by Shana Ab
He stopped for a moment, mired in his black memories, gone from her though his grip was just as firm. Lauren curled her fingers into his clothing, clutching the cloth, so desperate for him that it left her mute.
After a moment, Arion continued, his voice stronger. “There was nothing I could do to save my sister—but by God, I can save you. I will not be like Ryder. I will not put myself before all others, especially not before you. I will not condemn you to a life of guilt and obligation because you feel bound to me, for how I feel about you. I will not do that to you. I know your heart, my beloved. You don't want a war. You don't want innocent people to die for you. You are too just for that.”
She was crying, although she hated herself for it, and she tried to disguise it by bringing up a hand against her mouth, to stop the words that wanted to spill out:
Please don't do this. Don't leave me. Don't send me to him.
“You are the most precious thing in the world to me,” said Arion gravely.“And so you must go now. Go home, Lauren. Go back to Keir.”
He released her, pulling away from her hands, stepping back. All was shadowed around him, all was dark and dim and relentless cold. He looked as if he might say something more, but then he didn't. Arion bowed to her and turned around, walking away, across the snow and grass to the black horse that waited for him at the other end of the meadow.
She watched him grow smaller, the barest limp to his steps, until the night had taken him completely, and all that was left was obscure and far, dwindling to nothing in the forest.
Only then did Lauren turn away. Slowly she began the long and frigid walk back to Keir Castle.
Chapter Fourteen
T WOULD HAVE BEEN so simple to persuade him.
Lauren realized it afterward, sitting dull and useless through one of the many meals she had to take with Murdoch, her boisterous clan all around them in the great hall.
Simple. A few short words, and Arion would have forgotten his noble intentions, he would have taken her away and hidden her at Elguire, tucked her safely into his chamber, with its sparkling tapestry and tremendous bed. A few simple words:
He hurt me. He wants to do it again.
Just that, and her virtuous English knight would have swept her back with him to the warmth of his home, under his protection, and then …
He would die.
Thank the heavens part of her had known that, had raced ahead though the steps of her outrageous plan, however vaguely, and realized that Arion would have indeed gone to war for her, and that her clan and Payton Murdoch would have done everything in their power to destroy him.
She would have been taken away from him by force.
Worse, to greet his body just as she had Da's, broken and torn, nothing at all left of the man she loved.
Aye, if she had stayed with Arion, it would have meant his death. So it was better that it would be her fate, and not his. She would gladly choose her own doom rather than condemn the man who held her heart. Let him gradually ebb from her life, as she would ebb from his.
It struck Lauren as morbidly funny that now that the Murdoch was here, no one seemed to notice her very much. The wedding was all-important, and she became merely a single thread in the greater tapestry of it, nearly trivial.
No one commented on her lackluster spirits. No one asked about the fresh bruises that seemed to bloom on her cheeks, her neck, just where Murdoch's hands would encircle her, complete control of her.
Only Hannah might have noted the differences in her, on her, and Lauren was careful to avoid her. She wouldn't be able to bear to see the sorrow for her on her friend's face. She wouldn't be able to bear her pity.
So Lauren took to wrapping her tartan higher around her neck—as if she felt a constant chill—to hide the telltale signs of his hands on her, because it was easier than thinking up a lie to answer any questions about it.
And the Murdoch was always so careful, despite his hard hands. It was never anything more than a sort of subdued peril with him—nothing severe enough that she could run to Quinn or the council and plead with them for her release:
He holds me too hard.
He threatens me with his eyes.
His kisses taste of ashes and dust.
He hates me.
She could imagine how they might react to that— she would be ordered to her chamber. Again. The marriage was too important to them, too valuable to let go and risk making an enemy of the man they most wanted to befriend. All their hopes and dreams were pinned on this union.
She saw her life as if it were a puzzle all laid out, the pieces almost joined together, every bit of it ready to fit and be finished, and then put away to be forgotten. Ye t she kept her thoughts to herself, and followed what they all wanted. She obeyed her fiancé, the will of her clan, and felt herself dying with it.
Being alone with him was the worst. Lauren understood that in those secluded moments with Murdoch it was better not to resist him, that what he wanted was for her to fight him, that behind his chilling words and rough hands was the gleaming snare of a hunter, seeking a challenge. She remained limp and inert, almost removed from her body, no threat at all.
And no one noticed.
She had crept back into Keir that night—was it three days ago now, or four? she couldn't recall—coming through with a returning herd of sheep, going up to her room in the deceptive shadows of the castle, and found her bed undisturbed, no meal waiting for her. Nothing.
Everyone seemed so happy. Everyone talked with such excitement about the wedding, about the feast, the dancing and celebration. The strength of the clan, about to be doubled.
Payton Murdoch smiled and laughed with them, at perfect ease, the honored guest. His soldiers drank MacRae whiskey and ate MacRae food and flirted with so many young women that it appeared, to the delight of all, that there might be more weddings to follow.
Lauren wore the silver brooch of rowan and the ruby ring all the time now, surely the most luxurious shackles she had ever imagined.
She thought about her Da, of what he might say to her. Perhaps it was that she was so very mired in despair—she couldn't hear his wisdom at all.
OBILITY AND HONOR MADE COLD dinner companions, Arion found.
He ate his final evening meal alone in his uncle's room, staring at the familiar walls, the furniture. The stain of ink on the rug, pale gray from repeated scrub-bings, but still there, his own mark upon this place.
It was all much as it had been days ago, that dusky twilight when her note had come to him, and the hope he had felt then had seemed so bright that it would illuminate the world.
Such different emotions tonight. No hope. Only resignation.
He looked at the trunks pressed back in a neat line along one wall, his clothing, his armaments packed away. They would sail with the morning tide, if the weather was clear enough. He was ready to leave Shot, in body and in mind. Now all he had to do was convince his heart.
Ari told himself he had done the right thing, back in that starlit meadow. He had discovered an amazing aspect of himself, a greatness, even: the sacrifice of his life for that of the one he loved. He had left her so that she would go on, and live well, and follow the path that was expected of her. She would become Lauren Murdoch, and someday he would be nothing but a memory to her, faded and dim.
Ari tilted his head back, offering a bitter smile to the ceiling. No chance of such a peace descending upon him. He knew with all his soul that she would never fade from him. The love in his heart, the anguish, would keep her close to him for the rest of his days. But to remain here, trapped on the island, knowing she was so close by, made that pain intolerable.
So he was leaving. After all, the Vikings had fled, defeated. He doubted they would be rash enough to return soon. And if they did … he would come back. Or send someone else back for him. It didn't have to be him. He didn't have to see Shot ever again.
A tiny sound captured his attention, off in a darkened corner of the room. He glanced do
wn at it indifferently.
Twin gleams of reflected light gazed back at him, frozen, nearly invisible. Arion did not move, and in a moment the gleams bobbed and shifted—a mouse, staying near the shelter of one of his trunks, firelight caught in its eyes.
A little brown mouse, with tiny folded ears, and whiskers that reached a ridiculous distance from its body.
Nora's pet, he thought, remembering his sister's fancy. Simon.
The mouse seemed to stare back at him, unmoving again, only the whiskers twitching, as if it had discovered his scent.
He had not been able to save Nora. All the tricks and sacrifices of his youth had been nothing to her; she had succumbed to the despair in her life despite his love for her. But with Lauren it would be different. It would work with Lauren. He had saved her. He had.
Golden light from the fire flickered over the trunks. He saw the long, sliding sheen of whiskers as the mouse sat up and began to groom its face.
She has to marry him. She should be with him. Her life will be the better for it.
He had a vision of Lauren in the meadow, her face turned to silver beneath the stars, her eyes dark and pleading. How she had felt in his arms … how she had grasped him to her, her embrace tight and certain.
She's strong. She'll endure with Murdoch.
The bathing was done. The mouse shook itself, then settled down again, smooth brown fur, liquid black eyes, still watching him.
She'll endure….
“But she wanted me.”
He didn't realize he had said the words aloud until the mouse started and scampered away, a curving flicker of tail and then nothing but shadows again, empty stone and space.
Lauren might endure. Arion knew that he would not.
ER MARRIAGE WAS TO BE held tomorrow.
Tonight the Murdoch had told everyone that he wanted to dine privately in his chamber with his bride, a short meal before bidding her good night, eager to start their new life together on the morrow.
As usual, Lauren had acquiesced to this seemingly romantic notion. Everyone had kissed her good evening, had smiled at her and congratulated her again and told her to sleep well as she left the hall with Murdoch, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
They ate in near silence. She moved without thought, cutting the meat pie for them both, serving him, then herself. Pouring his wine. Managing just a splash into her own goblet; she did not want to drink.
She kept her gaze lowered, her head bowed, watching with a strange sense of marvel her hands working, how normal they seemed. How they did not shake, or falter, or give away at all the curling ball of panic lodged deep, deep inside her. How amazing, that she was so truly able to hide from herself.
The Murdoch was speaking now. She listened only as much as she needed to. Lauren had found that most of what he had to say was composed of lists and notes he made up in his head. She supposed he spoke them out loud to her as a sort of exercise. Or perhaps he merely enjoyed the sound of his own voice. The steady, even inflection of his tone almost never changed, the words drawn out and shallow.
The ceremony. Her gown. Where to stand. What to say. When to say it.
No flowers, too cold for this time of year. Perhaps hollyhock instead. Something with berries.
Food. Ample fare mixed with rare delicacies. Wine. Ale. Whiskey, enough for all the men.
The boats, fit to sail, fully armed. Weapons replenished, mended.
Land forces, rested and ready. Dead horses replaced, wounded men held back for the second wave of attack …
“What did you say?” Lauren asked, raising her head.
Payton Murdoch gave her a brief glance, no expression on his face.“For the second wave of attack. Do not interrupt me, Lauren.”
She ignored his warning, felt the panic in her expand with breathtaking speed, wrapping around her chest and then her heart, confining it.
“Attack on what?” she asked.
He stared at her, that terrible blankness on his face still, and she knew that he was summoning his anger, that brutality in him. Yet she couldn't back away now, she couldn't apologize and ask for forgiveness. The writhing panic would not allow it.
Perhaps he knew. Perhaps he sensed that he had at last managed to stir her, to engage her fears.
“On Elguire, naturally,” he said calmly.“Where else?”
He smiled at her then—and oh yes, he recognized what her swift intake of breath meant, what fright was living in her now.
“Our good King William has openly expressed dissatisfaction with the English king. It's common knowledge that Henry demands far too much of him, too many concessions. Why, I heard the other day that he accused Henry's ambassadors to their faces of avarice and perfidy. William will not be displeased, I think, to learn that Shot has become entirely Scotland's. Our forces now outnumber du Morgan's. It may be bloody, but it can be done.”
She was mute, horrified, bound to her chair with the conflicting instincts to both run and warn the others and to stay and stop this madness in him.
“You can't,” was all she managed to choke out.
He raised his eyebrows. “It won't be that difficult. The Earl of Morgan is only one man, with no heirs to seek out revenge. We will make Elguire our own home on Shot. I had thought you might enjoy that. Perhaps I will make it my wedding gift to you. You may thank me later.”
His smile was open and malicious now, no effort to disguise his delight at her reaction. Lauren found her will again and quickly stood, outraged.
“We have an agreement with them—one that you cannot violate! They have been our allies! They have fought beside us, defended us!”
“I did not give you leave to stand,” said the Murdoch, so gentle.
With one quick move he pushed up from his chair and struck her, taking her by surprise though she should have anticipated it. She fell against the table and then to the floor, jolted and stunned. He came down beside her, bent next to her ear.
“Another gift to you, my wife,” Murdoch murmured. “I'll spare as many women and children as I can, and ship them back to England. I'll kill only the earl, and every man under him.”
“I won't let you,” she swore, and got slapped again, harder now but in the same spot across her cheek, and this time she saw blackness before becoming aware of him again.
“Enough of that, I think,” he said, reflective. “We don't want you too marked up for your wedding day. Time for you to retire, Lauren.”
“My clan will never agree to it,” she said as he jerked her to her feet.
“Oh, I think they will. When I map it out for them, and let them know we will have the unspoken blessing of the king, I think they will. We both know how the MacRaes feel about the English. I am confident they will have the wits to appreciate my brilliance, when I present my plan to them at just the proper moment. Later tonight, perhaps.”
“They'll see your madness!”
He had a grip on her upper arm that was unrelenting; his face wore the barest frown.
“You are beginning to displease me, wife. You are argumentative and insubordinate. I fear your father spoiled you unreasonably. I always suspected as much.”
“Release me!” Lauren twisted against his hold.
He pulled her closer to him with both hands.“I sense you are distraught. It must be the wedding tomorrow that alarms you so. Your nerves are weak and shaken.”
He walked her backward, forcing her to move, until she felt his pallet behind her knees. He pushed her down onto the covers, standing over her.
“I think it better that you stay the night here, my bride. I don't want you to go running to your cousin with my plan before I am ready to tell it to him. Clearly you will rest better here, and I will rest better knowing you are secure, with my men outside the door. I shall retire with them. All the better to escort you to the chapel in the morn.”
She stared up at him, mute, panting from the struggle. His face remained unchanged, pleasant.
“And then after our wedding,
the glory of Shot begins.”
“You cannot actually think that my clan would allow you to hold me prisoner here in this room—”
“A sleeping draught,” commented Murdoch, as if thinking aloud.“To calm you. Yes, I can see the benefits.” And now he smiled again, brilliant. “It would be most unfortunate if you refused it, Lauren. So don't force my hand.”
He studied her there on the pallet and she could only stare back, witnessing the transformation of what she had thought was at worst a hard and callous man into something much closer to a monster.
“What, no weeping?” asked the Murdoch, holding his smile. “Are you afraid your womanly tricks won't work on me, Lauren? Do try. Perhaps I might change my mind, to have you fall on me softly and beg me with tears.”
Lauren said coldly,“I have wept for better men than you. I will not cry again.”
His smile dimmed some, then he shrugged, turning away.
“In the end, what you think doesn't matter in the slightest. You are nothing, Lauren. Tomorrow you will still be nothing, except that through our marriage you bring me one step closer to Shot, and all she holds.
After I win the battle for this island we will leave here; and let me assure you, once on the mainland, you will truly understand me when I tell you that you live only for me.”
He moved to the door.“For now, I humor you. You will remain here, docile and calm, and accept the drink I will send you. Else my men will inform me, and you will not like what happens next. I promise you that.”
She sat up, arms hugged together over her chest, bedraggled and trying hard not to show him her anger, the panic. He watched her for a moment, then nodded. He walked out the door, had a hushed conversation with the men posted there, then turned back and shut it. He wouldn't have the key to lock it, she knew that, but he didn't need one. There were at least three of his soldiers guarding the room, more formidable than any lock.