Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

  Easier to escape, she thought woefully. He was not nearly so horrible in his person as she had imagined, but that didn’t change the fact that he would take over her life, take her island, take her place. Destroy her happiness. She closed her eyes, remembering how she had assured Ewan she would love him forever. And what now? What mockery did this make of the tenderness and the friendship they had shared?

  She heard the bolt sliding and sat up, hands gripped on the rim of the tub. If it were Angus, she had learned, he would politely inquire if he could enter.

  And if it were not …?

  It wasn’t Angus. The door was opening, and no one was asking her permission to enter.

  She sprang from the water like lightning, sweeping a towel around her. In the corner of the room, with his armor, was a handsomely engraved claymore. She raced across the room, seized the claymore, held it in one hand and her towel in the other, as the door opened.

  Waryk had returned.

  She stared at him, cold despite the heat of the fire that burned to her back, plagued by hot tremors deep inside despite the cold that had seized her.

  He looked at her, noting the bath, the towel, the claymore. He walked toward her with such a silent menace she felt a new fear.

  Had the king been furious enough to tell him to kill her?

  “Come no closer!” she warned, dropping the towel to wield the sword in both hands.

  But he ignored her. Blue ice eyes on hers, he strode toward her, despite the second warning she whispered as he came before her.

  She didn’t move, and he grabbed the blade of the sword, putting it flat against his heart. “Do it. Kill me.”

  “Stop it! I can, you know. I have the strength—”

  “Then try it, if your hatred is so great—”

  “I don’t hate you! I don’t want to hurt you, I—”

  He thrust the blade away from his heart, then wrenched it from her hands and sent the heavy weapon spinning across the room. She felt her nudity keenly, but he didn’t even seem to notice it.

  “The king knows that you have returned, and you are in my keeping,” he said. “And I am tired. Exhausted.”

  She didn’t know what he was telling her, but she could feel her flesh breaking out in chills, her nipples were hardening to little peaks, her limbs quaking. She inched down to sweep up her towel again, so anxious for its cover that she quickly interrupted him, “Sleep, please, I don’t wish to disturb you—”

  “You won’t. You may remain here, my lady. We’ll talk later.”

  He strode to the door and paused, his back still to her. “Don’t take a weapon against me again, Mellyora. If you do, you had best use it.”

  The door opened and closed. She heard the bolt scrape across it. She slipped to the floor, huddled in the towel, shaking. He hated her. Loathed her. Her future seemed more dire than ever. There just had to be some kind of escape! Not just because of her. Because of him. Because of his strength. His eyes. The way he looked at her. Because she could not wield a weapon against him, and because she was still shaking, so cold, and still, on fire …

  Sleep was not easy to come by. He was exhausted. He tossed, turned. Dozed. Dreamed.

  He allowed himself to dream of Eleanora. Gentle, a balm, a soothing ointment, she wrapped herself around him with her warmth, her whisper, her words. She lay beneath him, she rode him, hair teasing his chest …

  Blond hair, golden blond hair. Long, thick, rich, luxurious, sweeping around him, entangling him.

  Her hair was dark. Her eyes were sable …

  Nay, they were blue. And in his dreams, he no longer lay with the mistress who so entranced him, but with the Viking’s daughter, and she had risen above him, naked, a child of Wodin, her sword raised against him. He seized the weapon from her, struggling with her, and she lay beneath him. Huge, sky-blue eyes upon his, and he wanted to throttle her, take the sword to her throat, and he wanted …

  He wanted to touch her.

  Wanted … her.

  Once again, she haunted his dreams. Only now, he knew her face, and her eyes, and she was tangible within his dreams, far too easy to touch …

  CHAPTER 9

  Daro met Anne as planned. So much was at stake. He meant to share a few words only, but …

  In the darkness of the night, his lips touched hers. In the richness of the shadows, he felt her love. He thought of battle, of bloodshed, of the times he had fought, of the king’s anger, his wrath …

  And still, he could not let her go.

  It was later, several minutes later than he had intended, when they spoke, breathless once again.

  “Have you heard anything new?” Daro demanded. “I’ve been told that she remains in Waryk’s chambers, tended by Angus alone.”

  “Aye. They say that the king is furious with her.”

  “Are you afraid?” he asked her.

  “Nay …” she lied.

  He smiled. “Are you ready?”

  “Aye, but I don’t know my way in this part of the castle, or what it is I’m doing exactly …”

  “Trust me. Come then, take my hand, courage!” He drew her with him to the tapestries, looking out on the hallway. No one in sight. They started down the corridor. Anne didn’t know where they were headed; Daro did.

  “Daro, this might be foolish!” she whispered breathlessly. “It would take an army to change the king’s mind where Mellyora is concerned. Your brother’s holdings were far too rich to be risked in any way. Oh, God, if they are afraid of my wicked ways if I were to marry a Viking, what would they think of Mellyora seeking the aid of her Viking kin? They will hunt you down. Once the king knows, he will want to kill you—”

  He paused, pulling her into his arms, kissing her lips. “You are my life, well worth dying for.”

  “But I don’t want you to die. I want you to live. I would rather become a novice and know that you lived, even with another woman—”

  “We will work this out,” he said, walking again. Then he suddenly pulled her against him, and they lay against the wall as he looked around the corner.

  “Angus,” he said softly. “Aye, it’s Angus.”

  “You know him well?”

  He inclined his head to her and offered her a wry grin. “The son of a nun from Iona.”

  “A nun—”

  “And a berserker. His mother was raped by a berserker. He grew up in the wilds of the Highlands, where his mother lived out her days in happiness, it is said, with her barbaric laird,” he told her. “Angus has followed Waryk since his family was slaughtered. A brave and loyal man, but a decent man.” He paused, studying the situation. “Aye, a decent man!” he said. Then he smiled at Anne. “Give me a few moments, then—scream.”

  “Scream?” she said, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  “Scream,” he repeated. “As if all the demons of hell were after you. When he comes to your aid, tell him you were startled by something in the shadows. Keep him talking for a few minutes, charm him, stall him, and I’ll free Mellyora, and meet you at the southern archway, closest to the stables. We’ll gather helmets and cloaks and ride out like drunken soldiers.”

  Anne moistened her lips. She opened her mouth to speak, but trembled instead.

  “It can work, Anne.”

  “I know.”

  “One man—and woman—can often win where an army cannot.”

  She nodded again.

  “Can you do it?”

  “Aye. It—it can work.”

  He squeezed her hand, and slipped back down the corridor to approach Waryk’s chambers from another direction.

  “It can work, but what then?” Anne said softly aloud. But he was gone, and she had her part to play. She was terrified, wondering if she could manage to scream in all her fear. She tried once … and all she got was a breathy sound that would not carry two feet. She tried again …

  And her piercing cry echoed off the hallways.

  She closed her eyes, listening as footsteps came poun
ding down the corridor.

  She opened her eyes, her mouth dry, her lips forming words she couldn’t speak.

  Angus had come. Bald, scarred, as hardened a warrior as she could imagine. She didn’t think she’d ever been so scared in her whole life. He would see right through her. They would discover that Daro had set out to free Mellyora, and they would all be accused of treason …

  Racked, disemboweled, hanged, beheaded …

  “Are you all right? What has happened? You are white as parchment, speak to me, lass, what has happened?”

  The man looked like a maddened berserker, but he spoke with a gentle enough voice, and his eyes were full of concern.

  “I’m—I’m so sorry!” she stuttered, and it was the truth. She was very sorry and very afraid. “I—I thought I saw something in the hallway. It was nothing more than my own shadow, an illusion created by the torch burning there.”

  The man looked around. “Aye, lass, there’s no one about here.” He frowned. “Who are you, and what are you doing up and about so late?”

  “Ah, sir, I’ve been with an ailing friend, and now I’m making my way to my own bed. I tell you again, I feel a complete fool to have disturbed you.” The lies were coming more and more nimbly to her lips. But did he believe a word she was saying?

  “I’d see you safe to your room, lass, but I’m afraid I must remain here. You’ll be safe enough. There’s really no danger here in the king’s hall at Stirling.”

  “No. No, of course not,” Anne agreed. She smiled. “I scared myself, sir. A flight of fancy. My friend is Irish, and you know how superstitious the Irish can be, what tales they tell about pookas and ghosts and banshees wailing in the night.”

  “Go on, lass. There are no pookas haunting these halls.”

  She smiled at him radiantly and fled down the corridor.

  Mellyora had been beside herself, trapped with a growing sense of fear and dismay, when she heard the sound of the heavy bolt rising from the door. Afraid that Waryk might be returning, she backed away from the door. But when it swung silently open and she saw Daro standing in the hallway, she uttered a little cry of joy. He quickly brought a finger to his lips. “Come now, niece, if you want no bloodshed—and not that I’d mind shedding a bit of blood in my present state of mind!—we must leave quickly and quietly.”

  Mellyora didn’t need to be warned twice. She sped out the door and waited while he closed it and slid the bolt back into place. She started to ask him a question; he brought his finger to his lip once again and took her arm, indicating that they must move down the corridor. She nodded, and fled silently along at his side.

  Long after the banqueting with the king’s family, knights, court, acrobats, and musicians in attendance, Waryk spoke with the king again in his chambers.

  He’d slept, but remained tired. He’d kept his distance from Mellyora, yet he’d begun to dream about Blue Isle, being laird of Blue Isle. Tonight the king looked more fierce, like a Highland chieftain, for he wore a rough fur coat thrown around his shoulders against the cold and he paced his room with a purpose, drawing imaginary pictures on the floor with his fire poker.

  “This property can only be maintained by my most staunch ally, Waryk,” David said, “for you see, here lies the island, and just across the water on the mainland lies the old Roman road connecting much of the Lowlands with the Highlands. The little bay is sheltered—the island creates a breakwater—offering excellent defensive positions against raiders and dockage for commerce ships. The castle on the island is impregnable; for the Romans, the legends say, it was their last bastion, the place they ran when they skirmished with Highlands tribes, but could fight no more. Troops under William the Conqueror seized it for a time, which was beneficial, since William’s architects and masons rebuilt the walls and strengthened the structure. Mellyora MacAdin’s maternal grandfather was the man who won the fortress back under my father’s rule, and I do not intend to lose it again. If this fortress falls into the wrong hands, my enemies could spill into the country behind me—you’ll note the proximity to my stronghold here.” He paused, looking at Waryk. “I’m sorry. You’ve fought for me a long time. I had not intended to put an enemy into your marital bed.”

  Waryk looked at the king, started to speak, then hesitated. It seemed very strange. He could remember the night when he had first stood with a sword in his hand, while all around him, his kin and friends had lain dead. He’d expected nothing much from life except for the opportunity to avenge the deaths of so many. He had followed the king and become such a renowned warrior knight because he’d had a passion then to kill his enemies to purge the pain the night had brought. He’d known that one day the king would reward him, but he’d never imagined this. Sweeping lands, a fortress to defy the devil himself, cattle, sheep, artisans, masons, an entire feudal community. He was sorry about his bride as well, but for this great a prize …

  Well, she could just rot in a tower, if that was what she so chose.

  “We will come to an understanding,” Waryk said.

  “The wedding will come in two weeks’ time now, for the night of the full moon. I want as many of my nobles and warriors—and even my enemies—present so that there is never any question about the legitimacy of the marriage.”

  “Two weeks’ time,” Waryk mused dryly. The night of the next full moon. When the lady in question had sworn to meet another man as payment in her quest to be free from him. “It seems a long time with the lady not my wife, and yet in my keeping. What do I do with her until then?”

  The king was angry and his tone was as harsh as his words. “Chain her, drug her, tie her down!” he swore impatiently. “As I told you before, do with her what you will. Before the wedding, though, see to it that she is properly dressed and groomed, by her woman and ladies of the court. We will follow every tradition.”

  Waryk arched an amused brow. “Chain, drug her, cast her in a dungeon. Ah, sire! Would that be appropriate behavior for a bridal groom?”

  “When she leaves your chambers for her own, I’ll see that the windows are barred, no scaffolding is near, and that guards line the corridors.” The king poured wine, bringing a chalice to Waryk. “To your future, sir. May God give you strength.”

  “You, sire, have given me power. May God help me wield it well.” Again, he hesitated. “David, your ward is capable of being very stubborn.”

  “Of that I’m well aware. But I am stubborn as well. I’ll drag her down the aisle to the altar.”

  “She may still refuse to wed.”

  “If she chooses to be that stubborn,” David said, eyes narrowing, “she will suffer for it, as I told you before. If I’m forced, I will seize her lands and bestow them upon you. I will not lose land my father claimed back from William the Conqueror. I will not let it happen. Rather Mellyora should live out her days in a stone chamber in a deep, dark dungeon. And though I would be sorry, I do mean that.”

  David spoke with a gravity that was chilling, though Waryk could not believe that so just a king would deal so cruelly with a young woman.

  “We might have difficulty there, sire. I’m certain the people of her homeland must be very fond of her. Her mother’s family are the ancient rulers. Adin proved himself a just and mighty lord. To dishonor the rightful issue of those two—”

  “It will mean insurrection, and it will mean that people will die, and that you will live a hell for years to come. But I will not let that property fall prey to any man who is not my loyal champion. Not with the English unrest, and certainly not when a Viking threat remains so close. You’ve seen why.”

  Waryk stared at David, and the king lifted his powerful arms in an expression of aggravation. “I wish the lady no harm, Waryk. But I am the king, and by God, she will honor me!”

  “Aye, David. As you say.”

  “You may tell her where she stands in this.”

  Waryk decided that he must do so.

  The truth of her situation might be the strongest weapon he could wield ag
ainst her.

  At the archway, Mellyora stood with her uncle, shaking, excited, afraid. She hadn’t thought that he was coming, she hadn’t believed that he could come. She had given up almost all hope of help.

  She had spent so many hours alone! Waiting, terrified, defiant. She dreaded Waryk returning; then she grew angry that he did not. The hour came when she knew that all the fortress would have assembled for the evening banquet, and she knew that he would be there, while she remained a prisoner.

  Then Daro had come. And his urgency had sent her into a burst of speed. Now, she waited with him, because they were not escaping alone, Anne was escaping with them. Theirs was a daring and bold plan, with no help available to them should they make any mistakes. They were on their own; she had to move with the greatest secrecy.

  With each passing second, she grew more anxious. She was greatly relieved that they hadn’t killed Angus.

  She was terrified that they would be discovered, and that swords would be drawn.

  And blood would be spilled.

  “Why is she taking so long?” she whispered to her uncle, referring to Anne.

  His face was stone hard, impassive. Then he bowed his head. “If she doesn’t come soon, we’ll have to leave.”

  “Oh, God, no, Anne is the one who made it possible for you to free me—”

  “And you kept Anne from being discovered behind the tapestries,” Daro said impatiently. He smiled as she stared at him. “Anne told me so,” he explained. “If I leave here with you, I have regained some dignity. I have a right to a say in your life, while perhaps it’s true that I have no right to Anne.”

  “Daro—”