Page 75 of Come the Morning

And if it weren’t for the woman he loved …

There were too many “ifs.” It wasn’t going to be all right.

She survived the next day with dignity. It was late when she sat next to Waryk at the king’s table in his great hall. His friends and fellows teased and congratulated, ladies of the court admired her knight and wished her well. They would all think her insane, she realized, for trying to run from such a fate, and married, and unmarried, they flirted boldly with Laird Lion, and she found herself disturbed to realize that though he might have loved his mistress, he had probably known a number of other women as well.

In turn, she did her best to be dazzling and charming. She flirted with the young men, and the old. She didn’t even distinguish between men of the ancient Scottish races, or of the new Norman aristocracy. She didn’t eat. She drank too freely. She knew her eyes were bright, that she moved like a hummingbird, afraid to be still. At the table, she felt him watching her. She refused to meet his gaze. She saw him smile at others, watched his hands as they curled around the chalice that sat between them. His features were striking, his fingers were long. His voice was deep, and she felt strange tremors each time he spoke. She was miserable. She wanted her life back. Absurdly, at the same time, she was haunted by thoughts of his life. She wanted to run more than ever; he fascinated her. She was strangely afraid of his touch, yet she was dismayed to realize she was wondering what it would be like. They had never beentogether as they were tonight, speaking civilly, surrounded by others. She had never watched him laugh and talk with others before, never seen the respect he drew from men, or seen the way that women looked at him.

Finally, the awful night ended. Thankfully, she had drunk enough to sleep. The next morning, she had a headache. She prowled her room, until the day grew late. She stared longingly out a window.

Jillian, far gentler that day, came to her. “There’s a bath for you by the fire, the water is hot, I’ve tended it. It’s filled with rose oils from the Mediterranean, and will soothe you. I’ll bring you warmed wine touched with cinnamon. Rest tonight, ease your soul. Tomorrow will be a difficult day.”

Mellyora was glad to settle into the steaming water, breathe its fragrance, and while doing so, close her eyes and drink the hot, sweet, subtly flavored wine. How was she going to endure the days to come? How could she get through a wedding ceremony with a man with whom she’d done nothing but violent battle since she’d first encountered him? No matter the strange rush she felt when she was near him, how could she bear to let him touch her when she would know that he would be wishing himself with another woman?

Dear God, could she really be jealous? Of a woman she didn’t know?

“Mellyora, I’m going to the kitchen for more wine to mull,” Jillian told her, adding anxiously, “You’ll be all right? You’ll be …”

“I’ll be here when you return,” Mellyora assured her, and she laughed, feeling like crying. “Where would I go now? The great Laird Lion would probably be delighted to see me disappear again.”

She was dismayed that Jillian did not argue with her, and she closed her eyes once again, draining the remaining wine. Shehad drunk too much, too quickly; she wanted more. She had to sleep tonight …

She closed her eyes. The water was growing cold. With a sigh she rose, wrapping herself in a large linen towel and hunching down before the fire to dry. She combed through her hair, and slipped into a blue-linen gown hemmed with soft, rich fur. She heard the door, and saw that Jillian had returned. She looked pale as she reentered the room. She had not returned with wine, and she busied herself with unnecessary tasks, folding clothing that had already been folded, straightening what didn’t need to be straightened.

“Jillian, what’s wrong?” Mellyora asked.

“Nothing more than is wrong already!” Jillian said matter-of-factly.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Mellyora, you’re not happy now, but you must believe me, this time will pass—”

“Jillian, you will please tell me what has happened now!”

Jillian was incapable of deceit. She met Mellyora’s eyes. “The king is very angry.”

“So …” Mellyora said. She couldn’t breathe. She was suddenly terrified that it was all out of her hands, that the king had decided that she was to be punished by being removed from her lands no matter what. “The wedding is … off.”

Jillian shook her head. “No, no, nothing so awful.”

“Oh?”

“He knows how defiant you were, that you were with the Vikings for some time, that you wanted to marry elsewhere. He has suggested to Waryk that there be a public bedding.”

Mellyora sat, sinking to the floor in horror. Such events were not uncommon, especially among noble families when a bride’s parents wished to impress upon her groom her youth and innocence, or when the married pair were actually in love,and heedless of the ceremony. Though she certainly knew of the practice, Mellyora had never attended such a spectacle. The couples she had known to wed had enjoyed their wedding feast with family and friends, and gone on to the privacy of their marital chamber.

“Oh, God,” she breathed.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Jillian said, distressed. “Yet, perhaps it was best that you were warned …”

Mellyora stood quickly, heading toward the door. Jillian rushed before her, trying to stop her. “Mellyora, you mustn’t run again! There will be no—”

“I’m not running.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Waryk,” she said. Jillian still barred the door. “To Waryk, I swear it, let me by.”

Unhappily, Jillian stepped away from the door. Mellyora wasn’t surprised to find Angus standing guard outside. “My lady?” he inquired politely.