Page 118 of Come the Morning

She lowered her head again. He cradled her skull with his palm, holding her to his chest. “I have to go, and you have to stay. So tell me good-bye.”

She was silent. He lifted her chin again. Her eyes met his. “Good-bye,” she said painfully. “Godspeed.”

He smiled, fingers gentle as they moved down her cheek. “I’m glad that you would have God with me. But I’d wanted something a bit more memorable in the manner of a good-bye.Especially since I’ve gone from being not entirely repulsive to actuallypalatable.”

She was amazed to realize that she could smile through her tears. And more, she was amazed to find herself on her toes, delicately, with a whisper, brushing her lips against his. Then she threw her arms around him, and the kiss she gave next was anything but delicate. Her body pressed to his, she teased his mouth open with her tongue. Passionate, hungry, angry, afraid and trying to hold on, she slipped her hands beneath the linen shirt he wore beneath his wool, running her fingers along his flesh. She kissed and teased, stroked boldly with her tongue. In seconds, his shirt was open, and she worked down his body, her fingertips brushing flesh, her lips and tongue feathering after. He hastily began ripping clothing from his body, and hers, and while linen and wool were strewn, she scarcely missed a brush, a taste, a touch. The fire burned very low, the dawn just crept into being. She tended each scar upon him with a stroke of her tongue, the brush of a kiss. She lowered herself against him. Stroked him, cradled him, took him into her mouth. His fingers curled into her hair, hoarse cries escaped him. He came down to his knees before her, captured her lips in a kiss, found her throat, shoulders, breasts …

They lay before the low-burning fire upon the soft furs. And he kissed her and tasted her, caressed her, touched her, imprinting sensation upon his mind. The dawn came inexorably, light filtered through arrow slits in crimson and mauve, subtly changing, playing upon their flesh in shades that slowly changed to gold and yellow …

He made love to her, she rose atop him. No matter how hard she tried to hold on to the moments, they slipped away. She could not be passionate enough, fierce enough, tender enough. She had never been so aggressive, so hungry, so desperate. She ached to reach the promised pinnacle, and she drew back eachtime it threatened. His eyes touched hers, his rich dark hair brushed her flesh, his skin was fire, his arms were all powerful, holding her, he moved like lightning, like the wind, like thunder, with all the sweet promise and violence of a storm at sea. Then it seemed that the world itself was ripped asunder, climax seized her in a final, wild tempest, and she lay with him drenched and shivering upon the furs, and realizing that the fire had died, and that dawn was breaking to the full light of day.

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 beam 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. Hesmoothed 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, butmywife.”

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 wasso 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.