Page 44 of Come the Morning

“Wait. They—who? How did this come about? There was no talk of you entering a convent before. What has happened?” Daro demanded angrily. He had wanted to go straight to the king with his request for her hand, but she had felt the need to speak with her kin first, certain they would never allow her to marry a Viking if she didn’t make them understand that he wasn’t ever going to sea again, and that he was as settled as any man who had come to Scotland to make the country his home.

“I never had a chance to say anything to anyone. Uncle Padraic came to my room here and told me that he intended to make arrangements for me to enter the convent of Sisters of Mercy, and that my dowry, given to the Church, would help atone for the vicious raids gone into the acquiring of it. Padraic is hateful toward the Vikings, any Vikings, he doesn’t care if they’re Danish, Norse, or Swedish. He thinks my father’s blood has made me wild, and that the older I grow without the help of daily prayer and devotion, the greater danger into which I pitch my immortal soul. I’m also a danger to the good name of my mother’s family—Padraic’s family. I never had a chance to say a word to anyone. If I could have only spoken with Michael … but he is on the king’s business. He would understand, he says that a man’s belief and his loyalties make him trustworthy, not his place of birth. Padraic claimed that he has spoken to the king, and the king has apparently agreed with him that Viking blood is dangerous. David is afraid of Viking strength as well.”

“I won’t let them rule us. We’ll run away,” Daro said.

She inhaled sharply, she shook her head in misery. “Daro, we can’t; the king’s forces would come after you, you haven’t the strength on your own to defeat his power.”

“We can run far away. To the island, all the way to Norway, if need be.”

“Oh, Daro!” She touched his face, and shook her head again. “I love you. I won’t let you do that. This land means so much to you, I know that. You don’t want to go to battle against the king—”

“I shouldn’t need to do battle with anyone! My brother was Adin, respected, admired—and trusted.”

Anne gasped again. “Oh, my God, Daro, I forgot … oh, dear God, I’m so sorry—”

“What?”

“Mellyora is here, in trouble. She said that she was to be wed to a Norman laird—though I had heard it was Waryk, Laird Lion, the king meant for her to wed. Perhaps it is he, and she thinks that he is Norman because of all the things said about the way the king found him as a child. She is probably not aware that he was more Scotsman than Norman. Or perhaps I am wrong, and it is another man the king planned on her marrying, I’m not at all sure. But she tried to escape the fortress,” Anne said. “And she was discovered—in fact, she gave herself up to the king’s men before they could have a chance to find me behind the tapestry. She said that I had to tell you that she needed you.”

Daro lowered his head, closing his eyes for a moment. Damn them all. Damn the king, and damn Anne’s self-righteous family. The Highlanders were little short of barbarians—even the most “civil” of the Scots and English practiced the most savage punishments and executions. And they would damn him for being a Viking. Anne’s Scottish uncle intended to dictate her life, while he hadn’t even been told about the plans made for his niece’s future, while the king used her as he might any pawn. It was true that Mellyora probably did not know Laird Lion—she hadn’t accompanied Adin often when he came to court, preferring to entertain guests at Blue Isle. If the king meant to reward his great champion, then Mellyora and the isle would be choice compensations.

Daro bore no grudge against Waryk. He had ridden with the man, and fought beside him at times. But if Daro and his kind, the Vikings, were to be held as pariahs, he’d be damned if he’d have no say in the disposition of his own niece, Adin’s only child. Especially when so many of the loyal and trusted men in Scotland did have Viking blood themselves.

“Where did they take Mellyora?” he asked Anne.

She gazed into his eyes, obviously anxious. “She said that she didn’t want lives lost, that she wanted help, but that you must be careful. She doesn’t want your life, or your future, risked, Daro.”

“Do you know where she was taken?”

She shook her head. “No, I heard Sir Harry’s voice, and then the voice of another man. They were saying that she wasn’t to be taken to the king, but to the laird—”

“Waryk’s chambers. They took her there,” Daro said.

“She’ll be heavily guarded—” Anne said.

“There will be a bolt on her door, and one man left to see that an alarm is raised if she attempts to escape,” Daro said. “She could not possibly escape, not without help.”

“Daro,” Anne said softly, “if you help her, you’ll become the king’s enemy. We’ll have no hope—”

“As it stands, we have no hope. If I am holding my niece, and the king has plans for her, then there will have to be room for discussion.”

“You intend to use her, the same as the king,” Anne said unhappily.

“Not the same as the king. She’s my brother’s child. She’s asked my help because she knows I will defend her.”

“But if you defend her, we are lost,” Anne said.

He gritted his teeth hard. “I don’t know what Mellyora seeks to do. I won’t know until I’ve seen her. I have no other move at this time than to help her escape, and give her my protection, of course. But to do so, I must get her out of here along with”—he paused, staring down at Anne tenderly—“with you,” he finished softly.

Anne inhaled on a reckless breath. “All right!” she breathed. Then, quickly, “Nay, nay, it’s not all right! The king will seek to kill you.”

“We’ve no choice. Let’s move, carefully, Anne. We’ll see who guards her door.” Daro pulled the tapestries apart and looked out into the corridor. “Meet me here,” he told her swiftly, “tomorrow night. Keep your eyes and ears open throughout the day, I will do the same.” He kissed her, and started to leave. He returned, kissing her once again with passion and promise. “Tomorrow night,” he told her. “Trust in me.”

The king drank wine from a chalice, staring at the flames in the hearth of his great bedroom. In warm, sweeping robes, he still appeared very much the warrior king, strong despite the elegance of his apparel.

“Eric Bloodaxe,” he said broodingly, looking over at Waryk. “King of Northumbria less than two centuries ago. Cnut, who ruled much of England. Magnus, who seized much of Scotland.” He stared at Waryk. “Adin was a most unusual man. Who could have foretold his death? And who in God’s name would have thought that his daughter could escape with the skills of an acrobat?”

“She is returned,” Waryk said smoothly.