Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

“What shall it be?” he said softly.

  “Let go of me. The guards are watching.”

  “Aye, they are, aren’t they? So, if I agree, what will you do?”

  “Walk into the tower.”

  He arched a brow, and released her. She spun around and started toward the tower, entering through the arched doorway, nodding to the guard there, and heading directly up the stairs. She came to the corridor. He was behind her, she felt his presence, his breath, his being, so close that she nearly screamed.

  The concept of a pretense of domestic tranquillity suddenly seemed appealing; she wanted only to reach the great hall.

  “Ah!” he cried mockingly from just an inch behind her. “Would great Adin allow dinner now, in the face of such obstinate disdain and total rejection? I think not.” He reached out, catching her arm, spinning her around.

  “Waryk, we’ve a guest—”

  “And you are concerned for him now? I imagine that since Sir Percy might have managed on his own without you, he can fare on his own without me as well.”

  “We’ve a household—”

  “Aye, and the household can entertain our guest. I like being like Adin, my lady.”

  “You’re not like Adin!”

  “Fine. I shall be like me.” Alarmed by the look in his eyes, she tried to wrench free. He drew her to him, sweeping her into his arms. He turned in the corridor. Angry strides brought him to their chambers, and he kicked the door open with a power that made the wood groan and shudder. Inside, he closed the door in much the same manner.

  “Waryk, stop this, leave me alone!” she cried.

  “Nay, lady, I will not.”

  She struggled in his arms, writhing like a fish on a hook, then slamming her palms against his chest. She realized after a moment that he was just standing there, letting her beat against him, and then he walked with her to the furs before the fire, eased to his knees, and laid her there, his eyes locking with hers once again.

  “Listen to me,” he told her.

  She shook her head, staring at him, trying to keep the tears stinging her eyes from falling. “No, I will not listen—”

  “You will.” He reached out, drawing his knuckles down her cheek. “You may believe this or not, but I’ve no desire to go to Tyne.”

  “I don’t care—”

  “You do, that’s what this is all about.”

  “But you will go to Tyne. And you will see her.”

  “You see Ewan daily.”

  “That is different. We were never …”

  “But did that matter? You did love him. Enough to fight for him, to defy the king for him! I can’t deny that Eleanora and I were lovers, and in truth, I must either see her or blind myself, a rather drastic measure to take.”

  She turned her face from his, staring at the fire. He caught her chin, and drew her back to look at him. “I admit as well, in marrying you, I felt myself wed to a double-edged sword, albeit an enticing one at that. But then, since, I have also admitted that I find you quite beautiful, while you have discovered me only slightly less than repulsive.”

  “Waryk—”

  He set his palms upon her face, and lowered his mouth to hers. She tried to twist free, and could not. His kiss was engulfing, forceful … seductive … relentless. She fought hard not to respond, yet was breathless when he raised his head from hers.

  “Ah, yes, a mistress. Well, she never fought me, you know.”

  “I’ve never fought you.”

  He arched a brow.

  She set her jaw. “I know that I’m your wife,” she said tightly.

  “Duty, eh, my love? A mistress seduces—there is a difference.”

  “Well, sir, you’ll be seeing her soon enough, since you’ve chosen not to blind yourself.”

  “Ah, well, it was a try … then I shall have to do the seducing myself.” He set a hand upon her bodice, fingers tangling around the embroidered lacing there. She caught hold of his hand, amazed that despite her anger and determination, she could still want him so. His scent seemed to permeate her senses, his touch created fire, his eyes danced with the blaze, and his power seemed to be all around her.

  “No,” she murmured, fingers curled around his.

  “Duty,” he reminded her dryly.

  Soft fur lay beneath her; the light was simply a glow of the blaze. She opened her mouth to protest again, but his kiss consumed her ardent and demanding, and his fingers were deft as he dealt with the lacing of her gown. Her heart ached, she couldn’t submit, and she tried to twist upon the soft fur, escape his touch. Her gown came free, and even as she turned, her very movement bared her shoulders and back. His arms came around her, and she bowed her head as she felt the liquid flame of his caress against her nape, down her spine, lower and lower. His palms moved over her breasts. In a tangle of clothing, she was turned within his arms, meeting his kiss once again. His fingers stroked between her legs, slid deeply into her. Caressed. Enticed …

  His tartan needed little effort to cast aside.

  In seconds, he was within her himself, and she closed her eyes, clung, and felt the fire cast gold and crimson upon her, and rage with its fierce, all-encompassing flame. She swallowed down the cry that would have escaped her when it was over. It seemed impossible that she could feel such acute physical pleasure one minute, then such a wave of abject misery the next. She had known that she must never want him, need him. She had known …

  Then she heard his whisper.

  “Since you are my wife, lady, there is the solution that you ride with me.”

  “What?” she gasped.

  He rolled her to him. “Ride with me. Be with me. Sleep with me.”

  “You want me to come?” she said, amazed and skeptical.

  “Aye, lady. Did you think me happy with the thought of leaving you behind when I know that your mind is ever busy?”

  “Meaning?”

  “God knows, you disappear far too easily.”

  She had no idea, searching his eyes in the fire glow, if he teased her or spoke with serious intensity. She only knew that she could think of nothing she wanted more.

  “Well?”

  “Aye, sir, if you wish it, I will ride with you,” she said primly.

  “Aye then, we will ride together,” he said, drawing her into his arms. She leaned back against his chest. They lay upon the furs in the fire-shadow, watching the lure of the flame. Then she closed her eyes, setting her fingers upon his arm as he held her, and she was afraid to be so happy.

  Igraina stood just outside her home, seeing that her grandfather’s shaggy cows had come into the enclosure for the night. And as she did so, a strange sense of fear, of unease, swept through her. She turned, and there was a man.

  Tall, burly, yet with a middle just beginning to run to fat. He had the size and stature of a Viking, yet something about him seemed not quite right. He was clean-shaven, as a Norman might have been. His hair was clipped, yet …

  He’d been sleeping in the woods. His neatly cut hair was laden with grass and twigs. His clothing was torn, and he looked hungry. And he was coming toward her, smiling …

  “Lass, ’tis been a rotten time I’ve spent in the woods, but with the boats gone, and me cut off from my fellows, well it seemed there was nothing other to do. But all is calm, now, eh? The guards sleep, for the master is in his house. I’ll have food and plenty tonight, eh? A fire to feed me, a woman to warm me, and more …” he said. He spoke to her in Norman French, and she thought that perhaps he didn’t realize she could understand his words.

  A massive sword hung from a scabbard at his waist.

  His grin deepened as he stared at her. He switched to the Gaelic tongue, accented as if he had learned the language farther to the southeast. “You. I will have you. I am hungry, you will sate me. We’ll be warm and full, and if you please me, I will spare the old Norseman and his aging bride. Come now, come to me.”

  She stared at him, thinking that hunger and living in the wild had given him an e
dge of insanity. She backed away from him, and a scream tore from her lips.

  Instantly, Ewan was outside. He saw the man, and ran to her, casting her behind him. “What’s this?” the burly man demanded. “A farmboy turned warrior, a shepherd in his master’s clothes? Come, come on, lad … you may feel my kiss as well, ah, boy, the kiss of my sword, the kiss of death. Or, you may step aside, and I’ll take the woman, and maybe you’ll live with the old folks.”

  “Who are you? Why did you come?” Ewan demanded.

  “Who am I? A man who lives by the sword, willing to die by the sword, to sit in Valhalla, heaven, or hell.”

  “A Norman? A Norseman?”

  “Norman, Norseman … a hungry warrior. Maddened by the smell of the meat within. The old woman cooks well. I’ve learned to eat the meat of a beast with the blood of a man on my hands, so move aside, farm lad, or I’ll slice you gullet to groin.”

  “I am the—”

  “The MacKinny, eh?”

  “Who sent you?” Ewan demanded again.

  The man started to laugh. “Ah! How fight an enemy when the enemy can never be clearly seen? Suspicion is a fierce weapon, tearing upon a man. You’ll not know, MacKinny. Come, fight me if you will.”

  Ewan beckoned to the man. “Aye, you mercenary dung. We’ll meet, and see who it is who kisses death!”

  Igraina shrieked as their swords clashed.

  Again, and again, and again.

  The men moved around the yard, one taking the offensive, and then the other. Ewan leapt upon a stand of rolled hay, his strange foe dropped and rolled just in time to miss the plunge of his blade.

  The man was speaking. Quietly. Threatening Ewan, taunting him.

  But Ewan would not be put off guard.

  The burly man spun, ready to slice her brother in the middle; Ewan jumped back just in time, and the sword slashed through the air. Then the men rushed together, and they were locked in the moonlight and the shadows.

  The Viking shouted, calling upon his gods, Igraina thought. Because he was losing. Ewan was going to kill him. Or …

  Keep him alive. And they would know why the Vikings were attacking.

  But the burly Viking wasn’t calling the gods. He was calling for help. He knew that someone was near. Someone who had been watching all this time …

  “Ewan!” Igraina called, trying to warn her brother.

  As the burly man fell, another man suddenly came from the shadows. He stepped forward, fresh, rested, ready. His sword came clashing down upon her brother’s; they locked in deadly combat.

  The man drew back, turned, and ran, disappearing into the shadows.

  “Ewan!” she cried, and raced for her brother.

  He turned to her.

  “Ewan?”

  “Igraina …”

  He smiled sheepishly. And then she saw that he clutched his middle. Blood streamed through his fingers.

  He fell, clutching her. “Get help, don’t be with me, don’t be alone. A man remains out there. They are with … Daro,” he whispered.

  “What?” she cried, looking around, confused, afraid. Oh, God, he was bleeding. So much blood.

  His eyes found hers. He moistened his lips to speak. “He told me he was with Daro as we fought. He told me we will fall like Rome, from within.”

  “Daro, but Ewan—!”

  “Get back inside, get help, shout for the guard in the tower … they have to know, don’t be alone. He is gone, but could come back.”

  “Ewan, be still, I’ll get help, I’ll be safe.”

  “Someone has eyes within, and tells them what goes on in the fortress.”

  “Ewan, hush, please!”

  His eyes closed, and he lay limp against her.

  “Ewan …”

  A low, moaning sound came from her, and then she began to scream.

  And scream …

  CHAPTER 20

  Mellyora awakened to the pounding on her door.

  At her side, Waryk rose. The fire burned low. He moved quickly, drawing a fur from the bed with which to cover her and sweeping a robe around his own shoulders. He opened the door. Angus and Phagin stood there, grim and anxious.

  “The MacKinny is downed by a Viking sword, and lies in his family’s cottage, sorely wounded,” Angus said.

  Hearing those words, Mellyora leapt to her feet, gasping. “Ewan … is killed?”

  “Nay, lady, he hangs to life by a tenacious thread,” Phagin said.

  “A Viking sword?” Waryk said. “Another attack?”

  “A survivor from the woods,” Phagin explained quickly. “He appears to have been alone, driven from his hideout by hunger.”

  “The water is high. A boat awaits,” Phagin said.

  “I’ll be quick,” Waryk said, and closed the door. He moved with swift competence, redonning his tartan, scabbard, boots, and mantle. Mellyora watched him for a moment, numb with worry. She tossed aside the fur, fumbling as she tried to dress as quickly. She felt his eyes on her.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said, keeping her eyes lowered on the laces she tied at her bodice.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t,” he said, and his voice sounded harsh.

  She looked up at him. “I could make the difference, Waryk. I have to come. Please.”

  He shrugged, but she still felt a peculiar heat in his eyes. “Hurry then. I don’t mean to sound cold, but if he is to die, I must speak with him first.”

  Her fingers felt too large, like ice. They refused to respond to the commands of her mind. Waryk came to her, tying the gown, reaching for her cloak and sweeping it around her shoulders. He caught her hand, leading her out of the room.

  Angus and Phagin awaited them in the corridor. They hurried down the stairs together. Geoffrey, Waryk’s an Gille-mor or armor-bearer, awaited them with horses ready to ride to the boats at the shore. Her father’s boats, they were Viking-built, swift and maneuverable.

  It seemed to take forever to cross the water, yet they came at last to the mainland. Waryk stepped from the boat, boots sloshing into the seawater; he reached for her, lifting her to the dry sand. The cottages were all alive with firelight and many precious candles burned. The people lined the outside of the house, waiting for their laird to arrive at the bedside of one of their loved chieftains. Mellyora hurried along behind Waryk, frightened and numb. Ewan. She had thought herself so loyal. How quickly she had fallen out of love. How loyal and fine he had remained. And now, in defense of her homeland, he was dying.

  She followed Waryk into Ewan MacKinny’s grandmother’s cottage, and there saw him stretched out on a high pallet, his features white as death. He had been stripped of arms, armor, and clothing. His bare chest gleamed in the firelight, punctured by various fresh stab wounds, while a linen cover was swept to his waist. Igraina was by her brother’s side, dabbing at his wounds. Waryk paused in the doorway. Mellyora swept past him, coming to Igraina, Phagin close behind her. “Igraina …”

  His sister, face tear-stained, moved aside. “Mellyora, I’ve tried to staunch the blood, some are flesh wounds, no more. Here, I think, is the worst, against his side …”

  Mellyora quickly examined her fallen friend, finding that most of the wounds were not so deep; easily sewn, and packed with salt water and the healing weed that littered the shore, some would not even scar. She moved the sheeting, exposing the length of his body in search of a mortal wound. She caught her breath when she saw the great gash just above his groin. Blood still seeped from it. She pressed her fingers hard against the wound, and the blood slowed. She carefully felt the area, trying to ascertain what organs might have been damaged below the flesh and muscle. She prayed that he’d torn muscle, nothing more. Pressure, quick sewing, and a poultice was needed. But she was so afraid. She couldn’t look at Ewan’s face without feeling a terrible guilt. And she was aware as well that her husband watched as she tended the naked body of the man she had intended to marry. A moment’s great sorrow fi
lled her. Stretched out so, unconscious, brutally torn, he was still a fine sight. Lean, hard-muscled, young, handsome. A brave man, a good man, in his prime. She couldn’t make a mistake. She dealt with Ewan’s life.

  “Pressure, here,” she said quickly, and, stepping back, she anxiously asked Phagin, “I think that it is flesh and muscle torn, no more. I want to stop the blood, sew, and poultice the tear with the sea salt and weed, and prevent swelling from within.”

  He stepped by her, studying the wound as she had done, his long fingers incredibly gentle and delicate upon Ewan’s flesh. He nodded after a moment. “Aye, Mellyora.” He turned suddenly. “Laird Waryk, you’ve the strength in your palm, I believe, sir, if you would …”

  Waryk stepped forward, placing his hand on the wound as Phagin told him, “This is difficult, to bring such pressure here where the blood vessels cannot be tied …”

  “I’ll bring the needle sutures,” Igraina said. “Grandmother has gone for the seaweed and salt water to make the poultice.”

  The flow of blood decreased to a trickle. Ewan remained white. Mellyora stood waiting, feeling as if a million years passed. The trickle of blood ceased. Phagin carefully placed his fingers where Waryk’s had been.

  Mellyora knew that Igraina stood at her side, ready to bathe the wound again and offer her the needle and thread. Her fingers still felt so cold. She’d worked with Phagin all her life, she could sew with deft, tiny stitches, and she knew that she had a healing touch. But she could barely move now, she was so afraid to touch Ewan, so afraid that he was going to die. He’d lost so much blood. How could any man live, when he had lost so much blood?

  “Mellyora.”

  It was Waryk who said her name sharply. She met his eyes, then stepped forward. Igraina cleansed the area again; Phagin gripped flesh and muscle. She stepped forward. The light was flickering. She couldn’t see. The night was cold. Sweat beaded her brow. The light was suddenly better. Waryk held a candle at an angle that gave her far better vision. She bit into her lower lip, and began to work.

  Ewan never moved. She looked at his face again and again, certain he had died while she worked. He lay so still. But his chest rose and fell, rose and fell. He breathed; he lived.