Chapter 13 #2
“Mellyora, I’m going to the kitchen for more wine to mull,” Jillian told her, adding anxiously, “You’ll be all right? You’ll be …”
“I’ll be here when you return,” Mellyora assured her, and she laughed, feeling like crying. “Where would I go now? The great Laird Lion would probably be delighted to see me disappear again.”
She was dismayed that Jillian did not argue with her, and she closed her eyes once again, draining the remaining wine. She had drunk too much, too quickly; she wanted more. She had to sleep tonight …
She closed her eyes. The water was growing cold.
With a sigh she rose, wrapping herself in a large linen towel and hunching down before the fire to dry.
She combed through her hair, and slipped into a blue-linen gown hemmed with soft, rich fur.
She heard the door, and saw that Jillian had returned.
She looked pale as she reentered the room.
She had not returned with wine, and she busied herself with unnecessary tasks, folding clothing that had already been folded, straightening what didn’t need to be straightened.
“Jillian, what’s wrong?” Mellyora asked.
“Nothing more than is wrong already!” Jillian said matter-of-factly.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Mellyora, you’re not happy now, but you must believe me, this time will pass—”
“Jillian, you will please tell me what has happened now!”
Jillian was incapable of deceit. She met Mellyora’s eyes. “The king is very angry.”
“So …” Mellyora said. She couldn’t breathe. She was suddenly terrified that it was all out of her hands, that the king had decided that she was to be punished by being removed from her lands no matter what. “The wedding is … off.”
Jillian shook her head. “No, no, nothing so awful.”
“Oh?”
“He knows how defiant you were, that you were with the Vikings for some time, that you wanted to marry elsewhere. He has suggested to Waryk that there be a public bedding.”
Mellyora sat, sinking to the floor in horror.
Such events were not uncommon, especially among noble families when a bride’s parents wished to impress upon her groom her youth and innocence, or when the married pair were actually in love, and heedless of the ceremony.
Though she certainly knew of the practice, Mellyora had never attended such a spectacle.
The couples she had known to wed had enjoyed their wedding feast with family and friends, and gone on to the privacy of their marital chamber.
“Oh, God,” she breathed.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” Jillian said, distressed. “Yet, perhaps it was best that you were warned …”
Mellyora stood quickly, heading toward the door. Jillian rushed before her, trying to stop her. “Mellyora, you mustn’t run again! There will be no—”
“I’m not running.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Waryk,” she said. Jillian still barred the door. “To Waryk, I swear it, let me by.”
Unhappily, Jillian stepped away from the door. Mellyora wasn’t surprised to find Angus standing guard outside. “My lady?” he inquired politely.
“I need to see Waryk.”
He hid his surprise. “I’ll escort you.”
It was good to rest in a bath, even if the biggest of tubs was somewhat tight.
The tub in his chambers was his own, an import from Bruges with hammered-silver designs of guardian gargoyles and winged angels.
He soaked in water that all but scalded him but also soothed his old battle wounds, all the little aches and pains that plagued him, and even his mind somewhat as well.
He lay there, feeling the steam that rose and shimmered just above the water’s edge.
His last night as an unmarried man. Yet tomorrow, he became laird of Blue Isle, so called for the crystal beauty of the sea and sky around it, David had told him.
And in a matter of days, he would reach and settle the isle.
He’d be given time, he thought, before being called to serve the king again. He now had a home. And a wife.
Ah, yes, a wife. Well, almost.
If his bitter bride didn’t have another trick up her sleeve.
He lay back, eyes closed. Perhaps he was a fool not to have rid himself of her—the king was angry enough to have meant what he said.
She was dangerous. But he would not be in danger, because he was wary of her, he would not make the mistake of trusting her.
She had declared herself his enemy, there would be no peace.
Yet he admitted to himself that he was growing as eager for his bride as he was for her land.
Watching her last night had been … irritating.
She had smiled for others, teased, laughed, charmed.
He had seen young men all but trip over themselves to be near her, to hear her voice.
She had been a stunning, golden beauty. Every man there had envied him.
Indeed, she had gotten into his blood somehow …
Surely, he could quench the fire she ignited without forgetting that she was dangerous.
Nor would he risk his soul. She was bewitching, he’d seen that from the beginning.
She’d intrigued him. A thankful situation, since she was to be his wife.
His dangerous wife, a beauty far too reckless for safety.
Reckless, and yet …
He had to admit, she had handled herself well in the cavern, when he had tried to shield her from the Vikings and their bizarre attack.
She knew her weaponry—he had firsthand knowledge of that!
She was strong; he had to prove himself stronger.
He had no intention of feeling too much sympathy for her, nor would he ever allow himself to need her.
Wanting was something else. Pure instinct.
Fascination. But once curiosity was met, she’d be the same as any other woman.
She’d no longer haunt him, as thoughts of her did now.
Lust, he thought wryly, could be a cruel sensation.
Pure wicked torment on the body, more cutting man a knife.
The king remained furious with her; David was not accustomed to women defying him with such energy.
David had suggested a public bedding; Waryk was opposed to the idea.
In fact, he had determined that not even his increasing hunger for his bride—which must obviously be appeased if children were to be achieved—would allow him to have her as yet.
He wanted his own family, not another man’s child, and the king had become informative with his will now being fulfilled.
David had told Waryk that Jillian, while trying to make the king understand her young mistress, had inadvertently admitted why Mellyora had been so determined on her own choice—the lad’s name was Ewan MacKinny, and though a fine youth, he was not a strong warrior, and hadn’t the power to keep invaders from the door.
So there was definitely a flesh-and-blood man she had wanted herself.
And she had not denied having taken a lover. He didn’t particularly damn her for easy virtue; men and women were both capable of the need to love. It was simply that he was the man she was marrying, and, therefore, she was betraying him.
Yet he had made the decision to marry her.
There would have been those determined to honor her, no matter what the king had commanded, and he wanted a strong, united homeland.
Having her was certainly not going to be a hardship; she was young, supple, sensual, beautiful despite her temper.
When she was his wife, she would learn he gave no quarter.
But there was the past to be considered.
He wondered what he would do if he discovered his wife was to have another man’s babe.
Could he take a child from its mother? Leave the child an orphan, alone, and the mother grieving? No, he could not do such a thing.
Ah, but could he accept it as his own? No.
Would he have to know? Aye, beyond a doubt.
That was the entire point he mulled now.
He could remember too clearly what it had been like, standing among the carnage and the dead on the battlefield, and knowing that he was alone.
He would create his own kin, David had told him, and since then, family, his family, had been a dream, one he was determined he would live.
So, no matter what the future, he had to know about the past.
He started, ready to leap from the tub, as he heard a tapping at his door. To his amazement, the door opened before he could say a word. He tensed, ready to grab his sword if danger threatened.
Danger seldom knocked, he reminded himself.
“Laird Lion—” He heard Angus begin, the great bald man’s head just jutting around the door.
“Please, I can announce myself!”
The feminine voice was Mellyora’s, and she stepped quickly into his room, leaning against the door as it closed behind her, leaving them alone together.
He eased back, watching her. So at times, danger did knock.
He kept his eyes warily upon her, wondering if he should be going for his sword in self-defense.
He held very still, and realized that for once, she was extremely agitated, but not angry.
She was upset. She didn’t even seem aware that he was naked in a tub.
She remained against the door as if she had been nailed there.
He lifted a hand from the rim of the tub. “Ah, my love. Welcome. This is definitely a surprise visit.”
She didn’t move.
“You’ve come, my lady, to speak with me, I imagine. So … aye?”
She inhaled, exhaled, her eyes brilliant, her pulse throbbing against the white perfection of her throat.
Her lips moved. Had she been another woman, he would have thought that she had come in humble entreaty.
She had agreed to the marriage, and he had spoken very plainly about what he expected, so he couldn’t begin to imagine what argument she might have now.