Page 97 of Come the Morning

Mellyora lay there for a long time after he had gone, shaking. Then she rose, found shoes, and a fur-trimmed robe herself. It wasn’t true. Adin had fallen in love with her mother. He had come here, he had seized the isle, but he had loved her mother, her mother had loved him.

She left the bedroom and started for the great hall.

But Waryk would be there.

She turned and hurried down the corridor in the opposite direction.

He was grateful, exceedingly grateful, to find the great hall empty.

A few of the huge hounds still roamed in front of the hearth. When he settled into one of the large carved-wood-and-leather chairs before the dying fire, the hounds settled around him. He absently scratched the ear of one, staring at the flames.

She was making him insane.

For other men, she burned as brightly as the fire. For others, she charmed, she smiled, she moved with tantalizing grace and sweet wicked appeal. By God, it was as if she taunted him to see how far she could shove, how great her power might be. And yet …

She stood over Adin’s mountain of a grave with tears in her eyes. He was all things good, while the king had given her a wretched, decrepit Norman.

And he couldn’t touch her.

He just didn’t dare touch her …

He heard a sound, and he was up, spinning around, a fire poker in his hand for want of a better weapon. But the person who had come upon him in the night was Jillian, and she had turned white, staring at his face, and the poker.

“Laird Waryk …”

“Aye, Jillian, what is it?” He replaced the poker, taking his seat again, rubbing his forehead. He was acquiring a monumental headache.

“This is your home, sir. You needn’t fear the people around you.”

“I’ve been fighting a long time, Jillian, and I’ve reason to fear enemies within.”

She held silent for a long moment. “Fewer than you think, perhaps.”

“Perhaps. Why have you come here? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I felt I had to see you. After tonight …”

Her voice trailed. “Aye?” Waryk said angrily.

“You can change things, Laird Waryk.”

“Oh?”

“You spend hours each night, pacing, staring at the fire. You sit there late, night after night.” She lifted her hands, at a loss. “Sir, there is no reason for you to do so.” Next, she sounded just slightly aggravated, as if she could not properly explain herself. “Laird Waryk, you can count, can you not? ’Tis well over a month since you first met Mellyora.”

He arched a brow, staring at her. Poor Jillian. She was so uncomfortable, wondering if she should be loyal to him, or to Mellyora, and if she wouldn’t be doing her mistress a lesser service if she didn’t speak truthfully with him.

“Meaning?” he said, a slight smile tugging at his lips. He was pretty sure he knew what she meant, but …

“I can promise you that she carries no other man’s child,” Jillian said, then turned, and fled.

He stared at the fire a while longer, then rose so suddenly that the chair fell behind him. One of the huge hounds jumped, whimpering nervously. Waryk barely noticed. He strode from the hall, and down the corridor.

Her father had been buried in the mound with his longboat, in a Christian ceremony, but in a Viking manner.

Her mother had been buried in the crypt of the small chapel in this, the laird’s tower. She lay in the stone crypt with her father, her mother, and those who had come before them, preserved in the cold stone, ghostly in their linen shrouds.

Mellyora slipped down the stairs to the ground floor, then across the room to a corridor parallel to that above. Taking a torch from the wall, she moved in the shadows until she came to the chapel. It was small and simple: a Norman arch had been built over the altar, the pews were basic oak, and no more than twenty-five people could comfortably sit in the room. A winding stairway led to the crypts below, but she hesitated, staring at the single religious symbol in the chapel, the beautiful gold Celtic cross that hung above the altar. She walked down the hall, then started, thinking that she heard movement.