Page 47 of Come the Morning

Angus hesitated just a moment, then stepped into the room and opened a trunk at the foot of the bed. He drew a long white gown with delicate needlework from the trunk, offering it to her.

“Will this suffice?”

She hesitated, then said softly, “It’s not mine.”

“It is yours now, my lady.”

She stared at him, amazed to realize that she was blushing because they both knew that Angus was offering her a garment that had been purchased for another woman.

“It’s been worn by no one else,” Angus said kindly. “I realize your discomfort, but you’re not free to leave these chambers. Waryk remains with the king, lady. The day is wearing on, you do have a smudge of mud on your nose.”

She lowered her eyes. “Well, then, thank you, Angus, for your kindness.”

“To serve you, my lady, is my pleasure,” he told her, and exited the room.

Once again, she heard the bolt slide into place. She moved uneasily about the room, looked into the flagon, and found it filled with a dark-brewed ale. She sipped it, found it rich andgood, and looked at the tub longingly. He could return at any moment.

Then again, she’d already been down to bare skin in his presence.

Before she had known who he was.

Still, she was tired, anxious, and encrusted in mud. She would remain tired, anxious—even desperate—but she could do something about the mud. She began disrobing while she picked at the contents of the tray—smoked fish, bread, a sweet sheep’s cheese. She drained a long swallow of the ale, and by then, had stripped down to crawl into the tub. The water was so hot it hurt at first, but then felt delicious. She soaked her hair, scrubbed away mud and river silt, and lay back, still encompassed by the steam. She opened her eyes and looked around.

The tub was rich, with hammered-silver trim. The tapestries that hung on the walls, warming the room, were crafted with care; they depicted hunting scenes, and she thought that they had probably come from the Continent, Flanders, perhaps Bruges. His bed was huge, piled with furs, bear, deer, beaver, more. There were numerous trunks about, and pieces of his dress armor leaned against the walls, or lay upon the trunks. A coat of shining mail was stretched over a rack not far from the fire, and she imagined a page had recently polished the mail to its shining glow. Laird Lion. Strangely enough, his standard was a bird, a falcon, she thought, very similar to her father’s. She closed her eyes. Admittedly, he was not what she had expected. She’d heard of Laird Lion before the king had announced her disposal to him, all of Scotland knew of the king’s champion, though he was a ruler with many strong knights loyally indebted to him. Still, she had heard that Waryk, Laird Lion, had ridden in with the Normans who had accompanied the king to Scotland when he had come with pageantry and strength to take his throne. She had thought him old, at least as old as the king.His feats in battle and tournament were beyond distinguished; he was, in fact, annoyingly perfect, according to the king’s seneschal and the balladeers who entertained from great house to great house, through the Lowlands, Highlands, islands, and beyond. She had assumed that he would speak only the Norman French, that he would be …

Easier to escape, she thought woefully. He was not nearly so horrible in his person as she had imagined, but that didn’t change the fact that he would take over her life, take her island, take her place. Destroy her happiness. She closed her eyes, remembering how she had assured Ewan she would love him forever. And what now? What mockery did this make of the tenderness and the friendship they had shared?

She heard the bolt sliding and sat up, hands gripped on the rim of the tub. If it were Angus, she had learned, he would politely inquire if he could enter.

And if it were not …?

It wasn’t Angus. The door was opening, and no one was asking her permission to enter.

She sprang from the water like lightning, sweeping a towel around her. In the corner of the room, with his armor, was a handsomely engraved claymore. She raced across the room, seized the claymore, held it in one hand and her towel in the other, as the door opened.

Waryk had returned.

She stared at him, cold despite the heat of the fire that burned to her back, plagued by hot tremors deep inside despite the cold that had seized her.

He looked at her, noting the bath, the towel, the claymore. He walked toward her with such a silent menace she felt a new fear.

Had the king been furious enough to tell him to kill her?

“Come no closer!” she warned, dropping the towel to wield the sword in both hands.

But he ignored her. Blue ice eyes on hers, he strode toward her, despite the second warning she whispered as he came before her.

She didn’t move, and he grabbed the blade of the sword, putting it flat against his heart. “Do it. Kill me.”

“Stop it! I can, you know. I have the strength—”

“Then try it, if your hatred is so great—”

“I don’t hate you! I don’t want to hurt you, I—”

He thrust the blade away from his heart, then wrenched it from her hands and sent the heavy weapon spinning across the room. She felt her nudity keenly, but he didn’t even seem to notice it.

“The king knows that you have returned, and you are in my keeping,” he said. “And I am tired. Exhausted.”