The King's Rebel

by Morrison, Michelle

Lorna’s vanity accommodated, William’s thoughts returned to Meghan. He knew well her family’s staunch support of John Comyn. William’s cousin Robert, Earl of Bruce, had achieved military dominance and recently crowned himself King of Scotland, but it was a tenuous claim at best. The Comyn family was still a thorn in the Bruce’s side and the clans and their supporters rarely met at events such as this fair without bloodshed. William and his friend Hamish had only happened to stop at the earl’s keep to break up a long and tedious journey.

  William continued to watch Meghan. She was now holding a toddler in her arms, speaking animatedly with the child’s mother. Her face radiated vibrancy, as if she were lit from within by a torch. He knew he should keep his distance from her, knew the feud between their clans was too great to overcome, but against all reason, he knew he would not.

  ***

  Meghan took a sip of mead. The honey-wine was potent and long after she swallowed she felt the fumes wafting about her. With a small shake of her head, she said, “I should drink no more. I’ll have quite the head on the morrow.”

  Sorcha laughed. “Aye, but you’ll not be alone. I wager the earl’s store of ale and wine will have suffered a mortal blow this Mayday.”

  Glancing around, Meghan noticed with amusement that her fellow revelers were not being so cautious. Spirits, both emotional and liquid, were high. Musicians played lively tunes, a merry fire burned brightly on the grate, warding off the early spring chill. Strong young men swung their dance partners in the air and the ladies obliged by squealing with delight.

  “Ye’ve caught the eye of John Robertson and Ian MacDonald,” Sorcha teased.

  “Aye, and they tried to catch a bit more than my eye,” Meghan said, unobtrusively rubbing her backside.

  “Well then, have you found the man to make you swoon?”

  For some strange reason the image of Black William appeared in Meghan’s mind. The very memory of him did indeed make her feel faint. She pushed the thought and the feeling away and sighed with mock despair. “Nay, I’ve a terrible fear I’ll end up an old maid, just like my Auntie Janet.”

  Sorcha let out an unladylike guffaw. “Ye’ve only the nineteen years!”

  Meghan ignored her and continued on in her melancholy diatribe. “Now you, my dear young friend. You shall make a splendid match. As your spinster friend, I shall arrange for you to meet the most eligible, the most handsome, and of course the wealthiest–-“

  ”Will ye dance with me, Meghan?”

  Meghan spun around, prepared to turn down her would-be suitor with exhaustion as her excuse, though in truth it was because she was inordinately clumsy on the dance floor. Her father thought dancing a silly woman’s ploy and they did not participate in it at home.

  When she lifted her gaze to the green eyes of Black William, her refusal died on her lips. She could think of nothing to say and mutely shook her head. William took her hand as if she had nodded and drew her toward the dance floor. Meghan found her feet following obediently and she was without power to stop them. Once amidst the other dancers with both her hands clasped firmly in his, they began to dance and she forgot that she did not know the steps. He led her easily to the music as he stared at her with an inscrutable expression on his face. Meghan scarcely noticed what her feet were doing, or what tune the musicians played. She could not have named any of the other dancers on the floor or said even if there were other dancers around them. Her entire body felt flush and her fingertips were unusually sensitive, noting the scars on the back of his hands as they clasped hers, feeling the leashed strength in them as he held her gently. She knew she should say something.

  She’d had no problem making light conversation with any of the other young men who had approached her this evening. And that had been with the half of her mind taking each man’s measure and speculating on his merits as a possible husband.

  But now her mind refused to consider anything except the inky silkiness of his hair…unless it strayed to the breadth of his square shoulders or the way his lower lip was fuller than its mate.

  Finally, Meghan found her voice. “How did you know my name?”

  William shrugged. “A wee birdie told me.” He swung her in time to the music and landed her easily on her feet. His hands remained at her waist and though he was too familiar by far, Meghan did not remove them. She was amazed by the feeling of rightness, of…of safety in his embrace. For a woman who had struggled to gain her father’s approval, she was perhaps unusually capable of taking care of herself and yet, the feeling of security that washed over her as he swung her about the floor in his arms was all consuming and incredibly appealing. She was mesmerized by the gold flecks in his eyes, transfixed anew by the sensuous curve of his mouth. A small part of her mind marveled that she, who had flirted all night with a dozen amorous swains, now found herself unaccountably shy. The wine must be affecting me, she thought. How else to explain the fact that she could not remember a life outside his arms?

  “Do ye no wish to know my name?” he finally asked in a low voice.

  “I know you-–no I’ve no wish to know-–“ Meghan stopped amidst William’s gentle laughter.

  “Then since you’ve no wish to know my name, why don’t ye call me ‘darlin’?”

  Sanity returned in full force and Meghan shoved his hands off her waist. “You are the most arrogant clod of a man I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet. You must really think you’re something, do you no?” Her friend’s warning about the seducing rogue flared in her mind and she cursed herself for succumbing to his practiced charm so easily.

  William sobered and took her unwilling hands. “The only thing I think is that you are the fairest creature I’ve ever seen.”

  Meghan’s ire left her abruptly and as if sensing her change of heart, William pulled her to the sidelines and caught up two cups of mead. Handing her one, he laughed self-consciously.

  “Will ye accept my apology, Meghan? I’m not normally such an arrogant clod of a man. I suppose I was trying to impress ye. Ye are a right beautiful woman.”

  Meghan felt her skin warm with his words. Though several young men had so complimented her tonight, their praises had seemed mere flirtation. William’s rang with sincerity. Her heart, which again refused to beat normally, pattered out a demand that she accept his apology and anything else he had to offer. She knew what Glynnis had said, and yet, he seemed so sincere…

  Striving to give herself more time to compose her thoughts and feelings, she said, “Aye, I’ll forgive you. But only on one condition.”

  William’s brow quirked in question.

  Meghan smiled at the thought of regaining control of her tangled thoughts. “You must tell me who you are, for now that we are in the brighter light, I can see that you’re not my old Uncle Busby.”

  William laughed aloud and Meghan admired him for his self-deprecation. Practiced despoiler of innocents he might be, but at least he had a sense of humor. Meghan realized how important that would be in a husband and added it to her mental list of things to evaluate in men—other men, of course.

  “I’ve not foul breath and hair sprouting from my ears then?”

  Meghan shook her head, watching the play of firelight on the strong planes of his face as he drew nearer.

  “Then call me your love, your heart, your life. For I swear by all that’s holy, you are mine.”

  Meghan caught her breath and felt her cheeks flame. She heard her name called and tore her gaze from his, looking up to see Sorcha indicating that it was time to retire. When Meghan’s attention returned to William’s amorous declaration, blessed sanity returned again. She swallowed before assuming a tone of reproach.

  “Aye? And how many lasses have those words wooed this eve?”

  William affected a look of despair, “I’ve no said such words to any lass. Tonight or any night.”

  “Then ‘tis no doubt because you just thought of them and hoped to befuddle my wits with them!” Meghan replied crisply.

  William lau
ghed and Meghan found she could not suppress her own smile.

  “Are ye sayin’ ye’ll no marry me, then?” He asked with a wicked grin.

  “What? And spoil your fun?” Though his words and demeanor had affected her, Meghan was relieved to find her mind had seized control of her unruly heart and body and was now able to jest with him as surely as he was teasing her.

  William’s eyebrow flickered and his gaze lingered on her lips. “That would just be the start of the fun.”

  Meghan’s mouth tingled as if he had kissed her. She forced her gaze from his own lips and struggled to find something witty, something light to say in response, but this was flirting unlike any she’d ever encountered.

  Thankfully, William spoke again. “Will ye walk outside with me?”

  “Why you are a bold knave, are you no?” Meghan said indignantly. She turned to leave but William caught her arm.

  “I only wanted to get to know ye–-“

  ”Aye, I know what you wanted!”

  William laughed again but did not release her arm. “I swear ‘tis true. Alright then, meet me tomorrow, in the light of day. Let us go for a ride–-“

  ”I detest horses,” she lied, for with Oengus Innes as her father, she’d been in a saddle since she could walk.

  “Then a walk. Walk with me in the mornin’.”

  Meghan frowned. Surely he would not try to seduce her in the broad light of day. Perhaps his intentions were not as vile as she suspected. Still, Glynnis’ words rang in her mind.

  Narrowing her eyes, she glared at him. “Why?” she repeated.

  William shrugged and pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “Don’t ye wish to know what this spark between us is?”

  “There is no spark. What do you mean, spark?” Meghan’s stomach tightened in nervous apprehension. This was definitely not the type of flirtation she was accustomed to. She knew exactly what spark he meant and she desperately wanted to know what it was, but she also knew she had to find a husband her father would approve of. She could not consider--

  His gaze was steady and his voice husky as he said, “Ye know of what I speak. From the moment ye spotted me across the hall, ye felt something, did ye no?”

  “No-–“ Meghan started to protest but William silenced her with a finger across her lips. A finger that was rough and calloused and yet as soft as a kiss.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “The bards sing of love so pure and intense, it binds two people at first sight. I’ve always considered such a notion to be a fool’s dream or at best a glorification of sheer lust. Now,” William’s voice trailed off.

  Awed by his words, Meghan said, “Go on.”

  He smiled sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. “Now I think they may have something.”

  “They may at that,” Meghan whispered, instantly appalled at her words. This man was a villain intent only on getting her into a pile of hay! Wasn’t he?

  “Will ye meet me tomorrow? Will ye trust that this feeling will no evaporate in the bright light of day?”

  Meghan swallowed and prepared to tell him exactly what he could do with his hay. The look in his eyes stopped her. There was neither mockery nor false intentions but an expression both unfamiliar and unsettling. Casting aside all thoughts of reason, Meghan said, “Aye, William. I shall meet you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  William clutched his head between his hands and groaned. He’d had entirely too much ale and wine last night. Wondering which woman he’d brought to his bed, he turned a bleary eye to the rumpled sheets. Empty. The bed was empty. He frowned. Must have been very drunk, he thought. Still, the pounding behind his eyes had subsided and aside from a parched mouth, William felt well. Perhaps he hadn’t had so much to drink after all.

  Standing, he grabbed up his plaid. A red glimmer on the fabric sparkled in the sunlight. Squinting, he pulled free a long shimmering hair.

  “Meghan,” he whispered, sitting down abruptly. The words he had spoken to her crowded in his brain like the fumes of a potent brandy. “Call me your love, your heart, your life...marry me... Ye are a beautiful woman.”

  Had he really said all that? Had he meant it? He conjured an image of Meghan in his mind. Aye, she was beautiful, but so were a lot of other women he’d wooed into bed without words of love. They’d barely spoken a handful of words! Kissed not once! William knocked his fist against his forehead. He must have had too much to drink. As soon as the pain of his self-inflicted bump receded, another thought took its place. He’d promised–-no begged-–her to meet him this morning. What had he been thinking?

  He stood and dressed quickly. Well, no matter what he was thinking last night. What he had to do today was make her realize that he was interested in making love, not being in it. With that resolute thought, he brushed the red hair off his tunic and left the room.

  In an instant he was back in the room, searching the floor. After meticulously gathering the silken strand, he tucked it within the safe confines of the sporran at his waist. Cursing himself for being ten kinds of a fool, he slammed the door behind him.

  William paced the length of the bailey, praying Meghan would arrive. He had to make her understand just what he’d meant last night, had to explain that the wine and the festivities as well as her beauty had caused him to say things he didn’t really mean. He paused in his pacing. Suppose she did not show up? Then he would not have to make the awkward excuses, would not look like a complete fool. Of course, she might tell her friends that Black William had proposed undying love to her after just one dance. Those friends would no doubt gossip and he would become quite the laughing stock. He shrugged. Worse things had happened to him in twenty-six summers. He began praying that she would stay in her room and gossip to her friends.

  As he completed one length of the bailey and turned to head back, he caught sight of her. She had just stepped outside and was blinking at the brightness of the May morning. Her hair shone like fire in the sun and stray curls bounced in the soft breeze. She distractedly pushed them out of her face as she looked about the bailey, searching for him. She shaded her eyes from the sun and William was mesmerized by the pull of her gown against her breasts. His gaze returned to her vibrant hair and his hands itched to bury themselves in the curly depths.

  Christ, but he was a fool. A fool for doubting what he’d felt. William was a man who trusted his gut instincts. It had saved his life more than a dozen times, warned him that men were his enemies, which women were lying about their husbands being dead. That he should doubt that instinct simply because he’d never known this feeling before? He deserved to have Meghan run back inside.

  She did not. Instead, he saw a slight frown pucker her forehead. She caught her full lower lip between her teeth and William’s heart contracted that she should think he was not going to come.

  He refused to let himself run. He made his pace leisurely, let his arms swing loosely at his side, though they wanted to reach out to her. He knew the instant she saw him because relief flooded her features and a hesitant smile touched her lips.

  “Good mornin’,” he said.

  “And to you,” was her soft reply.

  Polite formalities removed, they were both at a loss for words, and simply smiled awkwardly at each other for a moment. A group of rowdy boys rushed by, jostling Meghan.

  William clotted the last one on the head as he ran by. “Ye wee idiots! Watch where you’re running!”

  Turning back to Meghan, he saw a humorous smile on her face and he laughed. Suddenly the tension was gone between them, dissolving to allow the mysterious magic of the night before to wrap them in its enchanted mantle.

  “Shall we walk, then?” he asked.

  “Aye,” she replied softly.

  As soon as they were past the small castle’s gates, they left behind the busy hustle of the Mayday celebration. Nonetheless, the road was crowded with late-arriving guests.

  “Here, give me your hand,” William said. When Meghan obeyed, he pulled her off the main r
oad and into the shallow grove of trees that lined the dusty path. He picked out a deer track that led them deeper into the woods until they found a small spring burbling over moss-covered stones. William brushed twigs from a boulder for Meghan and when she was seated, settled himself on the ground at her feet. The shyness returned and neither said anything for a long moment.

  “I thought you had forgotten,” Meghan finally said.

  “Forgotten what?”

  “This morning. I didn’t see you...” she shrugged as if trying to play off the importance of her words.

  “You thought the earl’s strong wine was behind my words last night?”

  Meghan shrugged again. “Was it?”

  William swallowed. He picked up a fallen twig and methodically snapped it into small, even pieces. “I’m no sure.” Glancing up, he saw her stiffen and knew she had misunderstood. “What I meant was, ‘twas not the wine behind my words, but it may have loosened my tongue enough to say them.” William cast the bits of twig away impatiently. “I wish I had a flagon of it now. I’m sounding like a green lad with his first girl.”

  Meghan laughed softly and William grinned at her, liking the way the corners of her mouth curled up, wishing he could trace his tongue along that curl.

  “So tell me of yourself, Meghan. I can see that you’re a bonny lass with handfuls of red hair–“

  ”’Tis no red, it’s auburn,” Meghan interrupted.

  William squinted at the shimmering mass and allowed himself to run his hand over it lightly. Meghan tipped her head ever so slightly toward his caress. “So ‘tis,” he whispered. Then in a normal voice, said, “A bonny lass with auburn hair, skin of ivory with just a few freckles–“

  ”I’ve no freckles!” Meghan argued.

  “No?” William leaned closer and suddenly wished he hadn’t. The urge to kiss her was strong, but he forced himself to instead study the pale freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.