by Shana Ab
“Get back,” Arion was yelling at her, trying to grab her reins.“Get back behind my men!”
She was still unarmed, her stallion alarmed and skittish by the sudden noise and action. It screamed and reared, taking her by surprise, but she managed to hold on, to gain control again and coax it to a run, back toward the English soldiers, who were also running now, coming in for the fight.
It was disaster, it was a nightmare. The Scots would kill the English, the English would kill the Scots, and Murdoch might win—he might be able to take advantage of the confusion and actually win—
Something knocked into her, a vicious pain to her left shoulder, and she was torn from her saddle, landing on the grass and snow in a rolling tumble, blinded and jolted, unable to breathe.
Someone seemed to be calling her name, familiar cries that rang with fury even over the other shouting around her, but right now all Lauren could see was the shape of a man on a horse towering over her, an orange and purple sky behind him. The man dismounted.
“It is your doing,” said the Murdoch, no longer trying to control his hatred, the wrath that focused on her. “You betraying bitch, you did this, turned my careful plans to this—”
“Lauren!” came the call again, closer.
Murdoch bent down beside her and pulled her up by her hair. Lauren grabbed at his hands, blinking, trying to get back her air.
“I'm still going to win this,” he said down to her, shouting to be heard over the din.“You've changed nothing! But what a pity the poison I paid for did not kill you all those years ago, when you were at the mercy of a stronger English earl than this one. With you gone your father would have had nothing to bargain with for an alliance! But no—what a pity I had to try to marry you instead, to gain access to this land. You are a thorn to me, Lauren MacRae, and you have been all your life. But at least I get to kill you now.”
He raised his sword to her chest, laughing delight.
“No,” Lauren tried to shout, but it was more of a gasp. She pulled at him to no avail, yanking at her own hair, and when that failed, she kicked out at him, finding his groin.
Murdoch bent double with a hoarse cry and Lauren kicked him again, his thigh, his shin. He staggered backward, dragging her with him. She twisted in his grip and reached for his sword—
In an instant she had it, wedging it between the two of them, Murdoch's fist still twisted in her hair. They faced each other, crouched amid the mud of the field, eye to eye.
“Call off the battle,” she said, the tip of the sword against his chest.
He gave a snarling laugh, wordless, then pulled at her, and they stumbled in a circle, neither yielding.
“Call it off !” she screamed, and pressed the tip harder against him.
She could see the men behind him, tartans blowing with the wind, men grappling with one another. She could not be certain who was fighting whom. It all seemed almost subdued compared to her own struggle now.
Murdoch's eyes were cold and terrible, reminding her of sharks, of vicious things. His laughter turned into words.
“You'll not do it, Lauren. You haven't the courage. Drop the sword, woman, and let me finish this day the way I should!”
He tore at her hair again and she slid but kept her balance, and her hold on the sword. She offered him her own savage smile, contempt rising through her.
“You don't know me, little man. The death of a traitor is nothing at all to me.” She raised her elbows, leveling the blade, increasing the pressure against him. A narrow stain of red began to spread across his tu-nic.“Call off the battle. Now.”
As he stared at her, Murdoch's face seemed to pale, and he stilled.
She was dimly aware that the men beyond them appeared to be breaking apart, separating. Was it really happening? Was the battle ending anyway, even without his command?
Without warning Murdoch twisted, went into a quick, lurching roll, surprising her, pulling her down with him. The sword slipped flat between them; they thrashed across the muddied field and then abruptly he had both hands around her own, angling the weapon toward her, and the blade was lowering to her throat—
A wordless sound came over her head, a terrible, bone-chilling sound, like a monster-demon awakened. A dark shadow flew over her, eating up the sky, enveloping Murdoch as it slammed into him, ripping her along with him, and they all skidded through the mud and grass with frightening speed until they stopped in a tangle.
The demon became Arion, Murdoch beneath him, grasping his sword again. Each had his blade locked against the other's. Lauren picked herself up and darted forward, her fingers groping at Murdoch's waist, finding the dirk there and pulling it away.
His eyes flickered to her, his face contorted with effort. She moved back on her hands and knees with a snarl of hair in her eyes, clutching the dirk.
“Wait,” she called to Arion.“Wait!”
Both men ignored her, the swords slipping blade to blade with a metallic zing!, long and drawn out.
“He paid for the poison,” Lauren shouted now to Arion, to the figures of men running around them all. “He did it!”
Arion gave her one quick glance and Murdoch took advantage of it, his free hand striking out, catching Arion across the jaw. They rolled again; she saw one of the swords slither across the grass. Now Murdoch was on top, murder in his eyes—Arion had lost the sword. Lauren scrambled toward them with the dirk, raising her arm to strike.
Someone pulled her away. She turned swiftly with the blade, ready to fight, but the man shouted down to her as he held her, a voice she knew.
“No, lass! Stay back—”
It was James, laboring to hold her. Suddenly Quinn stood over Arion and Murdoch, his sword resting against the side of Murdoch's neck, pressed under his jaw. In the turn of a second, no one moved.
Lauren, panting, her eyes fixed on Arion, saw him break into a feral smile.
“You've lost,” said Quinn to Murdoch.“Get up.”
She tore her gaze from the men on the ground to the handful of those surrounding them, du Morgan and MacRae, none fighting, all staring, from her to the earl and the two lairds, the standoff between them.
She saw Murdoch's soldiers in a tight cluster in the distance, staring with either confusion or open hostility at the MacRaes who held them there, swords drawn. The English were mostly gathered on their side of the valley, Fuller in front of them, his sword held out to his side, preventing them all from going forward, to the Scots. He was watching the scene before him as intently as everyone else.
“It was he who tried to poison me,” Lauren said in a ringing voice, only slightly too high.“Back at Morgan, as a child. It was Payton Murdoch who paid to have me killed.”
“I heard him,” remarked Quinn, unmoving. “I was close enough, although it appears du Morgan was closer.” He twitched the sword lightly against Murdoch's neck. “Get up, I said.”
And slowly Murdoch did, rising from Arion with a push, Arion pushing back, harder. The smile she had seen before was gone, replaced with the demon intensity of him.
Murdoch stood, surly and silent, in the circle of men around him, Quinn's blade now aimed at the base of his throat. His own sword was held loosely in one hand, lowered to the ground.
Lauren shook off James's grip, crossing to Arion to help him stand, until he had an arm around her, both of them bloodied and covered in the muck of the field. Her hands were numb with cold or emotion; the dirk she had taken felt clumsy in her open palm. Arion's hand covered hers, removing the dirk, letting her release that trouble.
The silence of the field hung around them with an unnatural pressure, as if even the birds and wind had paused to watch.
“You paid for the poison,” Lauren said to Murdoch, still disbelieving.“You—our ally.”
“That stupid English serf,” said Murdoch, half a scornful laugh.“Imagine if he had managed to give it to you as he should have. I might have conquered this island years ago, instead of having to wait to see who your father w
ould choose you to wed.”
“He?” repeated Arion.
Murdoch turned sullen again, ignoring Arion and Lauren, facing Quinn.“So kill me then, MacRae, if you dare. Kill me, and watch the wrath that follows from our king, from our countrymen.”
“You've deceived us, Murdoch. I grant you that. But look around you.” Quinn lifted his brows, nodding to the men surrounding them. “There is no fighting, not even from your own soldiers. It's over. Most of them refused to battle us at all. At least some of your men will walk away today with their freedom. But you will stand trial for this insurrection, I promise you that.”
“It wasn't Nora,” said Lauren slowly. “It wasn't her fault. You paid a servant from the kitchen, didn't you? Yo u paid a serf there to put the poison in the soup she made for me. Nora didn't know.”
Again Murdoch said nothing, his lips held together in that mocking smile, gazing off past her. Lauren looked up at Arion, dawning realization.
“She didn't know,” she repeated. “He used her, and she didn't know!”
Movement came from the edges of her vision, the long cold steel of a sword slicing toward her, silent death so quick she didn't even have time to cringe. But something else smashed into her before the blade entered her body—Arion, shoving her aside. Lauren was knocked wildly sideways, arms outstretched. She fell to the ground, striking her temple hard against the earth, ringing in her ears.
When she was able to see again, Arion was crouched over the prone form of Murdoch. The sword that had nearly killed her was still tight in Murdoch's grip. The handle of a dirk jutted out from his chest.
“I told you I was going to kill you,” said Arion, low and flat, wiping a line of blood from his mouth.
Someone helped her up; Arion unfolded out of his position and went to her, holding her to him again with such force that she backed up a few steps. His head lowered to hers, his lips brushed her forehead. Only she could feel the shakiness of his breath.
“I will report to the king that Payton Murdoch was killed in the heat of the battle he provoked,” announced Quinn, raising his voice. “By what man, we do not know.”
Arion lifted his head.
“It was a just price to pay,” Quinn continued, looking over to Arion,“for the injustice he created—for the insurrection he began, and the betrayal of Clan MacRae.”
“Aye,” came a few voices, deep and muted.
Quinn turned to his men. “And the English fought bravely beside us in the battle. This, too, I will tell our king.” He looked at James.“Get his men off our island. Send them to the mainland with a warning: We will not tolerate such deception again. The Clan MacRae has discovered a new allied family—” he glanced back to Arion, offering a slight nod—“and Shot will not fall to any mainlanders soon, not Vikings or rebel Scots alike.”
James nodded, moving off, barking orders to the men around him.
Overhead, the sun began a steady warmth, illuminating the sky and the clouds with welcome rays.
“Come away, beloved,” whispered Arion in Lauren's ear, drawing her from the sight before them, his hold on her firm and strong.
“Lauren,” called Quinn, before they could take three steps.
She turned to him, still in Arion's protective embrace.
“Will you come home, lass?” Quinn asked.
She leaned back her head, Arion's shoulder behind her, the new daylight on her face.
“I am already home,” she said, and turned again to her love, beginning the slow walk across the valley with him.
Epilogue
HE DAY WAS CRISP AND bright. A slow breeze came and flirted around the guests, stirring tartans and gowns, pressing back tunics with a light touch.
The wedding was in the exact middle of the beach that bordered the two halves of Shot. Lauren had made certain of that, even pacing out the steps with Arion, both of them starting from opposite ends of the sand, meeting up in the middle, where she had planted a branch of oak, marking the spot.
“Here,” she had pronounced, and Arion and Hannah had laughed at her, and then with her. Ari had pushed the wood deeper into the sand, ensuring its hold.
“Aye, here it will be,” he had said.
And here it was indeed, Clan MacRae and du Morgans standing side by side, facing the rolling blue and green waves of the ocean, white froth lapping up the sand with each surge to shore.
Ari stood beside Lauren, holding her hand as the ribbon symbolizing their unity was tied around their wrists, noting the slender beauty of her arm, the copper glory of her hair dancing with the breeze.
He had almost died here. It hadn't been that long ago, that day when he had fallen here in this sand, and watched a tartaned woman defend his life, saving him.
A lifetime lived in weeks, he thought, considering it; an eternity found through her. Just a short while past and his life, which had come so close to ending in every way possible, had been renewed, given joy and hope by the woman beside him. Arion had seen a miracle born on this beach, and he found it perfectly apt that his miracle had chosen this place in the golden sand to be joined together forever.
She looked so serious now, listening to the priest over the call of the sea, amber eyes shaded with dark lashes, so lovely.
Ari's gaze drifted lower, to the bodice of the gown she wore, a low scooping neckline that her tartan didn't nearly manage to cover properly. Her skin glowed pale rose and alabaster. Her breath was even and calm, her voice clear as she repeated the vows the priest intoned.
When she was finished she pretended to adjust a fold of her gown, throwing him a sideways look of mischief at his obvious distraction. Ari smiled back at her, because she could do that to him, bring out in him the peace and happiness that he hadn't even known still lived in him any longer.
Lauren du Morgan, Countess of Morgan. He held her hand tightly, letting the ribbon that bound them together slide back along their arms in the wind, loose but fixed, a long ripple of violet between them.
The celebration lasted all day, well into the night, first at Keir and then Elguire, both families moving freely between the two castles. The initial, guarded well-wishes turned more fulsome with the path of the sun, until by nightfall there seemed to be no true distinction between the many people of Shot.
Lauren slipped in between and around all the guests with laughing flair, stopping now and again to speak to them—the old man from the village of Dunmar, a smiling young woman bouncing a baby in her arms. When-ever his bride came near him Ari made certain to grab her, to kiss her soundly, to let her go again only with reluctance. And the celebration went on.
Ari noted Rhodric sitting by a comely maiden in English dress, his look to her attentive and profound. Fuller stayed beside Hannah, both of them holding an air of serene delight, the perfect ambassadors for the new beginning he wanted the island to embrace.
Two days ago Arion had said to Lauren: “I want a quiet life.”
And she had looked up from her rough drawing of the beach, where she had been planning with the precision of a military commander where to place their fami-lies.“Well,” she had replied, her eyes brilliant.“I cannot promise you that.”
“No more wars,” Ari said, leaning in to her, pushing aside the paper.“No more battles or blood. I have enough scars already.”
“No battles,” she agreed, ducking around him, reaching for her paper.“But it won't be perfect. Not at first.”
“Yes, it will,” he had responded, and managed to catch her and kiss her anyway, even in front of Hannah and the women who walked in on them, all of them gasping and covering their mouths with their hands.
No battles today, he saw—not today, their wedding day, this moment locked in what had to be a sorcerer's dream, his people and hers so amiable, so united in pride. A magical dream … no, not that. Dreams faded. Arion had made a vow that his devotion would not.
He proved it that night, stealing Lauren away from them all, hiding with her in the tower room he had secretly prepared for them
, away from any who meant to follow and beleaguer them with ritual observation of the wedding night.
Ari made love to his wife on pillows and furs, beneath fragrant candles and a rounded window that offered them starlight and sweet air, hushed and high above the earth, suspended in their union as in thick honey, or clouds, or the gentle wind.
“What were you thinking about, at that meal?” Lauren asked him afterward, her voice drowsy, her hair a shimmering curtain across his chest.
“At the meal?” Ari stroked the copper, his fingers wrapping around the softness. “I was thinking about this. Being here with you, in this room. About the way your lips curve when you're happy … like this….”
She gave a smothered laugh, pushing him off her, surrounded by the cushions and blankets he had tossed aside in their passion.
“No, not tonight.” Her smile was a delight to him, her golden eyes intimate. “Before, at Dunmar. That night you came to the village, and ate in the common with my clan. You looked to me, over at my table….” Her voice trailed off, suggestive and shy at once, which made him hide his own smile.
“Oh, that night.” He settled back again into their makeshift paradise, pulling up one of the blankets to shelter them both, finding her beneath it, bringing her close to him.“I was thinking of you, fair Lauren, and of what your children would be like. I was wondering if they would have your eyes.”
She was still for a moment. Then, doubtful:“Truly?”
“Aye, truly.”
She leaned up over him, sliding under the covers until her body was stretched over his, her heat and suppleness aligned to him, her hair falling down in wild curls around his face.
“Perhaps we should find out,” she offered seriously, not quite managing to disguise the way the corners of her lips tilted up.
“Aye,” Arion agreed, reaching for her.“We should.”
She tried to twist away, playful, but he held her to him firmly, both of them laughing until she subsided and surrendered to his touch, sighing deeply with pleasure.