Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

  But he would see, he would know, because he was dead still, and even in the shadows and darkness he was staring down at her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was harsh.

  “Oh, you idiot, I did tell you, you didn’t want to listen, you didn’t want to believe! I swore on my father, and—”

  She broke off. He’d made some sniffing sound of impatience and begun to move again, and she gasped, fingers clinging into his fur-clad shoulders and a cry escaping her no matter what her promise to herself. “Quit, quit, quit …” she pleaded, eyes locked on his in serious entreaty, but his mouth covered hers, and something … began to change. His lips moved with such subtle persuasion, his tongue caressed, beckoning as much as plundering, his fingers moved down the length of her, tips stroking her flesh …

  The pain faded slowly … and she was numb. No … not numb. She could feel him, the taut constriction of his muscles, the increasing fever of his movements, the heat that threatened to overwhelm her. His breathing came like a north wind, his heart beat like thunder. Enveloped in his arms, she suddenly felt as if he impaled her to the bone, and she twisted in his arms, amazed at the shuddering force it awakened within her. He moved again, and again, and she was still just clinging, feeling broken and split … and amazed, and strangely gratified by the feel of wet, steaming heat that seemed to fill her, permeate her body, and her being …

  He withdrew slowly, and lay on his back. She was cold, and instantly sore once again, keenly aware of what had taken place. Of course, she had known what it was to be married, expected what had come, and yet …

  She’d never expected to feel a strangely awakened hunger. With him. When she still hurt, yet felt a need to touch his flesh, lie against him, bury herself within him. Be held by him, and soothed by him, caressed, and …

  Wanted.

  It was one thing to accept all this.

  It was another to long for it, for him …

  She turned away, curling to a ball at his side, tangled in her gown and robe.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment.

  “You should be.”

  “Well, milady, it’s really your fault—”

  “My fault!”

  “You liked the game you were playing. You played it well, you taunted me, and enjoyed my discomfort.”

  “I never!” she bed. “I told you the truth, and you chose not to believe me.”

  “I was wrong.”

  His answer surprised her so much that she lay silent for a long moment, then whispered, “What?”

  “Obviously, I was wrong.”

  “Obviously,” she said, surprised at the tears that stung her eyes and glad that her back was to him.

  “Glad, too, of course. I really do like Ewan.”

  She swung around at that. He wasn’t looking at her, but up at the ceiling, and he seemed annoyingly complacent. “You’re glad because you like Ewan?” she said.

  “Aye.”

  She rose up in her tangle of clothing, raising both hands to pummel him at that, but he caught her wrists, surprised. “Now, what, madam—”

  “You should be glad, sir, to discover that your wife had told the truth when she swore to you—on her father’s honor—that she’d not taken a lover!”

  “Ah!” he said, and suddenly she was swung down upon her back, and he was straddling her. “I see, you didn’t want me to like Ewan, you wanted to see us both ever tormented and suspicious, ready to tear into one another at all times.”

  “No!” she cried. His robe still clung to his shoulders, but that was all, and she was so newly aware of his scarred and muscled body that she felt as if her own reddened at the simple contact. “Oh, will you get off of me, please, you refuse to understand, you are simply wretched, you—you—”

  She broke off because he was staring down at her, smiling.

  “What do you find so amusing?” she inquired.

  “Not amusing. Pleasing,” he said softly.

  Again, she felt her flesh flame.

  “Waryk, get—”

  This time, she didn’t finish because his lips were on hers again. Once more, his touch had changed. His kiss was slow, a caress with mouth, lips, and tongue, subtly tasting, exploring, tantalizing. She wanted to remain untouched, offended, and indignant; he had far too much patience at that particular moment, savoring the kiss with such determined leisure that she felt a trembling begin deep inside her, blood and bones, heart and mind. His fingers moved over her cheek, he broke away and the tip of his thumb traced the dampness on her lips while his eyes studied her. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he said softly. Then shrugged. “All right, perhaps upon occasion, I have been truly tempted to beat you black-and-blue. But not in this …” Again, his mouth touched hers. Briefly now. He straightened, shrugging out of his robe. She longed to reach up and spread her fingers over the broad expanse of his chest. Scars crisscrossed his shoulders. She wanted to trace each one, and hear the tale that went with it. She kept very still, suddenly afraid not so much that he would touch her, but that he could become a need greater than any she had known. She lay very still, and he tugged upon the robe tangled around her. “Off with this now …”

  “Now, wait, we’ve—”

  “We’ve been introduced, my love. Now we become better acquainted.”

  “You’ve just apologized for mistrusting me, for hurting me—”

  “Nay, dear wife, only for hurting you. You were highly instrumental in the mistrust.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve been exploring the prize; I thought myself insane at times that I agreed to marry you when I had been offered the land without the bride. But the land, of course, is nothing without the heart, and now I am discovering even greater wonders.”

  “But it did hurt—”

  “It will not hurt again. Come now, you didn’t suffer so at the end.”

  “Oh, but I did—”

  “Then I’m so sorry, and wretched, decrepit old knight that you’ve been saddled with, I’ll still do my best to see that you want me.”

  “I came with the land; I was not what you wanted!” she reminded him as he eased her up, discarding her robe, pulling her gown over her head.

  His eyes touched hers then, cobalt, as deep a blue as a tempestuous sea, and the smile he offered her was an honest one, not touched with mockery or amusement. “Ah lady, don’t be so modest! Tonight, when I watched you seduce the household, I saw that you knew your own power. You’re beautiful, Mellyora MacAdin, and you know it well, and the lads around you might well trip over their own hearts—and other regions!—since you would so cruelly rip them out and so carelessly cast them about.”

  “Oh, aye, and this is what you feel?”

  “I’m not such a fool, my lady.”

  “That’s right, you had no desire to marry me.”

  “It’s not such a hardship.”

  “I shall lose my head with such ardent declarations of your desire.”

  He smiled, watching her. “Do you question my desire?” he demanded, and pushed her back against the pillows, continuing to speak with intensity. “Nay, lady, I was not fond of the idea of marriage with you because I am too fond of the idea of living. But as to desire, well, just what is it that you want? You know that there are poems about you, songs that range Highlands and Lowlands, you’re aware that scores of men came to your father and the king, wanting you—”

  “Coveting Blue Isle.”

  “Aye, the land is important, lady, when is land not? Fine. I’ll not turn your head. You’re dangerous enough as you are.”

  She wanted to protest that, but he shifted quite suddenly, moving against her. She felt his lips against her throat, his tongue tracing a pattern along her vein. He surely felt the wild speed of her pulse within it. His kiss went on, forging a trail to the valley between her breasts. She realized she had ceased to breathe; her fingers fell upon the richness of his dark hair. His mouth covered her nipple, and she burned with the lightning bolt it cr
eated, a shaft of heat that seemed to radiate within and without, tearing through her limbs, centering somewhere low in her abdomen. She remained very still, wishing she could protest, hating that he could do this, and yet suddenly wondering if she did have the power to please him. She wanted that, wanted him to want her, to feel the strange compulsion and longing that she felt, no matter how much she had wanted to deny him any part of her life.

  Why did she want so much to deny him? she wondered vaguely. Simply because he had taken her life, been given her life …

  The question, at the moment, faded. She had to breathe. She gasped in a tremulous breath, fingers tightening in his hair as he continued to move against her. His hand moved against her hip, his lips continued to lave her breasts, a slow assault, teeth and tongue teasing, touching, the heat of his breath whispering … he moved lower again, kisses brushing her navel, her abdomen. Her fingers remained gripped taut within his hair. And still he moved, bathing her with his touch, his kiss, everywhere, thighs, stomach, hips, thighs, and then, between.

  She gasped, a startled scream that barely touched the air. She ceased to breathe again, she writhed in protest, and then …

  She writhed.

  She seemed to pulse within, body, blood, bone. Sweetness, heat, hunger, filled her; she ached, she longed. Mercury whirled within her, molten steel, sweet, explosive. She couldn’t bear it, she couldn’t stop him, she would die if he did cease …

  Then suddenly he was atop her, lips against hers, whispering, “Lady, you need never question my desire for you …”

  He brushed her lips with his kiss, caught her palm, kissed its center, drew her hand down the length of him. She trembled, and he taunted, “Ah, lady, you may touch a man. Such a region is vulnerable, and does not bite.”

  He closed her fingers around the fullness of his manhood. “Nay, it does far worse!” she murmured. “It …”

  “Aye?”

  “Robs breath, steals the soul.”

  He smiled, and rose above her, and with a slow seduction of movement, impaled her. She shuddered, and his eyes touched hers, and he smiled slightly. “It’s the heart, lady, that steals the soul, and nothing other can do it.”

  She closed her eyes. He began to move. And all that he had touched before took flight from the fire that had been, and this time, when she climbed and longed and reached, it seemed she touched the sun. And then the sun exploded at that touch, shattering within her, and bringing with it a million shards of perfect light to melt throughout her …

  He lay at her side. Then his arms were around her and he drew her to him.

  “The prize,” he said softly, “is worth any fight.” She was startled to realize that she couldn’t speak. “Umm, that good, eh?” he whispered. “Ah, see there! I must be careful of how much I admit, for I don’t dare confess that you’re entirely fascinating, when you, of course, remain married to an old, decrepit Norman.”

  She was surprised to find that a smile could touch her lips.

  “You are not entirely repulsive.”

  “Ah! Such words of encouragement will keep me forever captivated!”

  “You have all your teeth, sir, and they’re actually very good.”

  “Alas, after tonight, I may not have all my hair.”

  She knew to what he referred, and she twisted, ready to strike out with far more embarrassment than anger, but he laughed, and he caught her, and kissed her again, and that night, she had less sleep than ever.

  And it was true, of course, that he was not at all repulsive, old, or decrepit.

  Indeed, she didn’t dare admit just how compelling her laird husband was proving to be.

  CHAPTER 18

  For several days, Mellyora moved about in a state of happy oblivion. She slept far into the day, spent the afternoons on the mainland still tending to the injured, and enjoyed the company of Sir Percy at their dinner table. She felt somewhat awkward with Ewan, even somewhat afraid that everyone might realize just what part of marriage had given her such a renewed energy and optimism for the future. The rest of the world couldn’t possibly know that her marriage hadn’t been intimate from the very beginning, she told herself, and certainly, nothing showed in her face. But Phagin commented almost sourly on the cheerfulness of her disposition; she flirted as outrageously and charmingly at dinner, but did so standing by her husband’s side, feeling his touch, and making her own relationship quite clear. She did challenge and taunt her husband, but knew that he was not displeased, for though he never said as much, the way that he swept her up the minute they reached the privacy of their chambers was eloquent in itself.

  She had discovered power—her own, and that which Waryk wielded. Sometimes, she was afraid. Sometimes, she was glad simply to awaken with him by her side, arms strong around her, giving her a feeling of belonging unlike anything she had ever known.

  Sir Percy didn’t leave. One morning, late in the second week of his arrival, she finished breakfasting in the great hall and walked out to the parapets. From there, she saw that he was out on the hills beyond the castle walls with Waryk, watching while her husband worked with his fighting men, perhaps twenty-five of them, mounted on warhorses. The men were armed with maces, and one by one they raced across the field to a standing dummy to swing at its vegetable head. From the parapets, Mellyora viewed the proceedings thoughtfully. Sir Percy had been charming and entertaining every evening. Igraina, Ewan’s younger sister, had joined them for a more equable distribution of the sexes, and the evenings had been most pleasant. But Sir Percy had come for a reason, and, of course, Mellyora realized now, it had to do with the fact that the king would never let Waryk rest; he would be called back to David’s service.

  They often talked about the king at dinner. It was natural, of course, that he take the side of Empress Mathilda in the English question. Mathilda was his niece, since his sister had been Henry’s first wife. The English had loved Henry’s sister; she’d been known as Good Queen Maud. She’d renewed the Roman roads, built numerous religious houses, and she had known humility. She’d washed the feet of beggars in the church, kissed those feet, and taught humility to others. She had borne Henry two children, their daughter, Empress Mathilda, and their son, William, named for his grandfather, the Conqueror. But William had died in a shipwreck returning from Normandy to England, and Stephen, the Conqueror’s grandson as well, had managed to take the English throne. Mathilda had reigned for eight months, at one time, and now, though agreements had been made, civil unrest went on. And on. And lawlessness prevailed. Waryk, she knew, disliked the fact that Henry looked to stretch his borders into northern England. He felt it was most important to make Scotland stronger and more unified. The kings of Scotland already gave homage to the kings of England, and it seemed to him that the Scots suffered each time they tried to take advantage of any chaos in England. He said as much at dinner, even while Sir Percy speculated about the present situation; Stephen’s wife was another Mathilda, and she, like the Empress Mathilda, was a cousin of Stephen’s. There was rumor that while Mathilda and Stephen battled for England, they also shared a wild, passionate love affair, and that Mathilda’s son, Henry, born of her second marriage to Geoffrey of Anjou, was in truth Stephen’s son. But the older Henry grew, the more it appeared he carried the blood of none other than his great-grandfather, William the Conqueror. Speculation continued to rage among the English people, unhappy as their government deteriorated, left now to what was often a lawless land.

  Mellyora knew her history, especially recent history, as it so affected them all. And she knew Henry, and that he would indeed, invade England. Yet the way Sir Percy talked, it seemed as if plans for his invasions were still under way, which made her wonder just exactly why Sir Percy had come, and why he and Waryk worked so strenuously, training more and more men. The goldsmith’s son, once intended for the church; was now spending his days working with a crossbow. One of the master mason’s three boys excelled with a sword, and had been taken from his work, repairing a wind-d
amaged wall. The sons of tenant farmers, household servants, artisans, and more were entering into the training.

  She asked Sir Percy why he had come, but he refused to answer questions at night, diplomatically sidestepping answers. If Waryk were being called back, he could not disobey the king’s direct command, and so it seemed foolish to her that no one would simply tell her what was going on.

  Mulling the question, she wondered what she would discover if she just rode out to the field to watch the men practice at arms. So determined, she walked along the corridor to her room for a cloak, then paused as she heard talking within. Igraina was with Jillian, tending to the chamber, and the two women talked.

  “Do others know?” Igraina asked.

  “At this time? Well, Sir Percy, of course. He came with the news. And Angus because he knows everything, and—Ewan, because he will defend here.”

  “Perhaps Mellyora isn’t aware—”

  “Well, there’s nothing to be done.”

  That was enough. Mellyora pushed open the door and entered. She stared at Igraina. “Aware of what?”

  Igraina paled, and didn’t reply. Mellyora stared at Jillian. “By God, what is this? Jillian, I’ll never forgive you! Obviously, something is going on, and I don’t intend to be a blind idiot, and if you make it so—”

  “Waryk has to leave,” Jillian said.

  “Aye, I can see that,” she said sharply. “The king has summoned him?”

  Neither woman replied.

  “All right, both of you, what is going on here?”

  Jillian cleared her throat. “David intends to invade England.”

  “That’s not a surprise.”

  “He has sent Sir Percy to Waryk because they are both good friends with the English border lord, Peter of Tyne. They are to ride in force to visit, and suggest he accept a new overlord in King David of Scotland.”

  Mellyora held very still. In the few moments that she stared at the women, she wondered how she would have felt if this had come about earlier. Might she have been pleased that he was going to leave, and she would have her isle alone?