Page 116 of Come the Morning

He didn’t have to urge her to the chambers they shared. She walked ahead of him, pushing the door open, striding to stand before the fire and then turn and challenge him. “I have had nothing to do with this. I didn’t agree to this marriage to plot and plan with Daro for the downfall of my property and my people.”

He came into the room and closed the door, taking off his mantle and his scabbard, laying his claymore, his father’s weapon, on the bed.

“Are you listening to me!” she cried out.

He looked at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ewan is your man,” he said. “And Igraina is your friend.”

“Aye, that’s true! Why would I wish them hurt—”

“These men, it appears, were left behind when the Vikings retreated after their attack. But were they? Or has someone figured out that the fortress really is impregnable, and the way to kill those who guard it is to pick them off, one by one. Interesting.”

She exhaled, furious. “So you are really accusing me of sleeping with you—and planning on my uncle seizing this place?”

“Are you sleeping with me by choice?” he inquired politely.

She turned away from him, gripping the stone mantel at the hearth. “I agreed to this, to all of this, your terms!” she reminded him.

“And even that might make good sense. There was no choice for you. Marry me, or be disinherited. You were furious, you defied the king. You hated me. You might well have gone to your father’s kin with a plan.”

She inhaled sharply, so angry she could scarcely endure it. “I do hate you, you bastard, how dare you accuse me so!”

“I didn’t accuse you; I said that the plan might make sense.”

She walked over to him, so incensed that she couldn’t think. “One word from anyone else and you are ready to accuse me! Let’s not doubt the whispered words of an enemy we can’t even see, let’s just accuse Mellyora—it makes sense. You—bastard!”

She tried to strike him. He caught her arms. His fingers were vises, she was drawn against him. Desperately, she wrenched free. She couldn’t bear his touch, his scent, his closeness, reminding her of all the intimacy, of the way she had begun to feel, of wanting him, needing him, feeling jealousy, and fear. She spun around, striding across the room again.

“And Ewan lies dying.”

“Damn you, I would never plot with anyone to hurt him—”

“I know. You love him,” he said dryly.

She spun again. “He is a friend, a good man. He has served you, you said yourself that he was a good man—”

“You don’t need to defend him to me. Only your own words and actions.”

She lowered her eyes, inhaling. “I said, he is a friend—”

“But you aren’t planning on riding with me to Tyne anymore, are you?”

She lifted her eyes to his, feeling an emotional tug of war within her that was agony. “He might die!” she whispered softly. “I am the best here, I might be able to save him.”

“And I should leave you because you wish it?”

She stared at him a long while, then lifted her hands. There was only so much she could admit when it seemed that she stood accused again. She spoke softly. “You may believe this or not—I don’t want to stay. I wanted to ride with you. But now … I must stay.”

“If I allow it.”

She caught her breath. In her heart, she wanted him to disallow her, to insist that she accompany him, as she had said that she would. But she could make a difference at times, she knew it. For all of Phagin’s knowledge, and for all the love Igraina bore her brother, Mellyora knew that she was the one with the greatest healing talents.

“You have to allow it. He might die. And he has served you well.”

“And you love him.”

She shook her head. “There is nothing between us. Was nothing between us. You know that. There was never anything more than words and false promises, and dreams that could not be.”

“Dreams, my lady, can be far more dangerous than sins of flesh,” he told her.