of helpers to push aside the benches and tables of the great hall and make room for her pupils. She now had, in addition to the children, six men and two women, one of which was Ellen. Others still clustered close to watch, commenting to each other on what they saw, even applauding some of the youngsters when they mastered a difficult move.
It was pleasing in some indefinable way, watching the people grow and adapt to what she taught them, watching them learn for pleasure what she had learned for self-defense.
Marcus still studied her while she taught, although he made no move to join in. But she knew he memorized what he saw. Avalon tried not to let it make her nervous. All he ever did was stare at her in that thoughtful way, with perhaps a shade of a dare in his stance.
And no matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she sought to distract herself, what had happened the night he came to her room would not leave her thoughts. That clear, unvarnished message from his mind—more command than entreaty—that sweeping want from him, deliberately sent to her, would not fade. She had felt her knees buckle with the force of it. She had felt her own desire for him crash through her, even though she didn’t want it to. He must have known.
He watched her now with an intensity that she swore followed her wherever she went, even when he wasn’t in the room. He was not playing with her, he was deadly serious.
He had asked her—asked her—to marry him twice more in as many days, just plain words, no thoughts pushed into her mind, and each time she said no, he grew colder, more hostile.
She regretted hurting him, but worse than that, in a hidden space of her heart was a kernel of what felt like fear.
She wanted to deny it. She wanted to believe she was fearless, but that was folly. Instinctively she knew she was not afraid of him, but rather for him.
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