The Pledge (8 page)

“Pardon. You said?”

“What of neighboring—”

“It shall be done. ’Tis your bride’s day, so it shall be as you wish.”

“Thank you.” She couldn’t look at him, though she sensed he wished she would. He made her dizzy, as though she suffered from
the winter weakening.

The worst of it was ahead of her. It hurt to admit that she’d come to feel a measure of admiration, and a liking for her spouse
though they’d only met hours ago. What was there about him that made her blood rise, that caused her innards to squeeze, her
heart to jerk instead of pump? Such had never occurred even with Tarquin of Cardiff, who’d told her he would approach the
elders in the Llywelyn family and request a betrothal. Not once had she had this uncomfortable beating of blood, the
hammering of heart that occurred each time Hugh MacKay was near. MacKay had a strange effect, indeed.

What would he be like in a temper? He could rage and beat her. None would interfere. That could happen that very evening.
The knowledge that she came to him a virgin… with a son, could be too much to bear. He could scream perfidy, and the thrashings
could begin. To some it was the normal way of things. The pain of lashings made her fearful. She’d not ever been struck. Her
father had been a gentle man.

Even more it sickened her to think of the contempt that could mar those strong features of Hugh MacKay when he discovered
she’d deceived him, that she hadn’t birthed a child. He might consider it an even more pernicious act that she’d dared to
request and receive the regency of Trevelyan lands, when she’d hidden the heir to the holdings under the guise he was her
son. Would he see her as greedy schemer? He might perceive her dealings with Edward Baliol as dire intrigue, as taking control
of the estate under false pretenses for her own uses. He could be angered that her actions could jeopardize his own holdings,
his fragile, new grasp on his ancestral lands.

To her eyes there was nothing about the night ahead that boded anything but ill for her. If only he’d been an unconscionable
boor, an ignoramus, or a gross barbarian. Hugh MacKay was none of those. Nay, he was a man of many parts. She sought distraction
from her
black thoughts and found none. Woe to the woman who carries a secret to her marriage bed!

“Have all these festivities tired you, Morrigan?”

His whisper went through her like a sweet knife. “No… no, I can carry on, milord.”

“ ’Tis not necessary. I shall—”

A sudden flurry at the gates was a welcome sound until she saw Rhys coming at her again, this time riding a horse! Not a small
steed, but a destrier. “Sweet mother of God.”

“Shhh. Don’t fret.”

“Good Lord! He shouldn’t have had such a large horse, should he? Is that not a destrier used for war?” She moved around Hugh,
fully intent on intercepting the cantering beast and Rhys, who hung on to the mane, his short legs flapping on the animal’s
back, his mouth wide open.

“Ma-man! Lo-ok a-at me-e!”

Before she could do more than take one step, Hugh moved in front of her. “Wait. Nothing must startle the animal. Trust me.”
Then he strode toward the horse. “Everyone remain still.” He saw the harried MacKays behind the steed, but spared them barely
a glance.

“Hugh! There were four of us. He eluded us all. How the hell he mounted Orion, I don’t know.”

“I have him, Toric. No one move.” Hugh put his hands up. The destrier, independent and able to factor predicaments because
of his highly intelligent ways, glared at Hugh, his ears back.

Morrigan held her breath, moving step by step toward Rhys.

“No, milady, you mustn’t interfere with the laird. Orion is one of his. The steed knows the master. ’Twill be fine. You’ll
see.” Laird Gordon tried to pull her back. She wouldn’t budge. “So, you are as headstrong as your spouse. I see chaos in your
future, but then again, ’twas what I had.” His dry laugh pulled no answering one from her. He held her at his side.

Hugh put his hand on the destrier’s snout. “You would defy me, old friend, when I’ve given so many gracious ladies to your
keeping. Consider your mare, Eufeme. Was she not sweet and gracious?” Hugh’s soothing tone droned on, even as he took hold
of the stallion by the nostrils with one hand, and reached for Rhys with the other.

“No,” Rhys said, edging backward, making the destrier quiver. “We’re friends. He wants me here. He said so.”

Morrigan’s hands twisted together. She fought for breath.

“Is that right?” Hugh said, seeming to ponder what Rhys said. “You’ve made a choice, then?”

“I have.”

“Fine. For now, you must come down so that Orion can be fed and pastured. Would you deny your friend his meal? He’s a great
warrior and has earned good care.”

Rhys’s face screwed into thought. Then he nodded and moved toward Hugh’s hand that scooped him from the back of the huge horse.

The concerted sighs of relief drowned out Morrigan’s shaky thanks to God.

Hugh kept the boy on his shoulder and handed the reins to Toric.

“The boy reminds me of you,” Laird Gordon said to Hugh, keeping hold of Morrigan as they moved toward her husband. “You were
always pigheaded.”

Morrigan didn’t see the humor. She had eyes for Rhys, catching him in her arms and hugging him.

“Maman! Don’t. I have to help Toric with the horse…” Before he could finish what he was saying a giant yawn caught his lips
and parted them.

Morrigan looked at Hugh as she set Rhys on his feet. “I thank you, milord.”

His smile came and went. “You’re welcome.” He looked at Rhys. “As for you, for disobeying the Mac-Kays who were put in charge
of you, you will clean out the stables for one week with Jaxe.”

Morrigan opened her mouth.

Rhys was ahead of her. “I will do that.”

She looked down at him, shaken that he would so easily accept his penance. His eyes were shining!

“And you’ll mount nothing unless Jaxe, Eamon, or Toric is with you.”

Rhys’s head bobbed up and down, his eyes fixed on Hugh, seeming unaware of the silenced party guests who watched.

Morrigan touched the top of the boy’s head, her hand
only shaking a bit. “Come along. This party has gone on long enough for you. We’ll find your bed.”

“No. Don’ wanna’,” he told her, his mouth opening on another yawn.

“Yes, you do.” Grasping his hand firmly, she turned the boy. She was about to tell Hugh where she was going when she realized
he was deep in conversation with Toric and Gordon. She hoped he’d know where she’d gone. Speed was necessary. If Rhys became
too tired he’d cause another ruckus. His lung power could be awesome.

Whisking him from the dining and drinking guests took too much time as it was. Many had her pausing to comment on the courage
of her son riding a destrier. She had every intention of telling Rhys he’d never ride another horse until he was a man if
he ever attempted to mount a destrier again. She tried not to slight anyone, but Rhys was getting crabbier by the minute.

Finally she reached the castle and hurried him through the bailey, then in under the portico and through the wide open doors.
She was all but running. She didn’t care. Throwing aside dignity was better than having a battle with a five-year-old with
a mind of his own.

Passing no one, she all but carried the hefty lad up the stairs that hugged one wall. Getting him into the chamber that connected
to her guest chamber took time. He whined for milk, for sweets, for ginger beer, for strawberry ale. His eyes were closing
as she undressed him, gave him a quick wash, and put him beneath the covers.
He was mumbling protests as she tucked him in and kissed his cheek.

“Oh! Milady, I didn’t think you’d be up here. I’ll take care of the boy, if you wish.”

“I wish to let him sleep. You are Lilybet. I remember.”

At the nod, Morrigan continued. “He’s exhausted. Let him sleep. If he awakens before the last feast is served, he may wish
to eat something else. Otherwise let him sleep the night away.”

Lilybet nodded. “I will.”

Morrigan tried to smile, but nothing quite buried the rising panic she felt at the coming night. The sun had gone. Flambeaux
lit the glen and castle. Soon there’d be the awful “headache heaviness,” as the wedding night had come to be called. Taken
from the Celtic and Latin customs by the Scots, they’d brought it to a methodology unheard of by the ancients, she was sure.
It had become one of their cherished traditions. Charivari! The dreaded night of copulation when the bride would be sport
for all the groom’s friends, where rape occurred at regular intervals, where women… She swayed, pondering what could occur.

“Milady! You are faint. Here, let me help you. Lie down—”

“No! I… I must go.”

“Ya canna gang awa’ this way,” the handmaiden broke into the patois of Gaelic and Anglo. “You’re fair sickened, swaying like
a reed you were.”

Morrigan pushed at the hands that held her, the moist pieces of lint held to her head. “Please, I—”

The door crashed open. MacKay stood there, others of his clan behind him. His eyes found her, the sleeping child, the ministering
women all faster than the light that courses the sky when Thor himself rumbles across the heavens. His Viking connections
allowed the great gods into his life. Not that he believed in much beyond his own powers. She was sure he didn’t. Did the
mighty MacKay believe in anything but himself? It scored her feelings to know that whatever small trust he had in her would
be flayed alive that very night.

“What ails milady?”

His mild query didn’t fool Morrigan. His eyes danced with fury.

“Nothing,” she answered, cursing the hoarseness in her voice.

He went around the handmaiden hovering over Morrigan. She faded back as though a large besom had swept around the room. He
lifted Morrigan’s hand, his fingers pressing on the inner wrist.

Stunned that he should know where to find the pumping of blood, Morrigan could only stare.

“And are you ailing, wife?”

“No.”

“Then what of this?” He lifted her hand, his fingers still at the pulse. “Your drumbeat is too fast.”

“I was hurrying.”

“Why is that?”

“Rhys was tired. When that happens he can become recalcitrant. I didn’t want him to mar the celebration,” she said truthfully.
Did she imagine that his features lightened, that his eyes melted away from their slate hardness of moments past?

He studied her for long moments. Then before she could do more than gasp, he’d lifted her into his arms and strode from the
room. “You’ve nothing to fear,” he told her as he marched down the dank corridor.

“So you say,” she muttered in Welsh.

“So I do,” he answered in the same tongue, chuckling when she stiffened. “I’ve battled in Wales. One learns to speak the language,
milady.”

“Of course.” Her tone was sharper than she’d wanted and it didn’t quite cover the quaking in her frame. “I’ll have to remember
to pick up the language if I ever venture to foreign lands to conquer,” she said in rapid Celtic, trusting he wouldn’t pick
up all of it.

“I’ll keep you at my right hand, then, and you can help me lead. We’ll battle together, milady.”

Morrigan’s mouth dropped open.

MacKay kicked open a door to a much more splendid suite. Setting her on her feet, he slammed the door shut again. When he
saw her looking about, he inclined his head. “You were expecting your Celtic assassins, mayhap?”

Stung, she lifted her chin and glared. “No! I was expecting your infamous voyeurs. Is this moment not for their delectation?”

He shook his head. “If you’re expecting the charivari, do not. I’d not allow it.” He turned and lifted the heavy wooden bar
across the door. “There. ’Twould take an army to get through and I’d not countenance it.”

Morrigan swallowed, looking at him fully for the first time. Her secret wouldn’t become tattle for the word mongers. If her
husband put her aside it wouldn’t be in front of a contingent of drunken men spitting ribald remarks. If he didn’t kill her
on the spot, she could live with the infamy of being returned to Wales. She and Rhys would be under the protection of the
Llywelyn name until such time as he could attain his inheritance. The law would protect her when her deceit was unmasked since
she was regent of the Trevelyan estate.

Hugh frowned at her. “I have to wonder what takes your concentration, why you wander in thought.”

“I’ve… I’ve not been here before, there is much to see.”

“Join me in wine, or an ale.” He looked around him, smiling when he saw the tray with cups and skins upon it.

She nodded, needing soothing. So did he.

“I went wild when I couldn’t find you below stairs, wife.”

“Why? Surely you knew I’d see to my son.”

Hugh shrugged. “I didn’t. I missed you,” he said through his teeth.

“And that is why you came through the child’s door like one of the bulls of Afrique?”

His smile twisted. “ ’Twould seem so.” He looked toward the drink table, then back at her. “I was crazed when I couldn’t find
you.”

Morrigan smiled, feeling a glow spread through her. Even as she looked, his eyes seemed to deepen in color, his face hardening,
but not in a fearsome way. There was a hotness there, almost a wanting. It shook her that she wouldn’t have minded had he
pulled her into an embrace. What would it be like to feel his strong mouth on hers?

He went to the wine table. “We’ll toast our nuptials, wife.”

“I would have fruited water, milord, since I cannot stand spirits when I’ve had little sustenance since rising from my pallet.”

“You should have supped.”

She tried to smile. “The day was too exciting.” She didn’t lie about that.

“I found it so.”

His lazy hot gaze went over like silky flame. Her head snapped back. She studied his bland expression, wishing she could read
his thoughts. Did he make sport of her?

He glanced around the room again, spying the stone jar that would hold the cold, fruited water. He indicated it. “Then you
can drink this, and I will take the wine.”

She smiled. He was being kind. God help her, she was beginning to like him more and more. She mustn’t let herself like him
too much. When he eventually turned his fury on her, rejecting her dissembling, she felt it would be easier to bear if she
could remain aloof now.
“Thank you.” She took the glass and willed her hands to stop their shaking. They didn’t.