by Shana Ab
He was praying. He, Arion du Morgan, who had thought that God was merely a word that meant endless tithings and obedience to the church. Yes, he had prayed for her. The realization of it left him humble and shaken.
Perhaps God was listening, after all. Perhaps the prayer worked, or perhaps it was just that the decision to take her to Elguire had been the right one. Either way, Lauren lived, and she recovered, and she awoke.
“Where is Lauren?” asked the Scotswoman in front of him now, and Ari came back to this moment, focusing on her again.
“She is within. May I escort you … ?”
“Hannah Elizabeth MacRae.” She placed one hand delicately on his proffered arm, turning to her outriders.
“You are done here,” she instructed them. “Rest as long as you must, but then return to Keir, along with our other men.” Hannah looked back at Arion. “The men from our patrol are ready to leave, I hope?”
“Quite,” answered Ari, repressing a smile.
She nodded, then faced the keep again.“Very well.”
He wanted to look back at the mounted men but didn't. They seemed to have bowed to the will of this woman with perfect ease, and to look back would imply a kind of distrust he didn't want to offer. Besides, Fuller was nearby. Ari had seen him on the fringes of the crowd, watching the proceedings with close attention. Fuller would handle any problems.
Ari began to guide her to his chambers, and Hannah MacRae strolled beside him with the perfect hauteur of a queen. He had to admire it, how she went past staring people and loud rooms with equal indifference. The deep blues and greens of her tartan shouted out her difference here, yet she seemed to fear nothing, only kept moving through the hallways with pure serenity about her.
He had seen Lauren practice this look. Now he knew its origin.
“The latest report on Lauren claimed that she was not gravely injured, only enough so that she must rest a few days,” said Hannah, still walking.
Arion hesitated, then said,“That's true.”
She threw him an astute look.“But there is more, isn't there, your lordship?”
He debated about what to say to her, not certain if he should reveal what Lauren had said through her tears. After all, he really had no idea who she might be to Lauren—a near-stranger, perhaps—or even a spy for her fiancé. Yet he knew he should say something. He didn't know how Lauren was feeling this afternoon, after the trauma of the morning. He had left her sleeping but she might be awake by now, and still grieved.
Hannah pulled away from him and stopped in the hallway.
“If there is something truly wrong with Lauren, I insist you tell me at once,” said the woman, stern.“Do not spare me, Earl of Morgan. No one cares for that girl more than I. Tell me what it is.”
He could see the worry behind the command of her, and that was enough to persuade him to speak.
“Lauren had trouble remembering what happened to her,” he said cautiously. “When she did begin to remember, it … upset her.”
“Ah,” said Hannah, watching him keenly.
“She was badly battered from that fall down the cliff,” Arion added, trying to explain.“I'm certain her head was struck more than once.”
“How exactly was she upset?”
Ari looked around the hallway, people passing back and forth on both ends, many throwing them curious stares. He took Hannah into the nearest room, thankfully deserted, and shut the door behind them. Gloom instantly filled the chamber. The windows were shuttered, and there was no fire in the hearth. The air felt heavy and cold. Arion leaned against the door, then continued.
“The Northman who held her was going to kill her. She pulled her dirk and struck him with it. She was so brave….” How vividly he remembered that moment, colors so intense they hurt his eyes—the blue of the sky, the red of her blood. How his hands and feet had been weighted, slow. How his entire existence had seemed to hinge on that wild man's sword at her throat, how he couldn't breathe or think but only react, his life depending upon getting her away from him. And how Lauren had smiled at him—smiled at him—and tried to reassure him, even as there were thin streamers of scarlet running down her neck from the blade.
“She killed the invader,” stated Hannah to the empty air of the room, nodding. “I know it already. That is what upsets her?”
Arion let out his breath, trying to push away the terror of that moment. He felt tired suddenly, his whole body weary, and he brought up a hand to rub his temple, trying to battle this away as well.
“She told me that she sees her father's face on the man she killed. Not just on that one, but on the other Northman too. On the beach that morning, when she first came—” to save me, he almost said, but didn't— “When she came with the others of her patrol, and she killed the Northman there,” he finished.“She said they both had his face.”
“Ah,” said Hannah again, and again she nodded. “I understand.”
Neither of them spoke for a good while, allowing the silence to expand in the cool air, almost as a shield to further inquiry.
Ari saw that there was furniture in the room, thick and dim, a table with chairs, a cabinet of some sort with jars and pots stacked on the shelves. The floor was bare of rugs or rushes, left instead to just plain, cold stone.
“Has Lauren mentioned anything to you about the death of her father, du Morgan?” asked Hannah.
“No.”
He watched her walk to one of the chairs, where she sat down with a faint sigh, arranging her skirts around her.
“Forgive me. I must sit for this tale.”
He stayed where he was, against the door, actually glad that there was more space between them. Something in her voice told him he was not going to like what she was about to tell him, and he didn't want her to see his reluctance.
Ye t she said nothing, apparently content once more with their silence, and Ari found his thoughts drifting to the woman upstairs in his chamber, how she had last looked when he left: a sleeping princess from a fable, marble and flame and roses in his bed.
“Hebron led the patrols after the first longship was spotted off our shores,” Hannah said eventually, mellow and sad. “He was the laird of our clan, and none would refuse him. He had done so much for us all. He was shrewd and wise and charming and brave—he was everything a laird could be for his people, and all of us knew this. Unlike some leaders of men,” she looked at Arion, albeit briefly,“Hebron was beloved. But no one was closer to him than Lauren.
“So one dark day the Vikings came to shore, and they caught him unawares, and there was a fight. A terrible, terrible fight. We supposed that the Vikings had identified Hebron as the leader, for they singled him out and came after him so fiercely that he had to die. He died bravely, of course. But he did die.”
Her voice wavered now, and she paused, smoothing her skirts again. Arion heard her sigh once more, and her words grew softer.“They did not just kill him. They tortured him. They maimed him—and then he was beheaded. No one could do anything to stop them that day. We lost that battle, as we lost our laird. It was a storm that finally drove the invaders off, and the sight of our reinforcements arriving.
“Lauren was at Keir, waiting like the rest of us for our men to return. And when they did, it was she who ran out to meet them before any of us. You can imagine what she saw that night, du Morgan. You can imagine how it must have been for her, to see her father cut down as he was, carried back home in pieces.”
Ari closed his eyes, bowing his head.
“She never cried,” said Hannah, almost reflective. “She never stopped to shed her grief. She buried her father with the rest of our dead, and she stepped into his place and tried to carry his hopes and determination forward, to help the clan. But I never saw her cry.”
Hannah fell silent, letting the chill in the air take over the room again, and it sank into Arion's bones and left him breathless, frost settling over his heart. That Lauren, his beautiful, remarkable Lauren, had suffered such a loss, had se
en such things …
“She has cried now,” he said at last, down to his booted feet.
He heard the woman get up out of her chair, the faint rustling of her clothing as she walked over to him. He felt her place one frail hand on his arm, a timid warmth against the cold.
“Then I am glad, Arion du Morgan,” she said. “It was time.”
E WATCHED THEM REUNITE WITH the feeling that he should be elsewhere, that he should not be here in his own chamber staring at the embraces they shared, or listening to the words of relief and fondness they exchanged.
But Arion did not leave. In fact, he pretended to make himself useful by going to the fire in the hearth—which had indeed burned itself low—and slowly building it up again, taking such exact care with his placement of the logs that anyone truly watching him would have laughed. It was a transparent stratagem, no doubt, but the two women in the room seemed to give it no notice.
If Lauren was still distressed, she gave no sign of it. She smiled and even laughed a little, brushing off her injuries to inquire about Hannah, and Keir, and all her clan there.
When he turned around they were sitting together with the ease of old friends, holding hands, Hannah perched on the edge of his bed.
“I have good news for you,” the older woman was saying.“Quinn is awake, and aware.”
“He is?” Lauren's voice was still slightly rasped, but the happiness in it was clear to Arion.
“Aye. It appears he'll recover. Elias said he can be up within a few days, if all goes well.”
“That's wonderful!”
“We've told him of all that's happened since he's been asleep. About your Da, and the battles—the beach and the caves and Dunmar.”
“Oh.”The syllable was small, deflated.
“James informed him of the joining with the English.” Hannah glanced over at Arion, then back at Lau-ren.“Quinn said he wants to speak with you.”
“Oh,” said Lauren again, and this time Ari heard gloom.
Someone knocked on the door, and both women immediately looked to him, standing idle by the now blazing fire. Ari walked over and opened it.
“Your pardon, my lord.” It was Fuller.
“Yes?” Arion didn't move from the doorway.
“I thought you might like to know that the fourth patrol will be riding in soon. In case you wanted to meet them.”
Ari stared at him, baffled. Fuller knew that Arion always met the patrols when he could, and both of them knew perfectly well that the next one was not due in for over an hour.
He lowered his voice.“Is something amiss?”
“No, my lord. Not that I know of.” But the steward seemed almost nervous, his eyes shifting from Arion's to the room behind him.
“Fuller Morgan.”
Arion turned at the words, spoken with quiet emphasis. Hannah had risen from the bed and was walking toward the doorway, a warm smile in place.
Ari backed away and Fuller came into the room, meeting Hannah halfway.
“Hannah MacRae,” said the steward. He took her proffered hand in both of his and just held it, not smiling back.
Arion looked at Lauren and found the same puzzled expression on her face as he was certain he was wearing. She was sitting up, intent, watching the curious scene unfold before them.
“It's been many years,” said Hannah.
“Aye,” replied Fuller, not releasing her hand.
“Hannah?” Lauren recovered from the astonishment before Ari did.
“My dear.” Hannah turned around and walked Fuller over to the bed.“Have you met the earl's steward?”
“Yes,” replied Lauren. “But I didn't realize that you had.”
“Why, we're naught but old acquaintances, isn't that so?” Hannah looked at Fuller, who nodded, slow and deliberate. They stayed that way, staring at each other, two people so obviously lost in each other that now Ari did feel like an intruder—not a welcome feeling, especially considering the circumstances.
“What a delightful happenstance.” He crossed to them, trying to judge the situation. Lauren appeared thoughtful; Hannah, still composed. And his steward had the look of a man who had found a lifeline, and had no intention of letting go.
Arion, God help him, knew that feeling too well. He wasn't going to be the man who crushed it in the only person who had shown him an ounce of friendship since he had inherited his title.
“Perhaps you might show Hannah MacRae our …” Ari paused, trying to think of anything that might seem appropriate, but Fuller only nodded once more, and drew the woman's arm through his own with solemn courtesy.
“Aye, my lord,” he said, walking away with her, to the doorway and beyond. But there Hannah stopped, not pulling away. She glanced back at Lauren, an unspoken question.
Ari saw Lauren nod and offer a half-smile, leaning back against her pillows. Hannah turned again to Fuller, and the two of them faded off into the torchlit shadows, no words between them.
When he looked at Lauren again she was still staring at the empty doorway, her smile vanished. After a moment she glanced down at the covers of the bed, and then slowly up to him. The gold of her eyes was clear and lucid, no trace of the tears she had shed earlier. Ye t there was a pensive air about her now that made him want to comfort her still, even though he knew she would not welcome it.
“How are you?” he asked, trying to find some way to set them both at ease.
Instead of answering she turned her face away from him, a delicate blush spreading across her cheeks. She bowed her head and the fullness of her hair fell forward, disguising her features.
“I feel better,” she said, low.
“Good.” He stood there awkwardly for another moment, then went ahead and sat down on the feather mattress where he had before, when he had held her and rocked her to sleep. She did not raise her head, but neither did she protest his move. Her copper hair curled and rested across his blanket, bright warmth amid the darkened colors of his bed.
“Lauren,” he began,“I want you to know I'm sorry about your father. I didn't realize—”
She cut him off, speaking over him.“You told me this morning that men died in that battle in the meadow. Who were they?”
Arion paused, watching the gleam of her hair, since she still wouldn't look up at him. “I don't know the names of your kin who died,” he said carefully. “Your friend Hannah will, however. Shall I go get her?”
“No.” Now she looked up again, and Ari saw that the blush was still there.“Leave her be. Let her have her moment with Fuller.”
Arion nodded, agreeing, thinking of the two of them, the mystery they presented.
“What of your men?” Lauren asked now, softer than before.“Who were they, the ones who died?”
Ari turned his gaze to one of the walls, to the window that showed him an empty sky framed in stone. “Good men,” he said shortly.“I don't know their names, either. Men from Shot. Men who died defending their home.”
Now it was Lauren who nodded, silent. Her eyes met his, steady and calm despite the conversation.
“I should know their names,” Arion said, almost to himself.“I should know them.”
“You are still new here,” she said, surprising him with her defense.“And there are many of your people on this island. It takes time to remember faces and names.”
“I should have known them,” he said again anyway, and then quelled the tired sigh that wanted to come.
One of her hands reached out, rested lightly on the back of his own. She said nothing more, only left her touch on him, and Arion felt it burning through him as if she held a flame to his skin.
He got up abruptly, stalking away from her, walking away—anywhere but near her, when just her touch could cloud his mind, making him dazed and careless and his thoughts inappropriate. He ended up near a table of dark oak, heavily carved, with drawers and wrought-iron handles and a polished top. He remembered this table, strangely enough. He remembered it from this very room, when he had
been summoned here as a boy, his uncle's companion on one of the visits to the island.
Ryder had sat there and written notes to himself, detailing his thoughts out loud on the best—the most cutting and cruel—manner in which to take over all of Shot. Arion had been made to stand before him. It was a test; one of the many Ryder had subjected him to every day of his miserable life with him.
“They have a castle,” Uncle Ryder had said, his tone didactic, lecturing.“What do we do?”
“Breach it,” suggested the young boy Arion had been, hesitant, afraid not to answer.
“Correct. But there are many of them and fewer of us here. What do we do?”
“Outwit them?” tried Arion.
“How?” demanded Ryder, not looking up from his notes, his face empty.
“Poison,” ventured Arion, trying desperately to guess the correct answer from his uncle's lessons. “Fire. Ambush. Siege. War.”
“Very good.” Ryder held the feather quill motionless, staring down at the paper, and Ari knew that meant that the next question would be the true one, the one that he had to get right or else risk his uncle's punishment. He felt his stomach do a sick lurch, and curled his fingers up into his palms until the nails bit the flesh there, so that he could keep his composure.
“And there is something else to this situation, Nephew. They have a weakness.”
“Exploit it,” Arion said instantly.
“It is a child,” said Ryder gently.“A little girl, a princess to them. She will marry someday, unite them with another clan, making them all the more powerful. What do we do?”
“Kill her,” Arion had replied, without even blinking.
Ryder looked up finally, and his face was still empty, but that was good. No wrath right now, no striking hand, no whippings or slaps or confinement for Ari today—or for Nora.
“Yes,” his uncle had said, and then patted Arion on the shoulder.“That's correct, Arion. Excellent.”
The wood of the tabletop now looked to Arion precisely as it had in that harrowing moment, just as finely polished; it even had what appeared to be the same inkwell resting on one corner of it, silver and brass in the shape of a gargoyle's head.