“Never,” he told her gravely. “Come …”
She stood before him. He took her hand and brought it to his face. She trembled as he moved her palm, and kissed it. It seemed a surprisingly tender gesture, and it took her off guard. Naked, she was very aware of the steel structure of his body, of the supple ripple of muscle as he drew a line down the length of her spine, bringing her closer.
“Feel free to seduce and repay me at any time,” he murmured.
She tensed, ready to slap him. He laughed, fingers gentle upon her jaw, lifting her face to his. “M’lady, you kiss me …”
She wasn’t certain if she managed the act, but their lips were touching. She didn’t feel the kiss so deeply, for she nearly jumped a mile at the touch of his hand. Moving over her, the length of her, breasts, ribs, waist, hips, belly, breasts again … she nearly shrieked aloud, she felt as if she shook inside and out, the heat that filled her was unbearable, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand, couldn’t move, could just feel him …
Then he suddenly set her from him. She willed herself not to waver, stumble, fall. He was staring at her, eyes almost black in the firelight again. “Well, so you do know how to pay your promises,” he said flatly, adding softly. “And you are very near the absolute perfection legend claims you to be.” He lifted a hand, incredibly, dismissing her.
She just stared at him for a moment. Then it dawned on her that he didn’t intend to demand any conjugal rights that evening. He had forced her to do all this just to prove that he was now the great laird and master. It was revenge, indeed.
“You bastard!” she said quietly.
“Maybe. Maybe you’ve simply run me ragged, and I don’t choose to wear myself out wondering where I shall be looking for you next. Go to bed.”
Teeth grating, she didn’t move. Her fists were clenched at her sides to keep them from flying. She couldn’t have moved had she tried.
He let out an oath of impatience. “Don’t you ever simply accept something that you want in silence and good grace?”
“Accept your kindness, in silence?” she queried. “You’re right that none of this is kindness or consideration. You’ve chosen not to believe or trust me—”
“Surely, you can see my point!”
“You think that I might be carrying another man’s child, and you will annul this marriage without blinking if it is so.”
He didn’t reply.
“Well, you didn’t wish to be married, did you? You have your mistress. God alone knows what other women. But tell me this, my great Laird Lion, what is to stop me from seeing other men in the future?”
He straightened from his stance against the table, ice as crystal as glass. He took a single step toward her, and she would have backed away from his menace had she time. He reached out and lifted her chin with a touch so forceful she nearly cried out. He lowered his lips nearly to hers and spoke in a controlled whisper that frightened and chilled her more than any shout could do. “The past, my lady, is the past; it is what has happened already, before I was in your life. I would not condemn you for it, indeed, I have, at times, almost felt sympathy for your longing to be free. But if I ever suspect you of a lover, m’lady, I promise you, he will be dead within the hour, and should you survive my wrath, you will live forever-more with all the independence and freedom you might desire—alone in a stone tower.”
She stood dead still, returning his stare, not fighting his grip. Perhaps he realized his own force. He released her and stepped back. She longed to leap forward in rage, rip into his face, pummel it into little bits and pieces. She was afraid to touch him. She clenched her jaw again until it hurt and controlled her fury.
“Well,” she murmured, “I shall revel then in the independence you have given me now, my laird husband. And naturally, sir, I do thank you for this time, and of course, for refusing to allow us to be entertainment for the king’s drunken guests.”
“Don’t thank me for refusing that spectacle. It was not so much a kindness to you; I simply didn’t intend on humiliating myself,” he said irritably. “Go to bed, get some sleep. I am anxious to reach Blue Isle.”
There were more things she might have said. She remained furious with the game he had played, and furious that he thought her a liar. But her anger was impotent. He had what he wanted. He was laird of Blue Isle. And he would have his children. But the children would wait, because he wanted to be certain she wasn’t carrying another man’s child. She wondered what had so convinced him that she’d been with another man, when she had sworn that she had not. He doesn’t trust me. That much is obvious. And painful, she thought suddenly. What a way to begin a new life.
And still, she tried to tell herself, it was, at the least, a respite. The thought didn’t soothe her; she simply felt empty. And he no longer seemed amused or pleased with his own quest for the evening. His temper seemed sharp, ragged as the edge of a saw. Perhaps it was time to retreat with a final word, if possible.
She stared at him coolly, determined not to show her fury, or any emotion regarding him whatsoever.
She smiled.
“Fine, m’laird. You’ve had your amusement. You’ve mocked and teased me, and taken revenge. Tormented me, when you knew the outcome of this evening from the beginning. As it happens, you’ve arranged the very marriage I wished, one in name only. Good night, Laird Waryk. Sleep well.”
She spun about, not bothering with her gown. She was furious, bizarrely hurt, and close to tears. But it was her turn to taunt his senses, if nothing more. He had taught her much in a matter of moments. She walked slowly through the doorway to the bedroom and straight to bed, swaying her hips confidently as she did so. He would not touch her again. Not tonight.
She lay upon the bed, closing her eyes tightly in the near darkness. She brought the furs around her then, as she shivered with the cold. She closed her eyes. She feigned sleep. She should have been so glad, happy enough to lie here gloating …
She wasn’t happy at all. She had gotten what she would have wanted most, had she been asked, but she felt strangely bereft, and she found herself wondering what it would have been like had he been lying beside her, had she slept in his arms, felt his strength, his warmth, his protection. Far from pleased, she was keenly aware of being alone, cold, and wretched. He hadn’t wanted to marry her; he had done so because he was the king’s man, and because he wanted Blue Isle and the power and position that went with it. He had never lied.
She lay very still, and was more wretched when she heard him go out and whistle for Mercury. Sarah’s words came back to haunt her, and she wondered where he was going, and in whose bed he would spend his night.
When she was certain he was gone, she rose. A fur wrapped around her, she walked to the outer room. She moved the heavy skin that covered one of the window vents and looked out onto the moonlit night, wondering why she still felt so tumultuous, so wretchedly awake and unhappy.
She wasn’t alone, she saw. Good loyal Angus sat out by an old oak, chipped at a piece of wood. Was he protecting her from whatever dangers might lurk in the woods?
Or was he her prison keeper, seeing that she didn’t disappear into the forest, seek a different escape?
She silently returned to the bedroom, desperate to sleep.
Such sweet oblivion would not come.
She was still awake, hours later, when he returned, though she continued to pretend to sleep when she heard him cast off his sword and boots, and walk quietly to the bed to look over her.
She couldn’t see him. She felt him watching her. Felt his eyes. Felt the strange warmth that invaded her, and again, she could too vividly remember the taste of his kiss, the scent of the man, the vital heat of his body.
She nearly jumped when he touched her, his fingers light, moving down the length of her hair. Somehow, she remained still.
She didn’t dare breathe.
With a brush of his knuckles, he smoothed a lock of her hair from her face. And strangely, again that night, his to
uch was so gentle it might have been tender. She wished that she had curled more deeply beneath the covers. He watched her, and she didn’t know what he saw in her, and she wished that she could hide far more of her body, her mind, and her soul.
She had made him her enemy, and it was too late to go back. He didn’t trust her, she couldn’t trust him. She had said and done things that she couldn’t change now. She had meant to hurt him at times, and she had hurt herself.
What did he see? Why did he stay so long, his eyes upon her, just the brush of his fingers touching her still …
At length, he turned away. The door to the bedroom closed, and she heard him moving in the outer room. Pouring wine, drinking it, pouring more.
He remained in the cottage. And still, she lay awake.
Eventually, she did sleep, and it was in the midst of the peace and rest she had so desperately craved that a nagging realization woke her.
He knew too much about her. In her anger and rebellion, she had given away far too much.
He knew that the man she had wanted as her husband was Ewan MacKinny. Someone had told him. She had always thought that it would be bitter enough, painful enough, to see Ewan again as it was. And now …
Oh, God. What would he do with Ewan?
He had threatened to kill at the slightest provocation.
She suddenly felt very alone.
And very afraid.
She was coming to know him so well.
She didn’t know him at all. Yet it was disturbing to realize that the evening would have ended better if only she’d slept in his arms.
PART II
Laird and Lady
CHAPTER 16
From the time he was a boy, Waryk had possessed land. He’d received an inheritance through his mother, and his father had been given lands as well. It was all good land, if not densely populated or boasting great castles. It didn’t matter: He loved the wildness, and the peace to be found in different parts of his own holdings, and in all, he had a passionate love for his home, Scotland. He found the hills and valleys as beautiful as the rugged cliffs; the Grampian mountains were majestic and humbling, the rolling Lowlands were gentle and welcoming. He had ridden into England with the king, he had fought and been feted by the Norse; he had traveled to Brittany, Normandy, Paris, and into many of the Spanish and German kingdoms for tournaments; he had seen many fantastic things. But he had never seen anything so wonderful as his first glimpse of Blue Isle.
A week’s ride from Stirling had brought them here, to this high mainland cliff. They might have traveled much more quickly, but they were accompanied by pack animals and wagons bearing wedding gifts and his personal belongings from his rooms at the king’s court, so the ride had been a long one. Ten servants accompanied them, eight strapping young men and two maids, and ten men-at-arms, including Angus. Jillian rode at Mellyora’s side, her constant companion and protector. Though what Mellyora might need protection from now, he didn’t know. Certainly not him. He had purposely kept himself as busy as possible, and as far as possible from his wife. In turn, through the entirety of the long journey, his new wife had been polite, cool, and aloof. To him. He couldn’t begin to fault her behavior.
He longed to pick her up and shake her—or, with far less chivalry—send her flying.
She was coldly courteous to him; to others, she was charming. She spoke sweetly, properly with all his men, and was equally gentle and courteous with the servants. She raced her horse alongside Thomas, teased Garth about his stubble of beard, set flowers in Sir Harry’s hair. At night, she sang while strumming lightly on a small harp, or moved about, telling more of her tales. She told of the great Pictish war chiefs facing battles with their flesh all painted in blue, told tales of daring Vikings, and a long story, surely taught her by the king’s seneschal, about Kenneth MacAlpin taking the throne of a united Scotland. She was wonderful, captivating. His men-at-arms, just like the servants, sat around the fire in stone silence, watching, listening, with all the enthrallment of little children. She was natural with her stirring tales, she could sway men and women with her words and her passion. So she must be on her isle, he thought. Revered. She was her father’s daughter—the child of a Celtic heiress as well. She was bred to this, she was good at this, and he realized that he hadn’t been generous at all in standing by the marriage even when the king had said that he would set her aside—he had been smart. Taking this isle without her would have meant slaughter.
The thought did not help his temper where she was concerned. Battle lines had been drawn, and it didn’t matter that he had drawn them. She was waging her war all too well.
The first few days, he had managed to ignore her, riding hard to see that the wagon wheels made it over cliffs and through water, slush, and mud. At times, he’d silently taunted himself regarding this land he loved so much—it didn’t seem they had come one flat mile. He was ready to discard his precious bathtub and half his mail, plate, and instruments of war. If he were not in the king’s service …
But he was. And he would be called back into service, because he knew David, and David would press his boundaries against England. David had given him time to establish his hold here, and then he would be called back.
Sometimes, he stood back in the trees as she wove her tales around the campfire, and he watched her, and he thought about the first night he had seen her. Sometimes, he turned away. She had made them enemies. If so, he would see their war to the finish. But it seemed that something painful had begun to plague him, and it made him all the more angry with her, even as she continued with her perfect politeness. Wasn’t courtesy more than he had ever expected? He asked himself at times.
The days had been long; the nights endless. Camping had been wretched. Each night his men had erected them a shelter in the woods. She had gone in first, and he had walked the forest trails before joining her.
She had slept.
He had lain awake. Beside her. He had never touched her. Always, a breath of space remained between them.
And each day, it seemed that his temper simmered to a greater degree. Still, he thought he leashed it well. But how could he yell at her, and long to throttle her, when she had been soft-spoken and entirely courteous?
But now, this …
Atop the ragged, tufted cliff above the place where the land met the water, he could see far across the horizon. At first sight, all seemed peaceful.
Below him, dozens of farmers’ cottages with fencing and barns and stables lay strewn over a wide area of land that was abutted by the rocky cliffs and naturally protected by them. Shallow waters stretched out, with huge outcroppings of rocks here and there, to the isle itself. Like here on the mainland, long stretches of sandy beach gave way to rich green grasses; then the rock seemed to rise to the sky, and the castle itself seemed to be part of the rock, and part of the sky, the high towers all but meeting the clouds.
Angus had ridden beside him.
“I told you, Waryk. It’s a place as beautiful as your bride. As wild, as well, perhaps. Sometimes, the sea rages, and beats against the rock. At low tide, a man can run across the water to reach the isle, and yet, to the protected southern side, there is no finer harbor.”
“No one is about,” Waryk heard suddenly, and he turned to see that Mellyora had ridden to join them at the precipice, and that she stared down the distance between them and the shoreline with distress.
He frowned. “Dusk is coming—”
“There is no one about!” she repeated.
Then Waryk saw the smoke, rising from the thatched roof of one of the cottages below. “Angus, alert the men, we’ve visitors,” he said calmly.
“Visitors,” she breathed. “I have men-at-arms—”
“Aye, lady, and they are atop your walls, yonder, see?”
Indeed, once alerted, they could all see that men lined the high parapets and towers of the castle. Small boats could be seen northward to the shoreline, and a man in simple mail, waving a staff, came from one
of the cottages, dragging with him a young woman whose hysterical cries could suddenly be heard rising even unto the cliffs.
“My God!” Mellyora breathed. And before he could stop her, she was racing down the cliff toward the shore.
“Mellyora!” he cried, and charged after her. He was glad that no horse was faster or more adept than Mercury. His wife had drawn her sword as she charged down the cliff, and he swore, furious that his first action would have to be to subdue her when his newfound home was under attack. But he would not allow her to charge against an unknown enemy, and so he shouted to Angus to lead the attack while he brought Mercury galloping hard in front of Mellyora to cut her off, and when he had so succeeded, she stared at him as if he had gone mad. “Waryk, they are killing my people—”
“My people, my lady, and they will not kill you.”
“I can fight, you know that, I am a Viking’s daughter—”
“You were a Viking’s daughter. Now you’re my wife.”
She was frantic, he saw. All the worse. Fighting he had learned, despite his own successes as a passionate and desperate lad, was best done with a cool head. She pulled back on her horse, ready to race by him, and he swore, spurring Mercury on so that he could leap from his own mount and bring her down.
Tears stung her eyes now as he straddled her, tears of utter frustration. “Waryk—”
“Lady, you know I can best you, and you know that I can best whatever enemy strikes your doors. By God, will you leave me to it?”
“It’s my home, Waryk, we can both fight, we can both die—”
“You are to be the lady, the bearer of the heirs, and I the protector, madam, it is the way it is done.”
Her lashes covered her cheeks. “That is hardly the situation at this moment.”
“Then practice allowing me to be the one to lead the charge against our enemies!”
He rose, swiftly helping her to her feet, then leaving her there. She wasn’t helpless, she could swing a sword, and he knew it. That frightened him more than anything.
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