She expertly tied off her last stitch. Ewan’s ancient, tiny grandmother moved in. She muttered prayers beneath her breath, soft incantations in Gaelic, as she plastered the freshly sewn wound with a poultice of the healing seaweed. Mellyora turned. A basin of water had been left. She soaked and wrung a cloth to put upon Ewan’s forehead, then she cooled his neck, shoulders, chest. Night was becoming morning, and as they had all expected, a fever was setting in. He had to be kept cool, and it would take a constant vigil to see to it that the fever didn’t claim him.
The sun rose. They had made it through the first night. Stretching and straightening as Ewan’s grandmother brought her fresh cool water, she realized that Waryk was gone. She didn’t know when he had left the cottage, only that he was gone.
Phagin remained with her. His eyes were on her, and he seemed to read her mind. “He left some time ago, Mellyora.”
She nodded. “I see.”
He was still watching her. Igraina, who had gone outside, came over to her brother. She touched his forehead, changed the cloth there.
“When will we know?” she asked Phagin softly.
“Each day he survives, he will grow a little stronger. If he can shake the fever for a full week, well then, I believe he will live. Unless he has bled too much inside, and then …”
Igraina let out a soft sob. She lowered her head, then suddenly looked across at Mellyora as if she were fighting to remember that Mellyora was lady of the isle. But she suddenly spoke with tremendous bitterness. “Mellyora MacAdin, you are lady here, but by God, I swear, if you are a part of this …”
Stunned, Mellyora stood. “A part of what?”
“It is Daro.”
“Daro!”
Igraina angrily wiped tears from her eyes, staring at Mellyora. “The Viking claimed that Daro had sent him when they fought.”
“That’s a lie—”
“It’s what my brother said. My brother doesn’t lie.”
Mellyora shook her head. “I didn’t accuse Ewan of lying. But the Viking lied, or whoever or whatever he was. Daro wouldn’t do this—”
“Why not? This was his brother’s little jarldom. Adin left a daughter, perhaps he feels that the land is rightfully his. God knows, enough Vikings have ruled Scottish islands!”
“Daro would not do this—”
“Wouldn’t he?” Igraina accused very softly. “Perhaps with your blessing. Someone knows what is going on here. That Ewan came with me to the mainland. That any major attack would be seen, but that a man or two could slip quietly through the trees to assault a cottage.”
“So someone saw!” Mellyora cried indignantly.
“You swore that you’d keep this place alone, that you’d be independent, that the king would see your strength. You said there would be no Norman laird here. The only way this fortress could fall is from within.”
Mellyora tightened her fingers into fists. “I’ve known you all my life, Igraina! I wouldn’t do this, I didn’t do this! Would I risk Ewan? I love him!” she reminded Igraina.
Then there was silence. A dead silence. And she turned around to see that Waryk had come back; he stood in the doorway.
He stared at her with more than suspicion.
She knew that he had taken Igraina outside sometime while she had worked on Ewan, and that Igraina had described the attack to him, shown him the body of the dead Viking, and made every accusation she had just made to Mellyora. And now she stood there, stricken by what had happened to an old friend, yet accused of causing the travesty—while having just stated before her husband her love for another man.
“The men are searching the hills, crags, cliffs, caves, and forests for the second man, any other survivors of our recent attack, Igraina. The carpenters and masons have begun work on a wall around the dwellings here so that there can be no such surprises again. We’ve every able pair of hands at work, and we’ll bring a permanent guard here so that the mainland no longer lies vulnerable.”
“Did any man recognize the body?” Igraina asked.
Waryk shook his head, looking at his wife. “Mellyora …”
He stretched out a hand. She felt a fierce trembling in the pit of her stomach. “Waryk, I—” she began, but it seemed she had no voice. “He remains in danger,” she said lamely.
“Mellyora,” he repeated firmly.
She couldn’t leave Ewan, but Waryk wouldn’t understand why. He had been her friend forever, he was the MacKinny. He had always been willing to die for her.
“I don’t question your healing talents,” Waryk said sharply, “nor the tremendous value of this man’s life. But you will come with me now.”
She swallowed hard, staring at Igraina. If she didn’t walk across the room, Waryk could come and take her, and she was very afraid of his temper and suspicions should he have to do so. She lifted her chin, angrily staring at Igraina for a moment, then turning to her husband. “My uncle didn’t cause any attack here, Waryk. You may say what you wish about my father being a conqueror who raped my mother, but she conquered him in the end, he became Scottish. This is a Scottish isle, day by day, we have followed the ways of the old Scotia, and all that my father ever forced upon this isle was better boats—and himself. Daro respected my father; he has fought with you, he fought with you for King David.”
“Mellyora,” he repeated. “Come with me now.”
“I have not betrayed you or anyone to any Viking forces.”
“Mellyora, come with me now.” His tone was very sharp. She felt ill. He was suspicious of her. Igraina had simply accused her without doubting the word of their enemy.
Behind her, Phagin urged, “Go, Mellyora.”
“I will tend my brother with Phagin,” Igraina said, coming to her and setting a hand on her shoulder. Perhaps, hearing Waryk’s tone, Igraina was sorry, and perhaps she at least believed that Mellyora was innocent in what was happening, if Daro was not.
“He will need constant care, someone by his side every minute, hour after hour.”
“Aye, Mellyora, I will take this hour!” Igraina said. “Phagin will be with me.”
Mellyora lowered her head. She was alarmed when she realized that Waryk had lost patience with her, and was coming across the room. She found life, hurrying toward him. His fingers bit into her arm. “You may return to tend this man you love, my wife, but at this moment, you will come with me!” he said with quiet menace.
She bit into her lip, very aware that he was furious with her. They exited the cottage together. Angus waited just outside.
“The lad?” Angus inquired softly.
“Lives. And may survive.”
“There is, just arrived, a messenger from David. There is more trouble breaking out at the border.”
“At Tyne?”
“East of Peter’s lands. They will surely try to draw him into whatever action is taking place.”
“Ready our forces. We’ll ride with the morning.”
He urged Mellyora toward the dragon-prowed boat, her father’s boat, a Viking boat, that waited to take them across the high tide. She was reminded painfully of the night they had first met as he seated her, stepped into the water and pushed the boat from the shore, then took his position center to row.
They shot across the moonlit water. She felt him staring at her, and she still felt numb. She wished that she could explain that she loved Ewan like a brother now, that things had changed. But she was accused again, for being what she was, and she knew her uncle, and knew that he was not guilty, just as she knew her own innocence. He had no right to accuse her.
“I am not guilty of anything! I didn’t—”
“Don’t talk. I don’t want to hear it right now.”
“But I—”
The hard crystal look in his eyes silenced her for the moment.
They came to the isle. Mercury awaited. She made no protest when she was seated on the great destrier with Waryk behind her. She knew the path they were taking. Back to the fortress, to the tower.
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Angus had preceded them. Already, the tower was filling with men, wagons, horses, implements of war. They moved grimly, a man here or there pausing to ask quietly after Ewan, then go about his business again. She knew that Waryk needed to ride with a force, and she knew as well that he had to leave Blue Isle guarded. Jon of Wick stood his post at the gatehouse, and she knew that Jon would remain. No man could see as far as Jon, none knew the defenses of the fortress walls nearly so well.
Indeed, when Waryk left, the fortress would be guarded.
For her …
Or against her?
He didn’t have to urge her to the chambers they shared. She walked ahead of him, pushing the door open, striding to stand before the fire and then turn and challenge him. “I have had nothing to do with this. I didn’t agree to this marriage to plot and plan with Daro for the downfall of my property and my people.”
He came into the room and closed the door, taking off his mantle and his scabbard, laying his claymore, his father’s weapon, on the bed.
“Are you listening to me!” she cried out.
He looked at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ewan is your man,” he said. “And Igraina is your friend.”
“Aye, that’s true! Why would I wish them hurt—”
“These men, it appears, were left behind when the Vikings retreated after their attack. But were they? Or has someone figured out that the fortress really is impregnable, and the way to kill those who guard it is to pick them off, one by one. Interesting.”
She exhaled, furious. “So you are really accusing me of sleeping with you—and planning on my uncle seizing this place?”
“Are you sleeping with me by choice?” he inquired politely.
She turned away from him, gripping the stone mantel at the hearth. “I agreed to this, to all of this, your terms!” she reminded him.
“And even that might make good sense. There was no choice for you. Marry me, or be disinherited. You were furious, you defied the king. You hated me. You might well have gone to your father’s kin with a plan.”
She inhaled sharply, so angry she could scarcely endure it. “I do hate you, you bastard, how dare you accuse me so!”
“I didn’t accuse you; I said that the plan might make sense.”
She walked over to him, so incensed that she couldn’t think. “One word from anyone else and you are ready to accuse me! Let’s not doubt the whispered words of an enemy we can’t even see, let’s just accuse Mellyora—it makes sense. You—bastard!”
She tried to strike him. He caught her arms. His fingers were vises, she was drawn against him. Desperately, she wrenched free. She couldn’t bear his touch, his scent, his closeness, reminding her of all the intimacy, of the way she had begun to feel, of wanting him, needing him, feeling jealousy, and fear. She spun around, striding across the room again.
“And Ewan lies dying.”
“Damn you, I would never plot with anyone to hurt him—”
“I know. You love him,” he said dryly.
She spun again. “He is a friend, a good man. He has served you, you said yourself that he was a good man—”
“You don’t need to defend him to me. Only your own words and actions.”
She lowered her eyes, inhaling. “I said, he is a friend—”
“But you aren’t planning on riding with me to Tyne anymore, are you?”
She lifted her eyes to his, feeling an emotional tug of war within her that was agony. “He might die!” she whispered softly. “I am the best here, I might be able to save him.”
“And I should leave you because you wish it?”
She stared at him a long while, then lifted her hands. There was only so much she could admit when it seemed that she stood accused again. She spoke softly. “You may believe this or not—I don’t want to stay. I wanted to ride with you. But now … I must stay.”
“If I allow it.”
She caught her breath. In her heart, she wanted him to disallow her, to insist that she accompany him, as she had said that she would. But she could make a difference at times, she knew it. For all of Phagin’s knowledge, and for all the love Igraina bore her brother, Mellyora knew that she was the one with the greatest healing talents.
“You have to allow it. He might die. And he has served you well.”
“And you love him.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing between us. Was nothing between us. You know that. There was never anything more than words and false promises, and dreams that could not be.”
“Dreams, my lady, can be far more dangerous than sins of flesh,” he told her.
“You are going to your mistress. With whom you shared numerous sins of the flesh,” she reminded him bitterly.
“You can still come.”
“But I must stay.”
“You must?”
“You know that. He could die! Please, you cannot forbid me—”
“No, I cannot, or will not, forbid you to stay, Mellyora. It’s your choice.”
She turned from him suddenly, alarmed by the tears that welled in her eyes, and slid down her cheeks. She was startled when she found him suddenly behind her, turning her into his arms. His fingers moved down the length of her hair, and he tilted her chin toward him.
“I am not in league with a contingent of Vikings against you!” she said passionately, and she was surprised when he smiled.
“I never said that you were.”
“But—oh, you did! You suggested—”
“I merely said that there might have been good reason for you to turn to your Viking kin for help. The man Ewan killed claimed that Daro was responsible. I’ve no proof of that, nor can I believe it so easily. Perhaps someone believes that I will be quick to accuse you, and Daro. And perhaps even wage war against Daro—and my own wife.”
She exhaled on a long breath, amazed. She trembled, relieved by his words, yet still angry that he had tested her so. Yet she knew that her words of affection for Ewan, spoken so passionately, had angered him. Not that there had been secrets between them. But because she had said what she had in front of others, and perhaps, even, because of the emotion in her voice when she had agreed to marriage with him—and all its terms.
And when it had seemed that there might even be happiness in that marriage.
“Don’t wage war against me!” she pleaded softly. “I have not betrayed you. I swear it.”
“Tell me, why would you no longer fight me?”
“I married you.”
“Aye?”
“I promised to love, honor, and obey.”
He laughed suddenly. “My dear, I don’t think you’re familiar with the meaning of the word obey.”
“I agreed to the marriage,” she said softly.
“And …”
She swallowed hard. There was only so much she dared admit when it seemed that someone, somewhere, was working against her.
“I am resigned.”
“That’s all? Resigned?”
“I’m finding marriage to be … more than palatable.”
“I’ve made it to palatable, and now I must leave.”
He was speaking lightly, teasing her, but she was suddenly afraid, and miserable. “Yet, if there is any fear … shouldn’t you stay here? If the isle is in danger, can’t the English wait? If you were to go later—”
“I must go today.”
“If you could just wait … a few days. Time will tell quickly with Ewan. Perhaps, in very little time, I could come.”
“I don’t have time.”
She lowered her head again. He cradled her skull with his palm, holding her to his chest. “I have to go, and you have to stay. So tell me good-bye.”
She was silent. He lifted her chin again. Her eyes met his. “Good-bye,” she said painfully. “Godspeed.”
He smiled, fingers gentle as they moved down her cheek. “I’m glad that you would have God with me. But I’d wanted something a bit more memorable in the manner of a goo
d-bye. Especially since I’ve gone from being not entirely repulsive to actually palatable.”
She was amazed to realize that she could smile through her tears. And more, she was amazed to find herself on her toes, delicately, with a whisper, brushing her lips against his. Then she threw her arms around him, and the kiss she gave next was anything but delicate. Her body pressed to his, she teased his mouth open with her tongue. Passionate, hungry, angry, afraid and trying to hold on, she slipped her hands beneath the linen shirt he wore beneath his wool, running her fingers along his flesh. She kissed and teased, stroked boldly with her tongue. In seconds, his shirt was open, and she worked down his body, her fingertips brushing flesh, her lips and tongue feathering after. He hastily began ripping clothing from his body, and hers, and while linen and wool were strewn, she scarcely missed a brush, a taste, a touch. The fire burned very low, the dawn just crept into being. She tended each scar upon him with a stroke of her tongue, the brush of a kiss. She lowered herself against him. Stroked him, cradled him, took him into her mouth. His fingers curled into her hair, hoarse cries escaped him. He came down to his knees before her, captured her lips in a kiss, found her throat, shoulders, breasts …
They lay before the low-burning fire upon the soft furs. And he kissed her and tasted her, caressed her, touched her, imprinting sensation upon his mind. The dawn came inexorably, light filtered through arrow slits in crimson and mauve, subtly changing, playing upon their flesh in shades that slowly changed to gold and yellow …
He made love to her, she rose atop him. No matter how hard she tried to hold on to the moments, they slipped away. She could not be passionate enough, fierce enough, tender enough. She had never been so aggressive, so hungry, so desperate. She ached to reach the promised pinnacle, and she drew back each time it threatened. His eyes touched hers, his rich dark hair brushed her flesh, his skin was fire, his arms were all powerful, holding her, he moved like lightning, like the wind, like thunder, with all the sweet promise and violence of a storm at sea. Then it seemed that the world itself was ripped asunder, climax seized her in a final, wild tempest, and she lay with him drenched and shivering upon the furs, and realizing that the fire had died, and that dawn was breaking to the full light of day.
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