Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

  “Mellyora, I’m going for the horses, cloaks, and helmets. Keep a sharp eye out for Anne. We have but one opportunity to escape.”

  “Aye, and we must escape now,” she murmured. They had already fled Waryk’s chambers, they were together, and on their way to the Viking camp.

  Aye, they had to escape.

  Escape, or die the death of traitors.

  During the day, Waryk would never have noticed Anne MacInnish’s behavior. He knew Anne, though not well, because she was distant kin to Michael MacInnish, the border laird on the spit of land where so many had been slaughtered by Lord Renfrew’s greedy quest for greater gain. She had grown into a lovely young woman with large, doelike hazel eyes and chestnut hair, a lithe figure, and a talent for warmth and laughter. Tonight, however, she was behaving strangely, hurrying down the corridor with her head lowered and hands folded. Her eyes darted nervously side to side every few steps, as if she were certain she was being followed. He leaned against the wall, into the shadows, as he watched her approach.

  It was ridiculously late—or far too early—for her to be up and about. And moving so furtively. He was both curious, and worried about the young woman, kin to his friend. And he was not anxious to return to his own chambers too quickly; he had kept his distance from Mellyora, but now it was time to explain to her that the king meant to have her disinherited if she didn’t obey his orders.

  He couldn’t have her waiting in his chambers for two weeks, not unless he found somewhere else to sleep. He had mocked her, but was the one now paying a price. She was far too provocative, and he meant to keep his distance until he was certain that any child created within her would be his own. With Angus on guard, she was safe. From all men, he thought, including himself.

  Indeed, the castle at Stirling was a safe place, yet it seemed that Anne was furtive, as if she was afraid. As she neared him, he stepped out of the shadows, politely accosting her.

  “Anne.”

  She stopped dead, staring at him, her face parchment white.

  “L—Laird Lion!”

  “What are you doing out at this late hour?” Seeing a lover? It seemed the only feasible answer. She had always been a sweet, gentle young woman, but her family had sometimes treated her harshly due to the circumstances of her birth.

  “I’m—I’m returning to my chambers.”

  “From?”

  “From … visiting with a sick friend.” She was lying, and she didn’t lie well.

  “At this hour?” he queried.

  She lowered her head, then looked up at him. “I may not have much time left for the freedom to visit anyone at any time. Padraic has determined that I’m to be given to the Church.”

  She had definitely been seeing a lover, and, from the tone of her voice, he thought she had been seeing someone who meant a great deal to her. Young women were prone to fall in and out of love, and most often, inappropriately.

  “You do not feel a religious vocation?”

  “Nay, I do not,” she said simply. “I wish to wed.”

  “Have you said this to your uncle?”

  The white left her cheeks; color flooded them. She lowered her head again. “He thinks my father’s blood has created something of a wanton out of me. If I enter a nunnery, I help purge the sins of the Vikings against the Church in this country.”

  “Men sin against other men, mostly, so it seems, and a man who was not a Christian and didn’t understand the meaning could not have been said to sin against the Catholic Church.”

  Anne gasped. “Laird Lion! That is all but blasphemy.”

  “I am not being blasphemous, Anne. I was raised in the Church. And many Vikings converted to Christianity; if your father had lived, he would have done so. But he was slain, and you should not be left to pay for his sins, real or imagined.”

  Her eyes were very bright on his, a glimmer of hope within them. “If you were to say such things to my family, they would listen. If only I could speak so to my uncle, make him understand … if only someone were to speak with Michael, since he is the head of the family. But he fights these days, and does little else, and he has left my future to Padraic. But he admires you so, if only …”

  She broke off, as if she had said too much, as if she were suddenly confused.

  Then her eyes widened with alarm as Jillian, Mellyora’s woman, came rushing up. Seeing Anne, Jillian bit into her lip, standing anxiously at Waryk’s side. “Laird Lion, I must speak with you. It’s urgent.”

  “Aye, then, Jillian. Anne, we’ll speak again. Perhaps, if you can convince me that what you’re seeking is not against God or king, I can help you,” Waryk said. He stepped back, allowing her to pass.

  “Laird Lion, Mellyora is …”

  The woman broke off as if she were choking. As if she couldn’t quite draw in the breath to finish the sentence.

  “Mellyora is what?”

  “Gone again, sir!”

  “How do you know?”

  “I went to bring her some clothing. But—she is gone.”

  “That’s impossible!” he said harshly. “A heavy bolt was slid across the door; Angus was on guard—” He broke off. Looking into the woman’s eyes, he knew that she was speaking the truth.

  “Angus would not let any man by him,” he said, striding down the corridor with Jillian following behind him.

  The door to his chambers stood open. Angus was within, knocking at the walls, searching under the alcove bed, swearing. He stood, facing Waryk, and looking very strange, for Angus was so huge, so fierce-looking a warrior, though a kind man. He had probably not looked so sheepish before in all his life. He had known the importance of guarding Mellyora, and Waryk had warned him that she was as slippery as an eel.

  “Waryk, she’s disappeared like mist on the moor. The bolt remained on the door when Jillian arrived, but she is not within, as you can see,” Angus said. “I’d lay down my life for you, and you know that—”

  “Aye, I do,” Waryk assured him.

  “She’s slipped out of this room somehow.”

  “There are no exits,” Waryk said.

  “The chimney?” Jillian suggested hopefully behind them.

  Waryk turned to her. She was a handsome woman with soft silvering hair, an oval face and fine features that would make her lovely no matter how many years passed her by. She was anxious now, and he thought that she loved her young mistress, but realized something Mellyora did not—the king had spoken. Her fate involved the defense and strength of Scotland, and, therefore, she was nothing more than a pawn.

  “Jillian,” he said, not unkindly, “if she went up the chimney, she is well charred, for there is a fire burning still.”

  Angus let out an oath of frustration. “The bolt remained locked when Jillian arrived!” he repeated.

  “Did you leave the corridor?”

  “Nay, ye know I’d not—” Angus began, then broke off. He shook his head. “I didn’t leave the corridor, but I moved around the corner when I heard the woman screaming. It was a terrible sound; I thought we were being attacked—”

  “What woman?” Waryk demanded.

  “The lass, Anne MacInnish—” Angus began.

  “Ah, Angus, we’ve been tricked!” he swore, exiting the room with long strides, his man following quickly behind him.

  “Tricked? By a slip of a lass? She was alone, Waryk, I swear it—”

  “Aye, she was alone. For her part in the charade!” Waryk hurried along the corridor, long strides carrying him toward the southern arch, the direction in which Anne MacInnish had gone when she’d slipped on by him at Jillian’s arrival.

  He burst out into the night, but saw no one. Rushing to the stables, he noted many empty stalls, which meant little, since the king’s men were constantly coming and going, and were his guests. He saw Joshua, the groom who had taken care of Mercury earlier, sleeping in a bed of hay, and he stooped to shake the boy awake.

  “Joshua!”

  “Aye?” Slow to wake, the lad rubbe
d his eyes, then saw Waryk. “Laird Lion. I tended to your steed—”

  “Lad, I’m not questioning your care of my horse. Has anyone been in here for horses?”

  “Just the drunk Vikings, m’laird. Three of them, tumbling over one another, barely managing to get up on their horses.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I … just moments, I think. I don’t know. I slept,” he admitted sheepishly.

  “Where’s Mercury?”

  “There, Laird Waryk, I’ll get your saddle—”

  “There’s no time.” Waryk had already found the bridle and was striding for his horse. His affection for the animal was great, since the horse had taken him through many a dangerous battle and journey. “Once more this evening, my fine lad,” he told the horse, slipping the bridle over his great muzzle. Then he leapt on his unsaddled mount and urged the animal forward. By then, Angus was standing with Joshua.

  “Waryk! If you’re going to the Viking camp, you can’t go alone—”

  “I don’t intend to take on Daro’s army of Norsemen alone,” Waryk told him. “I hope to stop them long before they reach the camp. And if I do not … perhaps Daro’s own means of abducting his niece is the one I should use as well.”

  “Waryk, wait!” Angus shouted, but Waryk knew that speed was all that could bring her back swiftly—and without incident—now.

  At the gates, he called out his identity to the sleepy guards. He rode hard, knowing they were headed north along the river and that they would have to reach the bridge to make the crossing.

  Twenty minutes of hard riding brought him to the woods that ranged around the bridge. The moon was dying, the first streaks of dawn were just a pink whisper against the gray of the sky. Breaking into the trail, he saw them just ahead. Three cloaked riders. Two were almost over the bridge. The third was falling behind just a little, and hadn’t yet gained the bridge.

  It was a woman, judging by her size and the way she sat her horse. She had paused to look behind, to be certain that they weren’t being pursued.

  Mellyora. He couldn’t see her face, but he recognized the cloak she had worn earlier.

  He had her, he thought.

  He nudged his heels against Mercury’s flanks, and the stallion rewarded him with a renewed burst of speed. The thunder of hooves was so loud that she didn’t hear him as he rode down on her. Accustomed to riding and managing the accouterments of battle and the joust, he had little difficulty overtaking her horse and maintaining his seat while reaching out—and dragging her from that animal to his own. She’d been too startled to resist, and held precariously in a side grip, she was quickly blinded as the voluminous folds of her hood fell over her face.

  “Wretched witch! This time I’ll chain you down!” he told her angrily. “You are far more trouble than you can possibly be worth, and if it were not for the king …”

  He allowed his words to trail, his meaning clear. He reined in, quickly turning his mount as she gasped and stuttered her surprise. He ignored her.

  Looking back, Waryk saw the other riders hadn’t realized they’d lost her as yet. He nudged Mercury once again, and began his breakneck race back toward the fortress at Stirling. He wasn’t a fool. He had her now. He’d have his arguments with Daro later. He wore no armor and was poorly armed, and he was almost in the lap of a Viking camp.

  She was still sniffling and making strange moaning sounds—but not fighting. She was clinging to Mercury’s mane, simply trying to stay perched atop the wildly racing stallion. Then, as they galloped, she suddenly twisted, trying to free herself.

  “Sit still! Do you want to die beneath the horse’s hooves?” he hissed to her.

  “Please …! Listen—”

  He reined in, seeing that Angus had almost reached him. As he did so, she slipped from his grasp. He swore, reining in hard, dismounting, and racing after her. He caught her, tackling her upon a bed of leaves that lay between him and Angus.

  “Mellyora, I swear—” he began.

  “No, please!” came a tearful cry, and he realized, looking down, why his captive had suddenly become so submissive.

  He had captured the wrong woman.

  CHAPTER 10

  The fire burned with a bright, rich heat in Waryk’s room; nevertheless, Anne MacInnish sat before its warmth, shivering. Waryk leaned against the mantel, watching her sternly. Jillian sat nervously by her side.

  Angus leaned against the door as if he could add bulk and substance to it. He still couldn’t believe that such a slip of a girl had earlier caused the same effect as if she had broken down the door.

  “I—I knew that Mellyora was in trouble, that she was running from the guards. And she swore to me that she’d done nothing wrong …” Anne assured Waryk miserably. She moistened her lips. “I wasn’t certain that you were the man the king intended her to marry. I mean, I’d heard such talk, but Mellyora said … well, she believed that she was to go to a Norman, someone no better than a second generation of William the Conqueror’s men. We all know how horrible life became for the ancient Saxon nobility in England, and the Norman threat remains here against us at the border …”

  “Anne, you’ve proven yourself quite remarkable tonight, but Mellyora knew just exactly from whom she was running,” Waryk said quietly. “She has her own plans for the future, but they’re not to be, and she’s going to cause a war, and get many men killed—her uncle among them, if she’s not careful.”

  Anne leapt up. “That’s why you can’t go to the king. Please, Laird Waryk, you mustn’t go to the king. There will be a battle, men will die …” Her voice trailed as she looked at him, a true picture of misery, tears streaking down her face, her hazel eyes beautifully rimmed with red. “It would be a foolish war! Think how many historians believe that Harold Godwinson might have remained king of a Saxon England if he had not come north immediately before the Battle of Hastings to do battle with Norsemen! England is in such disarray, there are many English nobles possibly just watching and waiting for Scottish troubles so that they creep northward up our border!”

  She suddenly threw herself to her knees at his feet. “Please, Laird Lion, I’m begging you, you’re a wise man, a Scotsman, and you know people … Daro loves Scotland more than his own home. Show mercy here, and reason, I will do anything, anything at all to keep this from turning into bloodshed, and I know that you … that you have the strength to keep it from happening.”

  “Anne, get up,” he commanded, catching her by the elbows and causing her to rise. He prodded her gently back to the chair where she’d been seated. “I don’t want bloodshed either. I admit that I’ve watched Daro suspiciously, because he is a Viking. But he’s a good warrior, an asset to the king against a common foe. I don’t want to see hundreds of men killed and I, like the king, agree with your assessment—it’s foolish to battle the wrong enemy. I don’t want to see Daro dragged in for a traitor’s death in retribution for the abduction of his own niece.”

  “Oh!” Anne cried, looking more ashen than she had.

  She loved the man, Waryk thought. Really loved him. She would give him up before she allowed harm to come to him, and take any punishment herself. He’d seldom seen a love so selfless, and found himself eager to help the girl, despite his anger against Mellyora MacAdin’s reckless determination and Daro’s foolishness.

  He stared into the fire for a moment.

  “Perhaps there is a way to keep it all from the king,” he mused.

  “How?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “I’ll have to go after her alone.”

  “Nay, now ye’ll do nothing so heedless of yer own life, Waryk!” Angus said heatedly.

  “I’ve no wish to die, not when great battle awaits!”

  “Great battle …” Anne said distressed.

  “My marriage, Anne, is the battle to which I refer,” he said wryly. “Angus, find someone we can trust to reach Daro with a message.”

  “Aye, Waryk, but I pray you’ll set my mind at ease before s
tarting out on such a venture!”

  “Anne,” Waryk said, “you return to your room.”

  “And do what?” she asked anxiously.

  He arched a brow at her. “Go to sleep,” he suggested.

  “I will never sleep, I’m so worried—”

  “Then go to your room and worry.”

  “But if the king—”

  “I’ve told you that I’m not going to the king,” he said harshly.

  “But when he discovers that Mellyora is missing again he’ll—”

  “He won’t discover that she’s missing. He told me that I should do with her whatever I chose. We’ll let it be assumed that she went with Daro with my blessing.”

  Anne looked at him, biting her lower lip, rose, and came over to him. She took his hand, and kissed it. “Thank you,” she said fervently.

  Waryk touched her chin, lifting it. “Don’t be so grateful. I’m not promising you that I can make this work out, and, God knows, David has ways of discovering the truth of things that go on beneath his nose. Go to your room for now and stay there.”

  “What happens when morning comes?”

  “Go about your business as if you’re not involved in anything beyond being a guest of the king. And be patient. Give me time.”

  “Do we have time? If the king finds out the truth, if there is trouble …”

  “There won’t be trouble, Anne. Because we will be careful, and not let anyone know that anything is amiss. Trust me.”

  “That is what Daro said,” Anne murmured.

  “Daro is indignant about Mellyora, and in love with you,” Waryk told her with a slight smile.

  Anne studied him, then said softly, “She doesn’t know what she’s being offered. But you should know, Mellyora is loyal and has a courage I lack, she … she is only fighting for what she believes to be …”

  “Her freedom and her lover,” he said bluntly. “But it isn’t to be. Go on now, I’ve much to do.”

  “I’ll stay with Anne,” Jillian said.

  Waryk nodded, and the women left the room.

  “Shall I follow them?” Angus asked.

  “Aye, see them safely to Anne’s chambers. I’ll send to Daro, and speak briefly with the king—”