Chapter 20 #4
He rose after a moment, walking toward an arrow slit, looking out at the sea.
Sunlight poured over his body, and she watched him, thinking that she loved the way he moved, the tall, muscled length of him, even the scars, pale white lines here and there on his shoulders and back.
He was at ease with her, she thought, and she loved that, too, and she was afraid, and wondered if it was the same with his mistress, if such a way of being was simply easier for men.
She closed her eyes, and heard him moving again.
He poured water from a pitcher to a bowl, and washed.
Then he moved about, dressing. She could hear him, and she knew each piece of clothing he donned.
Shirt, hose, tartan, boots … no armor now, for Geoffrey would be carrying his armor as he moved out, Thomas would be am fear brataich, or standard-bearer, carrying his banner, and he would be unencumbered as he rode until he was ready to take on his mail, shield and lance, and other weaponry.
Perhaps he would never wear it. He went to the household of a friend, to warn that friend that his land would be seized were its lord not to pay homage to the Scottish king.
And perhaps, very soon, he would shed his clothing again as he had done here, to be with the woman he had loved, rather than the woman who must bear his legitimate heirs.
Yet, when he was dressed, he came to her again. He hunched down, and swept her up, furs and all, and held her very close. He smoothed back her hair and kissed her lips. “Keep our home free and safe,” he said softly.
“You believe in me, that I will do so?”
“Against any enemy,” he said, a slight smile curving his lip.
“But of course, I’ll have your men with me.”
“Angus is staying.”
“If he stays to watch me, to see that I guard my virtue against so sorely wounded a man, his presence is wasted, I fear.”
He shrugged, apparently aware that she could not be unfaithful with a man who might well be dying. “Angus stays, because he is my right hand, and he would guard you with his life.”
“Who will guard you, if Angus is with me?”
He caught her hand, kissed her palm. “Do you doubt that I’ll return?”
She shook her head. “Nay, Laird Lion, I would not doubt you.”
He was silent for a moment. “Don’t doubt me, lady. Don’t doubt me, ever.”
He straightened to leave, easing her back down to the furs. She watched him stride away, dismayed that she could feel so disconsolate, so alone. When he reached the door, she could not help but call him back.
She rose to her knees, drawing furs with her. “Waryk?”
“Aye?”
“Don’t doubt me!” she whispered. “Please, don’t doubt me!”
She was startled when he came back to her, drawing her up and to him once again. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, and whispered against them, “Aye, you’re the Viking’s daughter, Mellyora, but my wife.”
Then he turned, and exited quickly, and she knew that far more time had passed than he intended, and the dawn was just a memory.
She lay back down, closing her eyes tightly. Day had come. Waryk was gone, Ewan lay near death. She had to rise. But it was so hard to do so. She could hear the men below, the preparations for the army to ride out, to take the boats, the horses, all the implements of war.
The noise ceased. It grew later and later.
She had to rise; she had stayed to tend to a wounded friend. At last, she did so, wishing that she did not feel such fear for Ewan.
Nor that her was heart was breaking with fear and jealousy.
She washed her face, her hands, her throat. The cool water splashed over her. She was so tired. She turned, and saw his scabbard and sword on the bed.
A strange panic seized her. She dressed quickly, and took the scabbard and mighty sword and hurried out to the courtyard. The men were gone. There were guards on the parapets, but even Angus had ridden out partway to say his good-byes.
She mounted her mare bareback, rode hard to the shore. The horses, wagons, and men were regrouping on the mainland. She saw Waryk atop Mercury, directing the movements of his men.
A small boat lay on the shore. She slipped from her mare and into the boat, and she called to Waryk.
He saw her and frowned, and she knew he was disturbed that she had come out alone and was taking the boat alone.
He left his task, riding to the shoreline.
There he dismounted from Mercury and watched her curiously, and she realized that it appeared she might have decided to come with him rather than stay, yet she thought that he might have been disappointed in her had she made that choice.
“Lady—” he began.
“Your sword, Waryk. Your father’s claymore,” she cried across the water.
He smiled suddenly, coming to her. He took his sword as he stood in the shallows, buckling it on, low on his hips. He dragged her boat on in, high on the sand, and lifted her from it.
“Thank you, milady,” he told her.
“Aye. I know that you fight with your father’s sword. That it may—that it may bring you back to me.”
“And you want me to come back?”
“Aye.” She hesitated, meeting his eyes. “Actually, you’re more than palatable. You’re quite handsome, striking, rather magnificent. But I …”
“Aye, lady?”
“I …” Her voice faded. She spoke in a whisper, giving all that she dared. “I’m finding that I need you and that … I …”
Her courage faded. It seemed that she had said enough. His eyes touched her with a strange, dark passion and tenderness she had never expected, and his words were equally comforting. “My love, I will return. And perhaps then …”
He kissed her, before the troops, and there went up a mighty yell, and she knew that they had the full approval of the men.
But then Waryk mounted Mercury, and with a last bow to her, he turned and rode to the front of his troops.
And as a breeze swept in from the Irish Sea, he was gone.
And she was left behind.
With a dying man …
And her deepest fears.