Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

  At first, she kept her distance, and watched. Then, determined to keep her foothold upon her own authority, she spent time with Donald and Mallory, budgeting and planning household expenses and rents. In the great hall, during the day, with Waryk gone to the training field, she settled any disputes that had come up among the farmers, craftsmen, and merchants. She spent time on the mainland, tending to the injured, and to the needs of the homes burned in the Viking attack.

  At dusk, the main household—Waryk, Phagin, Ewan, Angus, Jillian, Mallory, and herself—sat to dinner. Hamlin played his harp or another instrument, and Alaric usually entertained with a family tale. He learned Waryk’s family history, and told it eloquently, and she was intrigued to see that Waryk was pleased with his effort. When the meal and entertainment ended, Waryk always had some business, and would leave the hall with Mallory, Phagin, Jon, Angus, or Ewan.

  At first, Mellyora fled as well. As the days passed, she became more comfortable. She played chess in the great hall with Ewan. She played the lute, or the harp, invented songs with Hamlin, laughed and enjoyed her home once again. She knew one night that he was in the adjoining counting room, and so she played chess with Ewan, laughing, teasing, trying to tell herself that this was what it might have been. Yet she didn’t feel the poetic anguish she should have known, she simply felt an emptiness, and she wondered whether she was angering Waryk, or taunting him. He seemed to show no interest in her at all.

  A pattern had been established: He avoided her. He seemed to need very little sleep, and he came to bed late, and rose early. At first, she stayed to her own side of the bed. Then she realized that she could do whatever she wanted, and he would keep his distance. She no longer crept to the corner. He came in upon her bath, and ignored her; she backed her length against him in bed, and he lay still and stiff for hours.

  She was amused, and yet irritated—and worried. When she spoke with Donald or Mallory about a matter concerning her castle, they would tell her that aye, of course, it must be done, if Laird Waryk agreed. By dusk, before the evening meal, she started to stand sentinel on the mound where her father was buried with his dragon-pronged longboat. Why had he died, why had he left her? She was even angry with her father.

  She felt someone watching her, and turned. Waryk. He stood higher upon the crest, his tartan mantle waving in the breeze around him. “Mellyora, come back to the tower,” he said.

  She turned away from him, stubbornly determined that he wouldn’t tell her what to do. She thought that he would wait, argue with her, make some command again, and she could fight it out. But he didn’t wait, he turned, leaving her there. The wind suddenly felt cold. It whipped around her, biting into her. Still, she remained upon the mound. At long last, she turned to walk back to the great hall.

  Jillian greeted her at the second floor arch to the great hall. “Where have you been?” she demanded in a heated whisper. “A messenger came from the king—”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll not know now. He’s been with Waryk in the counting room for some time.”

  “Who came?”

  “Sir Percy Warring,” Angus whispered, joining them. As Angus spoke, the door to the counting room opened, and Sir Percy exited with Waryk. “You know my wife, Mellyora, Percy?” Waryk said.

  “Aye, indeed!” Sir Percy said, taking her hand, gallantly bending over it. His lips just whispering against her flesh. His eyes touched her with a pleasant appreciation she hadn’t known in a long time.

  Married to a Yorkshire heiress twice his age, Percy had the reputation for being a reckless ladies’ man, seducing countesses and chambermaids. She wasn’t a fool; she knew him. But since he’d had a private meeting with Waryk, and neither of them seemed inclined to share the message he had brought, Mellyora determined to be a charming hostess, and play upon Percy’s nature.

  “Sir Percy, welcome, how charming to have you here, though I don’t know to what we owe the pleasure?”

  “King’s business, my lady, and thankfully, quite finished now.”

  “Ah, well, Sir Percy, I insist you sit at my side and tell me what you know at court?”

  She whirled about the room in a charmed manner, speaking to Donald about the best food, telling Percy about Ewan’s bravery against the enemy, seating Percy on her one side and Ewan on the other. She flirted sweetly with them both. She brushed her fingers against Ewan’s time and again when she reached for his chalice, apologizing, telling him she thought it was her own.

  She didn’t know what she was doing.

  It was frightening, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She sang with Hamlin, danced, played, teased, entertained, laughed, dazzled. She felt her husband’s eyes on her the long evening. But then Percy suddenly remembered to present Waryk with a gift, a Viking longboat intricately formed in gold, a thank-you from her uncle who had legally wed Anne MacInnish.

  “How wonderful, the wedding has occurred!” she said. And she was happy for her uncle, and for Anne. And she looked at Waryk, wanting to make sure he was aware that Daro had been with the king—and not attacking her property.

  “Aye, lady, not at court. Daro brought Anne to Skul Island, and there they were wed, two days ago. I witnessed the ceremony for King David, and came straight here with my retinue from the nuptials. They are both quite happy and very grateful to your husband.”

  “Is that why you have come, Sir Percy?” she inquired.

  “That, and other business,” he said.

  “What other business?”

  “Business that is settled between us, my dear,” Waryk said with harsh finality. She felt as if she had been slapped. Every man stared at her.

  “Ah, well, I wouldn’t interfere with business!” she said, and rose, and staring at Waryk, she swung around Sir Percy. “Good sir, I’ll bid you good night, in case some other matter of the king’s business comes up.”

  “I’ll escort you to our chambers,” Waryk said.

  But she had already paused behind Ewan’s chair, and insisted, “Ewan will escort me, laird husband. I’d not have you miss the king’s business.”

  Ewan, crimson, had little choice but to rise and escort her. She fled the hall quickly, in a rare fury. Ewan left her at her door; she was in such a state that she barely said good night. Then she turned and kissed his cheek, apologizing quickly. “Forgive me. I’m not the same since—my father died.”

  She fled into the room.

  Jillian had left her warm wine, and had prepared a bath. She drank down the wine in a single swallow. She poured more, allowed it to burn its way down as well. She cast off her clothing heedlessly, and stepped into the bath. When Waryk arrived while she still bathed, she ignored him. He strode to the table by the fire where the wine carafe and chalices were placed and poured himself a drink. She felt his eyes, but refused to look at him. She pretended he had never come to the room. She stepped naked from the tub, dried before the fire, slipped into her gown and left the anteroom to curl into bed without acknowledging his presence.

  What did it matter?

  Yet that night, it mattered.

  As she lay there, she suddenly felt his hands on her. She nearly screamed out loud, for his fingers bit into her waist, dragging her against him. She felt the full, hard length of his body at her back, and the harsh contempt in his whisper as he spoke to her. “I could hardly kill young Ewan for being tempted by the behavior of such a whore, milady, and I warn you, milady, if I see the likes of it again, I’ll beat you black-and-blue before Sir Percy, so that he’ll understand that in no way do I tolerate your games.”

  She tried to jerk away from him, burning, furious, and close to tears. She had behaved outrageously, she knew it, and she was dismayed by her own actions; she hadn’t been able to help them. Still, she lashed back, “How impressive! The king’s great champion, the laird to take great Adin’s place, must beat his wife into submission!”

  Beat her—he would break her if he held her any more tightly! she thought. She couldn’t breathe. She was
crushed against him. She closed her eyes, aware of the shape and form of him against her as if her thin linen gown did not exist. She felt shaken, hot, angry, afraid, and still determined to goad him … His arms were so powerful, his scent, subtle, musky, sensual, the feel of his breath against her nape, her ear. The feel of his sex, hard, searing, cleanly delineated against her …

  She opened her mouth, to speak, to protest, but his voice was suddenly so harsh and cutting in the darkness that she was silenced. “Compare me to your father one more time, and you will have him as he came to this isle, milady!”

  He released her so suddenly that it seemed she was enwrapped in a chill wind. He rose, and swept up a rich fur and wool rug from the foot of the bed.

  “I—I don’t know what you mean—” she whispered in protest.

  “You don’t want to know what I mean. You’re so immersed in legend and storytelling you can’t see a truth known by the rest of the world. Adin was a Viking when he came here. He raided, plundered, killed—and raped. And then he stayed and married your mother.”

  “That’s not true! My father wouldn’t—”

  “Your father did, milady,” he said, and he was gone, slamming his way out of the room.

  Mellyora lay there for a long time after he had gone, shaking. Then she rose, found shoes, and a fur-trimmed robe herself. It wasn’t true. Adin had fallen in love with her mother. He had come here, he had seized the isle, but he had loved her mother, her mother had loved him.

  She left the bedroom and started for the great hall.

  But Waryk would be there.

  She turned and hurried down the corridor in the opposite direction.

  He was grateful, exceedingly grateful, to find the great hall empty.

  A few of the huge hounds still roamed in front of the hearth. When he settled into one of the large carved-wood-and-leather chairs before the dying fire, the hounds settled around him. He absently scratched the ear of one, staring at the flames.

  She was making him insane.

  For other men, she burned as brightly as the fire. For others, she charmed, she smiled, she moved with tantalizing grace and sweet wicked appeal. By God, it was as if she taunted him to see how far she could shove, how great her power might be. And yet …

  She stood over Adin’s mountain of a grave with tears in her eyes. He was all things good, while the king had given her a wretched, decrepit Norman.

  And he couldn’t touch her.

  He just didn’t dare touch her …

  He heard a sound, and he was up, spinning around, a fire poker in his hand for want of a better weapon. But the person who had come upon him in the night was Jillian, and she had turned white, staring at his face, and the poker.

  “Laird Waryk …”

  “Aye, Jillian, what is it?” He replaced the poker, taking his seat again, rubbing his forehead. He was acquiring a monumental headache.

  “This is your home, sir. You needn’t fear the people around you.”

  “I’ve been fighting a long time, Jillian, and I’ve reason to fear enemies within.”

  She held silent for a long moment. “Fewer than you think, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps. Why have you come here? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “I felt I had to see you. After tonight …”

  Her voice trailed. “Aye?” Waryk said angrily.

  “You can change things, Laird Waryk.”

  “Oh?”

  “You spend hours each night, pacing, staring at the fire. You sit there late, night after night.” She lifted her hands, at a loss. “Sir, there is no reason for you to do so.” Next, she sounded just slightly aggravated, as if she could not properly explain herself. “Laird Waryk, you can count, can you not? ’Tis well over a month since you first met Mellyora.”

  He arched a brow, staring at her. Poor Jillian. She was so uncomfortable, wondering if she should be loyal to him, or to Mellyora, and if she wouldn’t be doing her mistress a lesser service if she didn’t speak truthfully with him.

  “Meaning?” he said, a slight smile tugging at his lips. He was pretty sure he knew what she meant, but …

  “I can promise you that she carries no other man’s child,” Jillian said, then turned, and fled.

  He stared at the fire a while longer, then rose so suddenly that the chair fell behind him. One of the huge hounds jumped, whimpering nervously. Waryk barely noticed. He strode from the hall, and down the corridor.

  Her father had been buried in the mound with his longboat, in a Christian ceremony, but in a Viking manner.

  Her mother had been buried in the crypt of the small chapel in this, the laird’s tower. She lay in the stone crypt with her father, her mother, and those who had come before them, preserved in the cold stone, ghostly in their linen shrouds.

  Mellyora slipped down the stairs to the ground floor, then across the room to a corridor parallel to that above. Taking a torch from the wall, she moved in the shadows until she came to the chapel. It was small and simple: a Norman arch had been built over the altar, the pews were basic oak, and no more than twenty-five people could comfortably sit in the room. A winding stairway led to the crypts below, but she hesitated, staring at the single religious symbol in the chapel, the beautiful gold Celtic cross that hung above the altar. She walked down the hall, then started, thinking that she heard movement.

  “Hello?” she called softly. “Hello …”

  Unease filtered down her spine. “Hello! Come out!” she whispered heatedly.

  She’d heard a rustling from the stairs. But now, she thought that she heard something from behind her.

  She spun around.

  Waryk. Still in his fur-trimmed robe, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed in the dim light.

  “Waryk!” she cried nervously.

  “Who are you meeting here?” he demanded.

  “What?”

  “Who are you supposed to meet here, who are you calling?”

  She shook her head. “No one!”

  His expletive cut the night like a blade, and despite herself, she winced, moving backwards, hands clenched into fists. He started down the aisle toward her, strides long, eyes sharp. “Then why are you here?”

  “I just came to—to—”

  “To what?”

  “See my mother’s grave.”

  He stopped, just six inches from her. She had to hold her ground or trip over the dais where the altar stood.

  “In the middle of the night?” he challenged. “To commune with her? To ask her if your father hadn’t been a plundering, thieving, raping conqueror when he first came here?”

  “Aye, maybe!”

  “You’re a liar,” he told her.

  She opened her mouth to protest, but his hand suddenly shot out. His fingers entwined in her hair and he dragged her toward him, tilting her head. He stared into her eyes, then lowered his mouth to hers, covering it, encompassing it. His tongue moved into her mouth with a coercive, invading force. His lips punished, and yet seduced with a strange, wild, fire. She struggled against him, unnerved by his mood, and his sudden actions. He had touched her before, and pushed her away. Time and again. Yet now it seemed that something exploded within her, liquid, like mercury, dancing in her blood. She wanted to free herself, she wanted to go back, she had taunted him too far, and she knew it, and she wanted the evening to start over, she didn’t want to feel this cataclysm of scalding heat sear through her with such wicked design …

  “Stop, we’re in a chapel!” she whispered, breaking from him.

  “So, confess your sins. Who were you meeting?” he demanded against her mouth.

  “No one!”

  “You’re a liar,” he said, and his fingers, threaded into her hair, tightened their hold so that she nearly cried out. She didn’t think that she’d ever seen him so incensed. “You were expecting someone to be here. You wretched little fool. You’ll bring about the deaths of a dozen men yet.”

  “No!”

  “You’re right.
Because I won’t let you,” he said suddenly, and he ducked, picking her up, hiking her over his shoulders.

  “Waryk, what are you doing. Waryk, let me go, I can walk, someone will see us—”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Let me go, let me walk, let me stand on my own feet, I will go where you want me to go—”

  “Aye, that you will.”

  He was very angry, and she was flopping against his back as he moved with long, heedless strides. “Waryk, you’re tossing me about like a sack of flour—”

  “Aye, and I’ve only just begun.”

  He carried her back to the main stairway to the second floor apartments, and down the corridor to their rooms.

  He laid her down upon the bed, and was with her, over her. Firelight played in the room, catching the ice in his eyes, and it seemed that they gleamed red, and gold, a demon’s eyes, eyes of fury, relentless. She started to speak, to protest, to fight; but once again, his mouth covered and consumed hers, and the taste of him seemed to fill her, even as she felt as if he raided her soul with his kiss, the force of his lips and tongue sweeping thought and reason, protest and strength away from her. Her robe was split open she realized, as was his, and she felt his nakedness pressed to her. Her linen gown was shoved high to her waist; she felt his hand on her flesh, fingers brushing her nakedness, touching, probing. She couldn’t breathe; she was pressed deeper and deeper into the bed, she wanted to jump, to scream, to leap atop the walls as she felt him probing, and then shifting, and then …

  She did scream, into his throat, against his lips. Her nails dug into him. Conflicting sensations tore into her, warmth, unbearable warmth, filling her, blood seeping into bone, overwhelming. She wanted to cling to him, she wanted to throw him away. Something seemed wonderful, touching, feeling, breathing him … his lips, still so close to hers, his scent, still so subtly sensual, compelling, tantalizing, even while …

  The pain seemed to knife right through her. She wouldn’t cry, she thought, wouldn’t whimper. Would never falter, allow him to see, to know, how he had hurt her …