Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

  “I am a Scot, Donald.”

  Donald froze, embarrassed. “Your pardon, sir. Word had it that the king would choose a Norman laird, and—”

  “I’m a Scot. My lady will have a bath now. She’s cold. From the seawater, you know,” he said, staring at Mellyora. She looked as if she was ready to take a weapon from the wall to use against him. “I’ll see Phagin, Angus, and young MacKinny in the great hall.”

  “Aye, m’laird.”

  Donald left. Mellyora remained silent. Waryk stood before the hearth watching her, and knowing that she wished him dead.

  “Well, is the prize worth the effort?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he told her.

  “You don’t know? You’ve seen the land, and the castle.”

  “Aye, ’tis fine land. The castle is exceptional, and I can understand why David refused to let it go to anyone he didn’t trust.”

  “Like a Viking’s daughter.”

  “Again, I say, it was Vikings who attacked.”

  “Vikings are not all one people, they are not one happy set of countrymen!” she reminded him angrily.

  “Pity, no one of the enemy survived to tell us from where they had come.”

  “I’m not the one who slaughtered them,” she reminded him.

  He shrugged.

  To her surprise, she took a step toward him. “Daro did not do this. Daro would not do this!” she said angrily.

  “I did not accuse Daro.”

  “You accused me.”

  His brow shot up. “You think that I should trust you?” he demanded.

  She hesitated, and he could see her effort to control her temper. “When I thought I could escape you, no. But I do find this prize worth the effort. It is my home. These are my people. I love them. I depend on them, and they depend on me. To me, it is everything. I find this prize well worth every effort, even if you don’t.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t find it worth the effort.”

  “You said—”

  “I’ve yet to really explore the whole of the prize,” he told her pointedly, and he bowed to her and started to exit the room.

  “Waryk,” she said, rushing forward to stop him.

  She touched his arm, coming before him, then quickly withdrew her hand. He paused, staring down at her. She waved a hand around, indicating the room. “I’ve never slept here. These were my father’s rooms. They are quite well decorated with his weaponry. Since you don’t trust me, perhaps you’d be happier if I kept my own chambers, they are just opposite from here, facing the courtyard rather than the sea—”

  “Your father is dead, Mellyora,” he said. “And you may honor his memory, but this is the king’s fortress and not a shrine.”

  “I didn’t intend to make it a shrine—”

  “You’re the lady of the castle. You’ll sleep here.”

  “And where will you sleep, Laird Lion?”

  “Milady, I will sleep here.”

  “Will you? But do you dare? Have you decided that you can trust my past?”

  She was taunting him, he thought. Her eyes were bright, challenging, touched with a humorous fire. Pity he was so damned determined. He was tempted to sweep her up and see how quickly her good humor faded if he chose to act like her sainted father then and there.

  But he smiled at her, shrugging as if the nights were of no difference to him. “Fine, my lady, I will sleep wherever I choose.”

  He pushed her aside and exited the room, slamming the door.

  In the great hall, he found Phagin, Angus, and Ewan seated at a huge carved table. A fire burned in the hearth, and wine had been served. He helped himself to a chalice of the wine and took a seat at the head of the table. He looked from Phagin to Ewan. “No one knows from where this attack came?” he demanded.

  “Nay, Laird Waryk. They came from out of the clouds. I told you, we’ve not seen a Viking attack in years and years. What Viking would come against Adin?”

  “But they were Vikings,” Phagin said, and sounded distressed.

  “Aye, that they were,” Waryk agreed.

  “Mercenaries, perhaps …” Ewan suggested, looking puzzled.

  “Maybe it isn’t so strange,” Phagin said. “While Adin lived, Vikings would not attack.”

  “Ah, but the longboat attacks have been infrequent for a long time,” Waryk reminded him. “What would the Vikings hope to gain?”

  “They couldn’t have hoped to scale the walls,” Ewan said.

  “And in the village …” Phagin said. He stroked his long beard, then looked at Waryk with dark eyes. “Nothing. No great riches. Just hardworking farmers and craftsmen and their women. Women … Vikings have often stolen women, but …”

  “Not enough reason for an attack.”

  “Perhaps they just hoped to weaken our defenses, tear us up before …” Ewan began.

  “Before what?”

  Ewan looked at him curiously, then shrugged. “Before you arrived. I’m not certain what I mean.” He hesitated, then added, “There are men who enjoy destruction, rape, and death for the sake of no more than cruelty.”

  Waryk sat back. He didn’t believe that Daro would come against him. But someone had used Daro’s camp. First, to take Mellyora. And now …

  He had an enemy. Not strong enough to reach him yet. But with enough power and money to buy men—many men. And to frighten them. Frighten them into dying before telling him the truth about what was going on.

  He rose. “Double the guard. MacKinny, Angus has been my right hand for many years. You’ll share that with him, just as you served Adin. For now. Tomorrow, you’ll show me every nook and cranny of this castle. And when we’re done, we begin.”

  “Begin?” Ewan asked.

  “Training. I’ve brought ten men, but I’m to have twenty ready when the king asks me to ride again, which will happen. And under such circumstances, we’ll need more men here to be even more aptly trained—these attacks, I believe, will come again. And we will lose no more lives, no more livestock. We will not allow attack.”

  “Aye, sir!” Ewan said, rising.

  Phagin rose as well. “I’ll see to our injured again, now that night is falling, m’laird. And we’ll bury our dead come the dawn.”

  “I’ll see to the men,” Angus said.

  “Aye,” Waryk agreed. The men started from the hall. “MacKinny!” he called sharply.

  Ewan came back. He looked sheepish, and even nervous now.

  “Aye?” he queried.

  “I never condemn a man for the past, Ewan. I know that Mellyora once had hopes for a union—”

  “I told her it would never be,” Ewan interrupted softly.

  “You seem a fine man, and a good warrior,” Waryk said evenly. “Serve me, as you served Adin, and you’ll do well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I give you fair warning, though. Touch her, and you’ll probably die.”

  Ewan hesitated, his head down, then he looked at Waryk. “Sir, I’d not cause her trouble now. I love her very much, you see, and, therefore, would not hurt her in any way.”

  Watching Ewan, Waryk felt strangely sorry. He needed work, training, but he might have been a man who could have held this fortress for the king.

  “I’m sorry,” Waryk told him.

  Ewan shrugged. “Be good to her, sir. If she rants and raves, let her talk, and her temper eases. She’s strong, and courageous, and—”

  “Ewan?”

  The man flushed. “Your pardon. I’ve known her since she was a child.”

  “I’m aware of that, and I don’t want to be reminded.”

  Ewan smiled and nodded.

  “Go on about your business tonight, MacKinny,” Waryk said. “It has been a long day for us all.”

  “Aye, Laird Lion.” Ewan started out. He paused, turning back. “You are, sir, more than I expected. It will not be such a hardship, serving you.”

  He walked on out. Waryk drummed his fingers on the table for several long min
utes, then shivered, and remembered he was cold. He rose, and returned to the master’s chambers. His rooms now, to be shared with his wife.

  He entered quietly. She wasn’t in the bedroom, and he walked to the archway. A bath had been brought as he’d ordered. It was old, of Celtic design. The heavy oak was carved all the way around with Celtic faces. It was deep, and even longer than the one he had brought for himself. Steam rose above it.

  Mellyora rested within it.

  Her hair trailed over the rim of the tub, and she lay back, her head laid upon the wooden rest. The water smelled pleasantly like a newly mown field. The water covered the length of her, yet it was startling to realize just how cruelly such a sight of her tormented the length of him.

  She opened her eyes suddenly, as if she sensed him there. She sat up, staring at him.

  “The water certainly appears hot,” he told her.

  “Aye.”

  He sat upon a trunk and discarded his scabbard, weapons, hose, and boots, then did away with his surcoat, the short mail he had worn, then his tartan. She looked away all the while, at the fire, at the soap, at the water. Then she was forced to stare at him, her eyes widening with alarm or incredulity, as he stepped into the tub with her. She gripped the edges, ready to fly.

  “No,” he told her, catching her wrist.

  He could see the way her heart was pounding in the vein that thundered madly at her throat, and no matter what torment he was in himself, he wanted her where she was. He smiled. “I just had a conversation with young MacKinny,” he said.

  “Oh?” she inquired, but the sound of her teeth gritting—meant for him to hear, he thought—didn’t take away from the concern he saw in her eyes.

  “I like him.”

  “Do you? How generous.”

  “Here, take the soap. Wash my back.”

  “I thought you meant to sleep elsewhere.”

  “I’m not sleeping; neither are you. Wash my back.”

  He gave her the soap, and turned, amazed at the size of the tub. The Celts must have had strange rituals within the thing, he mused.

  She didn’t touch him. He wondered if he were being wise, sitting with his back to her. “Mellyora, if you please …?”

  The soap touched his back. He lowered his head, knowing the meaning of agony and ecstasy. Her fingers worked upon him, covering the expanse of his back, lightly kneading muscle and flesh. “Indeed, I actually admire young MacKinny.”

  “He is admirable.”

  “Aye, I like him very much.”

  “Good.”

  “I did, however, do the fair thing, and warn him that I’d kill him if he so much as brushed by you.”

  Her fingers ceased their movement. He remembered the weapons displayed on the walls in the room. He turned suddenly, and saw that her fingers were vised tightly around the soap.

  He took it from her.

  “Turn around.”

  “What?”

  “Turn around. I’ll wash your back.”

  “It isn’t dirty anymore.”

  “I’ll just make sure …”

  He manipulated her around, catching the length of her hair, curling it into a ball at her nape. Then he touched her flesh with the soap, and his fingers. She tensed against him, but didn’t protest. He worked the soap over her shoulders, her neck, and moved his hands down to her ribs. He could feel her shaking, and after a moment she said, “You don’t want anything to do with me right now, remember?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then … then what are you doing?”

  “Exploring the prize,” he said dryly, and he inched closer; he couldn’t help himself. He gently ran his hands down her shoulders again, over her back; then he slipped his hands forward with the soap, covered her belly, then her breasts.

  She didn’t breathe.

  He didn’t breathe himself. He cupped the fullness of the mounds, rotated the soap over them again and again, felt the pebbled hardness of her nipples, and the erotic depth of the valley between them …

  Sweat, having nothing to do with the water, popped out on his brow. What the hell was he doing? He didn’t give a damn about the future, a dynasty, his name …

  His name. His father’s name. A child’s name.

  He closed his eyes and dropped the soap.

  “Get out!” he told her hoarsely.

  For once in her life, she did as she was told. She was up and gone in an instant.

  And he was left, trapped in …

  Trapped in the great prize he had coveted so dearly.

  Time, he told himself.

  He had only to bide his time.

  CHAPTER 17

  Father Phagin was an interesting man, one obviously beloved of his flock.

  His voice was that of a storyteller; Waryk thought that in that aspect, he was much like Mellyora himself. Phagin spoke the Latin Mass in a pleasing tone that carried beyond the walls of the church, a structure built into the south tower of the castle, to the many people who listened from the courtyard. He eulogized the men killed, and in his speech, Waryk gained insight into the people here. He wondered vaguely if most of these people had ever realized that David had brought feudalism more firmly into Scotland, or if they simply went about life the way they always had. They were protected by the lords of the castle, and in turn, they gave the lords a portion of all that they built, created, or grew. The lords were responsible to them in times of trouble, and they were responsible to serve in a military capacity when necessary. Feudalism might have added more titles to the system, and kept many a freeman on the land where he was born, but in all, life had changed little. The men killed had been good Christians, good fathers, good providers. Beloved of the people, they were deeply mourned. The older man followed his wife to the grave by a few scant months, and there was solace in that thought; even with all the evils of the world, it was hard to accept the death of a young man.

  Throughout the service, he stood beside Mellyora. When it had ended, the dead, in their shrouds, were carried with great ceremony and reverence to a cemetery beyond the walls of the castle. It was on a high mound that rose above the sea, an ancient place, strewn with beautifully carved Celtic crosses. More words were said, then the men were gently lowered into the ground. Dirt fell upon the dead.

  Mellyora went to the younger man’s widow, and spoke softly with her. Waryk followed her, bringing the woman a small linen satchel, filled with coins. “Times ahead may be hard,” he said softly, then turned away, intrigued by a place on the high cemetery mound where it appeared that a space perhaps fifty feet by fifty feet had been dug and covered. He walked to it, frowning as he looked over the expanse. He turned back and saw that Mellyora was still with the young widow, but looking at him. Moments later, he realized the others had begun the trek down from the high mound, but his wife stood behind him.

  She spoke before he could. “It’s my father’s gravesite.”

  He turned. “Aye, I’d heard he was a big man.”

  She flushed slightly, and he realized that she was being defensive. “He is buried with a longboat, and many of his belongings. It’s the Viking way.”

  “But he had converted to Christianity.”

  “He was buried in a Christian ceremony. A knight may be buried with his sword; my father was buried the same.”

  “I see.” He turned and started by her.

  “Waryk.”

  “Aye?”

  “The silver coins you gave the widow were an impressive kindness.”

  “She will not have her husband to support her.”

  “It is something my father would have done.”

  He hesitated. “Is that a compliment? I compare with great Adin?”

  She stiffened slightly. “No. You will never be my father.”

  “Perhaps you should thank God for that.”

  He started walking again. She hurried after him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing, Mellyora, nothing more than should be perfectly obvious.”

/>   “Wait—”

  “I can’t wait. I have business.”

  He left her there, upon the mound. He was anxious to find Donald, Ewan MacKinny, and Angus. The fortress was huge. He wanted to know all of its defenses, and its every weakness. He didn’t intend to be taken from without …

  Or within.

  Days trailed into more days in a most unnerving manner for Mellyora. Their first night home, she didn’t know where he slept. Nor did she the second. On the third night she lay awake so long that she discovered him crawling into the farside of the expansive bed to sleep. He lay still, and she didn’t dare breathe.

  She awoke late, and he was gone.

  They were days of unease, but days in which they settled into a strangely comfortable pattern as well. Her father had been a Viking, but this castle had been her mother’s holding, and many ancient offices remained. Donald was ard Ghillean an-tighe, Alaric of Iona was as seanachaidh, the sennachie, or bard, Mallory MacMason was am fear sporain, accountant, or treasurer, and Hamlin Dougall, older than Phagin even, Mellyora thought, was an Clarsair, the harpist. Ewan’s position with her father had been an Gille-coise, or personal attendant to the chief of the isle, a bodyguard as well, though Adin had needed little guarding. Since Angus filled that position for Waryk, Ewan became known as the most important of the an Kuchdtighe, fulfilling much of the same function, and continuing to lead the men within the boundaries of the estate. Jon of Wick served as master of the guard, as an Gocaman, the warder. He had sharp eyes, and kept the night watch from the eastern tower, always on the lookout for danger.

  Waryk made no changes to the way the castle had been run, appreciating the honor of the titles given the men. To Mellyora’s sheer annoyance, Waryk didn’t seem to need her at all; he learned the domestics of the castle from Donald, and the defenses from Ewan and Jon, and the expenses from Mallory. From his second day at Blue Isle, he began hard training with the men he had brought and the men-at-arms from her people. She knew that many of the isle’s fighting lads were pleased to have so renowned a knight to teach them, and she was glad to hear as much laughter from the training grounds as she did the sounds of clashing steel. He trained men at cavalry, and he trained them to be foot soldiers. They worked with claymores, swords, axes, maces, pikes, Celtic and Viking weaponry, and farm implements.