Chapter 12 #2
“Oh?”
“We can speak later,” he told her, seeing Angus before him with the horses.
“Thank God, the lady is safe!” Angus called.
“Aye,” Waryk agreed briefly, turning to Mellyora. “Can you ride?”
“Of course.”
Could she? She walked to the horse she had ridden, but before she could mount, Waryk was at her side. “Let’s not take any chances, shall we? Ride with me.”
She lowered her head, then took a deep breath and spoke in a whisper without looking at him. “I don’t intend to run again. I’m exhausted, and there’s nowhere left to go. And you would only run me down again.”
“Perhaps not. You’ll be given a choice of what actions you may wish to take, but until then, ride with me. I am only thinking of your exhaustion, and your well-being, my lady,” he said. When his crystal gaze touched hers, she knew that he was lying. He didn’t trust her. He never would.
But neither did it matter. He lifted her in his arms and set her upon his horse before mounting behind her.
She was tired and unnerved, cramped, sore, and cold.
She closed her eyes, and she would not admit it in a thousand years, but she was glad to rest against him, to feel his warmth and strength at her back.
They made the ride back to Daro’s camp in silence, and there they were greeted warmly by Daro’s men, Waryk’s, and Anne.
She was anxious, dying to demand of Waryk and her uncle just what was going on, but she was given no time with Anne, or her uncle or Waryk, who were both ready to bathe away the blood they wore.
Mellyora realized that she was muddy and bloodied herself, sore from her fight and flight.
Inga ushered her into the side room and again saw to her needs.
Hot water filled the copper tub, and despite her anxiety and concern, she sank luxuriously into it.
She washed her hair, and Inga helped her dry it.
She was bathed and soothed, re-dressed in soft linen and warm wool, and given wine to drink.
And then he was there.
Bathed and refreshed himself, resplendent in his tightly knitted wool and sweeping cloak, he stood before her, a handsome, hardened man who seemed incredibly impatient now, and would give no quarter.
“It was my choice to bring Anne here, and no part of any bargain. As to you, Mellyora MacAdin, you are not required to marry me.”
“What new taunt is this? You’ve pursued me mercilessly, and now we’re not to marry? Are you jesting?” she inquired.
He shook his head gravely, then a slight smile curved his lip. “In fact, should you wish to marry me now, you’ll have to ask me, and nicely, m’lady.”
“I will never choose to marry you,” she said, stung by his hard tone.
She didn’t know if his smile became more grim, or if she imagined it “But this is the king’s edict—the island and property formerly held by Adin are now to be held by me.”
“I—don’t understand,” Mellyora said.
“Ah, well, m’lady, lands are held of the king—of course, a laird’s might and heredity do come to play in all situations.
Adin held that land of the king. The king now chooses that I shall hold that land.
With or without you, m’lady. And my dear, precious, beauty, without you seems to be my personal preference at the moment, I do assure you.
I leave in the morning. If you’ve anything to say to me, do so before then.
A wedding is planned, but alas, God knows, many such events never occur. Good night, Lady Mellyora.”
He inclined his head and departed, dismissing her completely.
Waryk joined Daro in the hall by his fire. Daro had been seated in one of the carved chairs positioned before the fire; as Waryk joined him, he rose, offering Waryk a chalice of wine.
“You’ve told her.”
“Aye. The choice is hers.”
Daro nodded. “There’s only one choice my niece will make.
If she had only realized how far David would go …
” His voice trailed away. “The bodies of the dead men were brought here to camp. My men tell me that those we killed joined our group less than a month ago. One of my men told me that he found them an odd group, that their language was slightly different.”
“You mean they were not Norwegian?”
“Perhaps not, or perhaps they had been living among the Normans or elsewhere. They spoke Norman French, our Norse, the old Gaelic, even the old Saxon, but there was an accent on their Norse, as if they were not accustomed to being among only their own kind. It’s very strange.”
“Indeed,” Waryk agreed, drinking his wine.
Interesting. If this were all true—if Daro and Mellyora were both completely innocent of conspiracy in her last flight, then something was strange—and dangerous.
She had said that the man meant to take her—possibly kill her—to deny him a prize.
Someone, perhaps, who did not realize that he would take the property with or without a bride.
Few men knew that—Angus, himself, the king—and he had told only Daro, and now Mellyora.
“It’s very unusual for Vikings to betray Vikings,” Daro said.
Waryk arched a brow. He’d known Vikings to take mercenary positions with the troops of numerous men.
“Not in this manner!” Daro explained. “Danes have gone to war against Norse, Norse have fought Swedes, and so on. Men have had battles over land and women. But it’s unusual for Vikings to live among Vikings and betray them without a word.
” He swore softly in his effort to explain.
“We are warriors, our battles are open, we challenge one another with our strength, we are not men who plot and plan and undermine.”
“Aye, leave the treachery to us!” Waryk said, lifting his cup with a wry smile. He finished his wine, and rose. “I’ll accept your hospitality and get some sleep, Daro. It’s been a long night—and a strange one, as you say. I might well have enemies; it would be good to discover them.”
“The leader is gone, the others are slain. I wonder where to look from here,” Daro said.
“If I have an enemy, he will show his face again,” Waryk said.
“What will you do now?”
“Well, I will return to Stirling tomorrow.”
“What of Mellyora?”
“I will return with or without her. I’ve told her the king’s command. She may now do as she chooses.”
“Aye, then,” Daro said and nodded, and Waryk left, eager for a night’s respite. Mellyora had made the last few days busy and wearing.
Daro was a fine host; he’d offered Waryk the use of pleasant sleeping quarters, an old stone sheepherder’s cottage which, though not large, had been cleaned and repaired by the Vikings.
A pallet heavily laden with furs had been left for his use, the chimney cleaned.
Wine, bread, and cheese had been left for his comfort, and with Angus and his men gathered beneath a lean-to that stood not far from the cottage, he dared sleep while awaiting the morning.
Angus and the others were ranged around the fire in front of the lean-to.
He bid them good night and entered the old cottage, a place of privacy.
He shed his cloak and stretched out by the fire, laying his sword at his side.
He helped himself to the food, then studied the flames in the hearth as he drank the wine.
He wondered what move she would make next.
Strangely, he had never seen her appear more vulnerable than when he had left her now.
Freshly bathed, she smelled sweetly of roses.
Her hair, newly washed and dried, glistened around her like a halo of gold.
Her eyes were luminous, large, brilliantly shimmering as well, caught by the light of the fire.
She had seemed weary, delicate, feminine, gentle, even fragile …
Umm, fragile as rock, gentle as a kiss of steel, he thought.
Did he dare trust her after all that had happened, after she had told him that she was desperate to elude him?
Had she really suspected that he was an enemy out to kill her—or did she consider him equally as wretched as any outlaw, and had she hoped to slice his throat in that cavern tonight?
For that matter, had any Viking ever threatened her?
Had they been with her in her quest to escape him all the while?
The questions were endless. They all involved truth, and trust, hard commodities to come by.
Was Daro involved, had the leader simply run when he had seen that his fellows were falling dead?
He didn’t know.
But the next play was up to the lady. He had done all he could.
Now, in truth, the choices—whether she liked them or not—were hers.
He closed his eyes, listening to the snap and crackle of the flames.
Aye, the choices were hers, the king had made it so.
Whether she did or didn’t choose to marry, he’d be engaging in battle, either with her, or the people on the island, and at that moment, he didn’t know which he’d prefer.
He could assure himself that he had made the right moves, stepping in for Daro and Anne, giving Mellyora the cold hard truth of it.
Could he ever really sleep in his own bed without wondering if he’d wake to a knife at his throat?
Yet he kept seeing her as he’d left her, a snow queen with her glittering hair and eyes, and the look of an angel …
He rose with an oath of impatience and poured himself more wine.
After assuring herself that Waryk was gone, Mellyora burst out on her uncle. “It can’t be the truth, Daro, it can’t be. The king can’t just take what is mine—”
“Mellyora, the king is strong enough to take what he chooses. And you have forgotten the Norman way. You are a woman. You can’t hold that property.”
“It was my father’s. If I can’t keep it because I’m not a male, then it should be yours—”
“Ah, but Mellyora, he held the land because of your mother, not because of his family. Your mother could not hold the property, the king granted your mother and the property to your father—admittedly, your father had a fair hold on it when the king granted it to him.”