Page 42 of Come the Morning

“You just said that the king—”

“The king is not to be bothered, ye’ll come with me now to the laird.”

“Nay, I’ll not accompany you!” she declared, wrenching hard to free herself from the vise of his grip. She clawed at his arm, wriggled and struggled, all to no avail. He started down the corridor, and she had no choice but to follow, she was nearly lifted off of her feet. All the way she fought, clawing, pounding, kicking, trying to bite. He barely noticed. She was no more annoyance than a gnat. She’d struggled so desperately that she hadn’t even realized where they had come until they were there.

He opened a door in the hallway, and thrust her in.

She had come back to the point where she had begun, she realized with a sharp gasp of dismay.

The man who had become the nightmare of her life stood before the fire, his back to her. He’d donned a clean shirt under his wool, and his still-damp dark hair had been brushed back.

“She’s here, m’laird,” the bald man said.

“Fine, Angus, thank you,” he said casually. He didn’t even turn around.

The door slammed as Angus departed.

Mellyora stared incredulously at the back of the man standing before the fire. Her fury rose along with the sick sensation that filled her as she knew she had lost.

“You cheat! You liar, you bastard!” she accused him, shaking, her voice tremulous with the depths of her anger. “You let me go just because you knew you had men in these corridors who would drag me back. You let me escape just to humiliate me—”

“I let you escape to see the futility of what you’re trying to do,” he interrupted with weary impatience. “You’ve taken a knife to me twice, you attempted to beat me to death with an oar, and still, here you are. I’m tired of your games, and that’s the end of it.”

There was no sense in her action, but she couldn’t control herself. Her very world seemed lost and all because of this wretched king’s man. She flew across the room, slamming her fists against his back with a thunderous vengeance as she stuttered out her fury, not able to find words to describe just how despicable she found him. “You vile oaf, you bloody bastard, you’re a lying, conniving, sneaking, wretched excuse of a man and I’ll never forgive you—”

He spun around, and she backed a foot away from him. His eyes were narrowed as he told her, “Whether you do or do not forgive me for your own acts of foolishness and treachery mean nothing to me.”

“Nothing!” she cried. “It is all nothing to you!” In a frenzy she flew against him again, her fists now thudding against the wall of his chest, which seemed to mean nothing to him either. “I don’t know who you think you are,” she warned him passionately, “but I will not forgive or forget ever, and I will hurt you, I swear it, for all that you have done to me!”

With a sudden, lightning-quick movement, he’d had enough. He captured her wrists tightly. She struggled, still in a frenzy of anger, but he shook her and she was forced to go still, staring up into his eyes. For a moment she was afraid that he would strike her down in return, his eyes promised such violence, but he did not retaliate. “I don’t give a damn if you forgive me, forgetanything, or spend your life seeking revenge, but you’d best be warned. I gave you a chance, you made a promise. And when you make a promise to me, you will keep your word!” He assured her with controlled anger.

Promise, what promise? Oh, God, yes, to meet him at the king’s cottage in the forest!

“Never! Never!” she assured him, outraged. “You lie, you cheat, you tease—”

“Tease? M’lady, you put the goods right on the table! You’re treacherous and disloyal, but the cards are played, and you’re in my power. Like it or not. I even tried to warn you not to bargain, that the odds were against you. I told you how things would be, I gave you every chance—”

“I haven’t had a fair chance all evening!”

“That’s what happens when you set out to betray the king.”

“You’re not the king!”

“But you are in my power, and that’s the way it is,” he told her, thrusting her from him.

“What can any of this mean to you?” she cried in exasperation, warning herself that she must keep her distance from him. “The king sleeps, he cannot be bothered with me, so what can any of this matter—”

“It matters. And the king may be sleeping, but he is still waiting to see me. Regarding you. So, if you’ll excuse me …”

He moved past her toward the door. She stared after him, tears stinging her eyes. She wanted to race after him and pummel him again, but she clenched her fists at her sides, afraid she had already dangerously tested his temper; and she didn’t want him touching her in return. “Damn you!” she cried out with passionate loathing. “Damn you a thousand times over!”

He ignored her, and despite all her instinctive warnings and simple logic, she ran after him, clenched fists raised. She landed no blows, for he caught her wrists again, and held them tightly,generous lips tightly clenched into a grim line as he stared down at her.

She looked up at him searchingly. “Why are you doing this to me? Who are you?”

He paused, arching a brow to her, a deep frown burrowed into his brow. Then he suddenly smiled, released her wrists, and bowed to her deeply in a complete mockery of the courteous gesture. “Of course, how forgetful of me, we’ve notformallymet. Strange, isn’t it? I mean, we are beginning to know one another, aren’t we? But as to your question, well, I am he, my lady. That awful man to whom you are to be given, my lady. That wretched, decaying, decrepit, old Norman, Waryk de Graham. However, my father was not a Norman, though there might have been some Norman blood—even Viking—in his veins. My mother was from one of the oldest families in the Lowlands. So you see, I’m not a wretched decaying old Norman at all, but a wretched decaying not-terribly-old Scotsman. Now, if you’ll excuse me …? I really must see the king. He has been deeply concerned regarding your whereabouts.”

Oh, God. She’d never even suspected …