Page 26 of Come the Morning

“Oh, errant. You might think so, since she defies my command. To marry you. She’s your heiress, Laird Lion.”

“Mine?”

“Aye!”

And he knew, of course, with certainty. What a fool he had been not to realize the situation instantly. The lady on the river was his intended wife. He might have reasoned it then; he might even have realized it when he spoke with Sir Harry, and realizedthat he had been summoned back just when the heiress had been coming to the king …

He was the man from whom she was running. He was the wretched, horrid, despicable “Norman” she had been told she was to wed. And rather than do so, she was running to her Viking kin.

He swallowed hard, fighting to keep a hold on his temper.

She had tried to use him not just to escape the king—but to escape her marriage—to him—as well. He remembered all the things she had said. By God, but she was arrogant.

She didn’t know him; he didn’t know her, he rationalized with himself. But logic didn’t help the sudden searing of his temper. The hint of emotion and understanding he had felt for her plight dissipated like fog beneath a burning sun.Shewas the woman the king intended for him.

Wonderful. He had wanted a wife and a family. He had taken a loving, passionate woman as his mistress, and just when he had realized that she would be a loving, passionate wife as well, he was being told he was to receive a headstrong lass. A girl who was stubborn, reckless, determined, far too young to begin to understand the shaping of a nation. She was careless, foolhardy, irritating …

He paused in his thought, remembering his encounter.

Young.

Yes. If nothing else, she was young. Gentle, definitely not. Loving? Never. Warm? As ice. Passionate? Only in her determination to be free from him.

But then again, his greatest fear in being given an heiress had been that she would be a wizened old woman, incapable of giving him the sons he craved.

She wasn’t exactly an old witch.

She was in possession of all her teeth, something he must acknowledge, since it seemed life was all a bargaining game.Good skin, good bone structure, fine lines. She was sound. Aye, definitely healthy. Strong, capable, fleet and graceful—as her woman had said.

But she was much more, and he had seen that already. She was not just young and healthy. She wasformed. In body—and mind. She was cold as ice in her will to fight, hard as nails in her determination. She was beautiful as well. What was the word he had thought in connection with her earlier?

Ripe!he reminded herself. What she didn’t see in her reckless desire to be free was that she was young and vulnerable, and risking herself in a way she might possibly not understand. Or else, she understood her peril completely, and just didn’t care. What could be worse to her than being given to a man she had determined to be one of David’s Norman knights? She was hotheaded and wild, and certain that her will alone was enough to change her destiny.

Enough to defy a king.

Yet, even before he had seen her features, he had heard her voice, seen her before the fire, and she had haunted his dreams …

His temper continued to surge despite the fact that he was a stranger to her. He was dismayed to realize that he felt a greater sense of fury against Mellyora MacAdin than he did loss for Eleanora. His pride, he thought ruefully, took precedence over his heart. Minutes ago, he had felt a measure of sympathy for the lady on the river. But he’d envisioned a different future then for himself. His life had been changed here, in this room, in less than a quarter of an hour. This was the way of the world. He couldn’t have Eleanora, and Mellyora MacAdin could not have her freedom. The lady on the river now deserved no sympathy. She was no longer an amusing young woman in a sad situation, but an obstinate, disobedient, and disloyal subject of the king.

Which made him remember that she was still sitting out on the river, where she plotted and planned to join with her Viking kin.

“I shall find the lady,” he told David.

“What?” the king asked, distracted. He shook his head. “You’ve been on a battle campaign, and just come to court. I’ll send other knights to find her, I’ll send out an army, I’ll—”

“Trust me, sire. I’m not tired. I shall find the lady,” Waryk swore. He didn’t explain to the king that he had more at stake than other men, nor that he knew exactly where to find his errant heiress. The king, he knew, had made his decision. He would brook no arguments. The lady was Waryk’s. So he would find her. She would remain cold as ice, he was certain. He couldn’t force her to accept him, to want him, or to care for him in any way, and he wouldn’t insult either of them with such an effort. But he could force obedience, to the king, and to himself, and he would do so.

He inclined his head to the woman Jillian, bowed to the king, and started from the great hall, his shoes still squishing.

Indeed, he would find her.

Outside the king’s hall, he paused, plotting. There were a few things he needed to do, some orders he needed to give, before retrieving his reluctant soon-to-be bride.

Because once he found the lady, he intended to keep her.

“Angus!” he called, bursting in on the man who kept quarters adjacent to his own.

It was early; Angus hadn’t slept long, but at Waryk’s summons, he was instantly up, reaching reflexively for his scabbard and sword.