Page 81 of Come the Morning

“What are you doing?” she whispered frantically. She was aware of the crowd, the good-natured laughter, the cheers.

“There has to be some show,” he responded.

He had her arm, and was turning to leave. She stumbled, he caught her. He led her from the church, and the guests spilled around them.

Lady Dougall came to her, embracing her. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful bride!”

“I’ve never seen one more ready to pass out!” Sarah said, kissing her cheeks, as if she spoke with empathy and affection.

But it didn’t matter, she didn’t reply, because Anne was hugging her next, and the affection was genuine. “You were beautiful, spellbinding. The two of you make the most handsome, most noble couple. You’re so golden, he’s so dark, and you’re both as tall as the gods … what beautiful children you will create together!”

Her jaw clenched, she hugged Anne back, unable to respond at first.

“Well, it will be your wedding next,” she reminded Anne.

“I’m so grateful. To you and Waryk. If it weren’t for your husband, something dreadful would have happened. Daro might have defied the king for you, for me, and David might have fought him, and Daro might have died, and the king’s forces might have been so weakened that an assault from an enemy might have devastated him. But your husband has the strength to be merciful, and so we shall all live, and be happy.”

She didn’t have the heart to remind Anne that she hadn’t wanted any part of this.

“Ah, Mellyora, your father would be proud!” she heard the king say, and she was turned about, and he held her in his arms, kissing her on the forehead. Aye, she’d been dutiful now, with no choice. She was in his favor again, so it seemed, or she was being chastised.

“Would he?” she queried softly.

“Trust me, lass, in time, you’ll thank me,” he told her.

She arched a brow, but smiled, wary of the king at the moment. When she was gone from here, even with her new husband, she would be relieved. She wasn’t going to argue with David, not when wine was flowing freely from barrels in the courtyard andservants were bringing tables and food out under the moonlight for the wedding feast. The crowd could too easily grow raucous, and demand more entertainment than Waryk had already chosen to give them.

David beckoned to a servant for wine, and when it arrived, he gave a chalice to Mellyora, and kept one for himself. “A salute!” the king cried, and the crowd fell silent. He lifted his chalice. “To the power and strength of unity, to this marriage, combining great houses, peoples, and strength of our country; to my warrior and his bride, and to our united Scotland!”

Cheers surrounded them. Mellyora drank her wine, and accepted good wishes from more and more of the king’s guests, friends, acquaintances, and those she hadn’t known before. At one point in the evening, she felt an uncanny sensation of unease, and she turned to see that she was being watched. Sarah stared at her. She didn’t turn away when caught, but gave her a slow smile that was in some strange way a threat. Mellyora turned away from her, laughing at something a young knight said.

In time she wound up seated at the banqueting table with her husband. Still, there was so much activity around them, they were not forced to talk. The king had ordered entertainment: jesters, dancers, magicians, jugglers. The hour grew late. Lady Rutherford sat with her husband, face flushed from wine, cap askew. Sarah sat next to a drunk knight, teasing him, laughing with him, goading him, Mellyora thought. She was right. Sarah smiled at her, then whispered to the knight. The young man rose suddenly, stood, and shouted cheerfully, “To bed, Laird Lion! You’ve taken the bride purported to be the fairest in the land, sir! Shall we see to it?”

Mellyora had known Sarah was determined on her discomfort. There was a vicious streak in the young woman. She felt her cheeks flood with crimson, and she prayed that Waryk wouldremember his promise and do something quickly. If the crowd got too wild, there would be little anyone could do. She and Waryk would both be seized and stripped and thrown together, and it would be horrible.

She didn’t dare look his way, but she felt him rise beside her, lifting a chalice to the young man. “Why, sir, so the hour is late! So if you’ll give us a moment …”

He had reached out a hand to her. Mellyora took it, and he drew her to her feet. He led her from the table, taking all the time in the world, stopping here and there to speak quickly and casually with one person, and then the next.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“Running,” he told her.

They came to the far end of the banqueting table, and he whistled. His great warhorse Mercury made a splendid entrance upon the scene, loping across the courtyard, attracting everyone’s attention, and coming to an obedient halt directly before his master. Waryk lifted her and threw her atop the horse, and hopped up behind her.

“They’re getting away!” someone shouted.

“Catch them!” someone else cried good-naturedly.

“Get them, come, the fun is just beginning!”

But they would not be caught. No one else was mounted; the horses were in the stables. And Mercury was as swift as his name. They rode through the gates, and out into the night, and hard along the northern trail that led to the forest.

Waryk had kept his word, and they were gone from the castle. She closed her eyes and felt the wind, and, relieved of much tension, she rested against his chest. Then she felt his heartbeat, the power of his every movement. She had been so desperate to escape the fortress that she had thought about little else; she certainly hadn’t thought ahead about the night.

Now suddenly, the cottage deep in the forest seemed too close. They were moving far too fast, galloping toward the inevitable.

They rode hard for the first twenty minutes; then, mindful of his horse, Waryk slowed their gait. When they came to a stream, and he allowed the horse to drink, Mellyora asked for water. He lifted her, and let her slip down to the ground. She rushed to the water. It was icy, sweet. It cooled the fever that burned within her. She drank deeply, bathed her face, drank some more. She cooled her face and throat again, bound her hair slowly to keep it from getting soaked, and started the ritual all over again, tarrying long and deliberately.