Page 11 of Come the Morning

“I have chosen a man for you—”

“You have chosen a man to whom to give my property. I am but an appendage to it.” Her eyes flashed to his. He had known her since she was a child, and she was taking grave advantage of that relationship now. A fact which tempted him to treat her as he might a very young child of his own—and take her right over his knee.

She was too old for such treatment—and so was his knee. But he grew tired of this argument. He would win, because he was king—he commanded great armies, and since he did, he could surely get one small woman to the altar. Yet it was irritating that he could not feel that he was truly winning the battle with his words and logic alone.

“You may retire, Mellyora,” he told her curtly.

“But, sire—”

“You may retire!”

“Retire, indeed,” she said. “As you wish. I give you all homage, King David, as is rightful. But now, though the hour is late, I will take my leave and return home—”

“Nay, lady, you will not.”

Her elegant, honey-shaded brow arched. “Am I a prisoner then, sire?”

“You are my guest.”

“Your guest.”

“Indeed, my lady.”

“And if I wished to leave—until the wedding, of course?”

“Pray, my lady, do not wish to do so. You would find it most difficult.”

“Ah. Because my sword arm is not so strong.”

“Good evening, my lady,” he said firmly. But she refused to go down without a further fight.

“I feel, sire, that you do not truly appreciate the strength that may lie within one’s mind, and that neither gender nor muscle power has a thing to do with that strength.”

“I have heard you, Mellyora.”

“You have the power, my lord king. But if wits were to allow me to leave, then I would be free. Wouldn’t that be true, my lord?”

He leaned toward her then, wagging a stern finger beneath her nose. “My lady, you should take care. You’ll find yourself not only confined to Stirling, but to your chambers,” he warned.

“Perhaps.”

“Oh?”

Again, her lashes lowered. “Sire—”

“By God, Mellyora, leave me be!” David thundered, and at that, at last, she braced herself with clenched teeth, pausing. It was on the tip of his tongue to inform her that he hadn’t summoned her to Stirling just to hear about his decision regarding her future, but to meet her prospective bridegroom as well. A messenger had recently assured him that his fighting men were nearly home, that they had tarried only to follow after the escort given to Mellyora.

The Lion had led the men engaged in the fighting.

But then, as yet, King David hadn’t informed Laird Lion of his coming nuptials, either. It hadn’t been until Adin had so suddenly died that the king had firmly decided that Mellyora was the right reward for the lad who had grown to become his most respected warrior knight. Other rich properties had become available over the years, but they’d been encumbered with aging heiresses who could not give the man the family he had lost. Young women were always available, but those as richly landed as this Viking’s daughter were few and far between. The question of Waryk’s future had remained a concern until now since David had never imagined Adin’s death at such a time as this—the Norseman had seemed like a god himself, a Wodin tolive forever. He’d been young when he’d taken his Gaelic bride, still little more than a boy himself when he’d produced his daughter. David had not thought that the lass and the riches of the property would have been his for the granting so soon.

The king’s head pounded. Laird Lion would ride in triumphant; a warrior loyal to the king, a sword arm strong in valor and ability, and his king would present him with a bride who was not only unwilling, but brashly determined to make quite certain everyone should know it.

“Mellyora,” he said angrily, “you will honor me, cease this fight, and leave me be.”

“Well, sire, then, as you wish, I shall obediently leave you be,” she said quietly, but her blue eyes still carried dangerous light, and despite the soft way she spoke, her voice was edged with anger.

“Shall you?” He crossed his arms over his chest.