My Highland Bride: Kingdoms of Meria Book 2 Page 6

  Although the look he gives me now, the same one he graced me with as I came out of the tent, is not that of a friend. I find myself responding, my finger itching to push the lock of hair falling into his eye back into place. A fortnight ago, I wished only to learn how to live in the world without my sister. A sennight ago, I could think only of the journey here, the peril of crossing two rivers and coming closer to the water than I had since losing Fara.

  These last two days, my thoughts have been more and more focused on the man offering his arm to me. And while it is a pleasant distraction, it is also a fleeting one. But does that mean I cannot enjoy it while it lasts?

  “Good eve, my lord, my lady.”

  We are hardly beyond the stables when an older man with kind eyes approaches us.

  “I am the seneschal of Ledenhill Castle. As you know, Havefest is held out of doors. If you will walk that path, to the right of the keep, you’ll find your way to the small courtyard.”

  A seneschal greeting us here is quite unusual. But then, my father warned me this night will be unlike any other feast I’ve ever attended. Erik and I exchange a glance, our arms tucked together. He smells musky, entirely pleasant, which I cannot say about some of the men we’ve journeyed with.

  I realize I’m staring.

  “Have you ever been greeted at the stables by a seneschal before?” I ask.

  “Nay, I’ve not. But then this is my first Havefest, so I am prepared for anything.”

  As we make our way up the cobblestone path, servants and other castle inhabitants watch us walk by. I feel very much on display, but also . . . content.

  And something else I cannot name.

  “Do you hear it?”

  I do now. Music in the distance, up ahead.

  “I am surprised you’ve not been to Havefest before.”

  And then I realize the high compliment I’ve paid him. Only Triumph champions, those who have hosted the Tournament of Loigh in the past, the leaders of the melee, and the proclaimed champion of the winning side are invited to attend this event. Few men indeed.

  “This is just my third time attending the tourney,” he says, “and only once did I participate in the melee.”

  That surprises me.

  “My father and brother attend every year,” I say.

  The music becomes louder as we approach.

  “After the Battle of Hendrelds Hill, my father became more distant. More of a Highlander, if such a thing is possible.”

  I understand his meaning. We’re known for staying close to home. Traveling little, trusting few. This tournament is an exception.

  “But this tourney?” I say. “My father says it is a reminder of Edingham’s foundation. The Tree of Loigh a symbol of new beginnings.”

  “It is all of that. But . . .”

  We slow down, now alone between the keep and another stone structure, mayhap the bakery or the kitchens? The music in the distance is louder now, and glowing torches line the pathway.

  “That tree is not the same symbol for all,” he finishes.

  I am very much aware that Erik still holds my arm, though he loosens his grip just a bit to turn toward me.

  “What do you mean?” Though a part of me is curious about what lies ahead, I cannot imagine it will be more magical than this moment, with this man.

  He holds my gaze as he speaks. “To some, it is a symbol of freedom. When King Onry named Aiden’s twin as successor, those who followed him over the mountains called Aiden valiant and adventurous for rejecting his father’s decision and leaving court. Unafraid of the repercussions of his actions, which later led to Meria splitting into two.”

  This is precisely what my father believes.

  “Others call Aiden disloyal. For disobeying his father, abandoning his brother, and weakening the Isle. They see the Tree of Loigh as a source of evil and ill-gotten gains at the expense of the whole of the Isle.”

  “Merians believe this.” I know it already.

  “Nay.” Erik shakes his head. “Not only Merians. But others loyal to Edingham and the Borea line.”

  Was he saying . . . ?

  “Do you believe it so?”

  Erik doesn’t answer. Instead, he asks, “Most important are not my beliefs, or your parents’ or your brother’s. What do you believe?”

  I blink. “I believe . . . I do not know? None have asked me that question before.”

  His smile is like a thousand May Days in one afternoon.

  “Give it some thought,” he says, “but not this eve. Havefest is not for politics.” His smile falters, just a bit. “Even if the world weighs heavily on us just now.”

  His words prompt us to begin walking again, but he hasn’t finished. Stealing a look at me, he says, “It is for celebrating. Enjoying life and every one of its pleasures.”

  A pleasurable shiver runs through me.

  “Look.”

  As we round the corner, I cannot help but do so. A small courtyard, small by this castle’s standards at least, is lit by torch after torch, candle after candle. Not only from the usual places but from seemingly everywhere.

  And the flowers! Some are familiar to me, but others . . . they are everywhere.

  In the center of it all, a fire. Not like the small campfires back at the tents, but the largest fire I’ve ever seen, contained in the middle of the courtyard behind the main keep. Great lords stand about, their wives dressed as finely as if they were at court, the latest fashions, like sleeves down to the ground, evident.

  “How does everything not catch aflame?”

  The light and heat of it beckons as we walk forward.

  “By respecting it.” Erik looks at me as if he wants to say more.

  An odd answer, to be sure, but an interesting one too.

  A maid approaches us with a silver tray. “Wine, my lord? My lady?”

  I wait for Erik to take the goblets, but instead he looks at me.

  “She serves both red and white. What is your preference?”

  My preference is to be asked which wine I would like or my thoughts on politics. The only decision of importance I’ve ever made at Blackwell is the choice of a husband. A decision, I will admit, most in my station do not have.

  But most decisions are made without consulting me, and no one has ever asked for my opinion about politics. I find it to my liking.

  “Red wine, if you please.”

  He takes two goblets from the tray, thanking her.

  “You are very polite,” I say.

  Meeting my eyes, he clinks his goblet to mine. “You are very beautiful.”

  I’d been about to take a sip when he says it. I am not practiced enough to pretend his words don’t affect me.

  But I have been taught enough to know one thing. Always, always accept a compliment. Without qualifying it.

  “Many thanks.” I lift my drink once more. “And thank you for bringing me here this eve.”

  We stroll around the fire, and though I do not recognize anyone, Erik either knows most of the men here, or they speak to him because he is the queen’s commander. We find our hosts, and only after speaking to them do I realize . . .

  “There are no trestle tables.”

  Instead, food is carried on trays. I’ve accepted fruits and small meat pies, so small they fit on two fingers. We watch dancers and jugglers as the audience of less than thirty people talks and laughs.

  “Do you have feasts such as this at the capital?”

  We stand not far from the fire, surrounded by festivities yet still quite alone.

  “Of this sort? Nay. Though I shall speak to the queen about starting such a tradition.”

  His words remind me of one of many reasons this current obsession with Lord Erik Stokerton, the queen’s commander, cannot stand.

  “Tell me of her.” I am curious, despite his ties to her.

  “The queen?”

  “Aye.”

  He takes a sip of wine, and I do the same.

  “She is unlike her
father in every way. He was quick to anger, she is even-tempered. King Malcom curried favor with those most loyal by promising that which he could not, or should not, deliver. Cettina does it by respecting those around her and asking their opinion. Malcom would have considered that weak. But the queen does not believe relying on others is weak at all, and that is her strength. She is firm but kind.”

  If I had wondered about the truthfulness of the rumors before, Erik has just answered the question for me. Cettina, he calls her. And he speaks of her as if she were a goddess, not quite human.

  “You care for her?”

  The words fly from my mouth, and I wish to stuff them back.

  He is offended. Rightly so.

  Erik sighs. “You’ve heard rumors, then?”

  I don’t wish to answer, but it seems I must.

  Nodding, I take a long sip from my goblet so I can avoid speaking.

  “Do not believe all of what you hear, Reyne. There are those in the capital who spew untruths as if they are facts, for their own purposes.”

  Is he denying it, then? But Erik did not actually say nay, he does not love the queen.

  “I do not have the opportunity to hear much,” I admit. “But ’tis my own doing.”

  A new song begins, and a tray of pastries are presented to us.

  I’ve never attended a feast where all courses were combined. Of course, I’ve also never attended one without tables. In a courtyard.

  “The water holds you back?” he guesses.

  “Aye.”

  Part of me wishes to say more, but most of me does not.

  “But I am here now. And as you say, this night is about enjoying life and all it offers us.”

  Erik looks at me in a way that makes my core clench.

  “Its pleasures, I believe I said.”

  I swallow. “Aye.” I lift my goblet. “Such as good wine. Sindridge, I believe.”

  Our feud with Meria has a long history, but none on the Isle have ever stopped trading with wine merchants from Sindridge. Sometimes I think it is the only reason we’ve gone so long without declaring all-out war on Meria.

  His smile broadens.

  “And music.” I nod toward the musicians. “The pipers are most talented.”

  The corners of Erik’s eyes wrinkle, but still I cannot stop myself.

  “And of course the entertainment. Who do you believe will follow the jugglers?”

  He does not answer.

  Instead, he moves even closer to me. So close I can smell his unique scent once again.

  “Those are all most enjoyable, but . . . there are pleasures you seem to be forgetting about, Reyne.”

  Oh dear.

  “The food?” I venture.

  His laugh is deep and all-encompassing, and I have the strange fancy that I’d like to drape it all over me.

  “Those are not precisely the pleasures I referred to.”

  Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

  “So which ones do you mean?”

  I asked.

  And I fear Erik is about to answer.

  11

  Erik

  I have seduced women before, so I know this is the very moment I should continue to pursue Reyne. If I willed it, and I most certainly do, I’d taste those sweet lips even before the night is through.

  And yet, the deception weighs heavily on me.

  ’Tis for Cettina. For Edingham. And you want her. Badly.

  Still, my mother’s words the night before I left for the court ring in my ears.

  “Do not let them change you, son.”

  They have tried. At times, unintentionally—the customs there just different than in the Highlands—and other times much more pointedly. Many have tried to bribe me for the queen’s ear.

  But I am the son of Bern Stokerton. Proud Highlander and a good man. Equally important, I am the son of Lady Mariam, great-granddaughter of one of the greatest Legion of Ash members who ever existed. And though the legion is no more, the particular ways of those warriors fading, their vows were not only instilled in their members, but in their families as well.

  No price is worth the loss of integritatem. Once lost, it cannot be bought back.

  “I would speak to you, Reyne.”

  Those words might very well mean doom for Edingham. Without the Highlanders’ support, Cettina is convinced her will may not be enough to avoid a war.

  “Are we not talking now?”

  I look around the courtyard. None of the other guests seem to pay us any mind. And no wonder. The fire burns high and bright. The food and music and wine have lulled our companions into a state of contentment.

  “Come.”

  We make our way around the fire, and I lead her down the cobblestone walkway, less well-lit than the main path, to a seated alcove.

  “How did you know this was here?”

  “I’ve been trained to notice things,” I say, holding out my hand and gesturing toward the velvet cushions that had likely been placed on the stone seats for this very event.

  I sit across from her, a torch from an embrasure above illuminating Reyne’s untamed red hair as she moves it back over her shoulders.

  She’s grown so lovely. Into a woman I’d gladly take as my wife, a possibility that will become much less likely after this conversation.

  Reyne does not sit.

  Instead, she makes to move past me but stops so close we could be touching.

  “Would you like to sit?” I ask. “We must talk, Reyne.”

  Her lips open so slightly I might have missed it were it not for the torchlight above us. We are close enough to hear the music in the courtyard, but these are not joyful pipes. Instead, a harpist begins to play. The haunting sounds give the moment a much more poignant feel, as if . . .

  As if it means to bring us together.

  She wants you to kiss her.

  Reyne will want no such thing in a moment. I am almost uncourtly enough to take advantage of the situation, driven by the thoughts of kissing her that have swirled through my head from the moment I saw her outside that tent. The last thing I wanted before this journey was a wife. That I did not recoil from the idea can be ascribed to the very pleasing notion of being joined to this woman whose lips are mere inches from mine.

  I can almost feel the taste of her already.

  But if we kiss . . .

  If we kiss, our path is set. Until the moment, a fortnight from now, when she learns I’ve been deceiving her. If I wait so long, it is likely she will refuse to marry me then, so what am I really risking now?

  Damn Moray.

  “Please,” I say, instead of pulling her toward me and taking that which we both want. “We must talk.”

  Rather than wait for her to do so, I uncourteously sit before she does. I need to put distance between us. The look of disappointment on her face is such that I drink deeply from the goblet I still carry, wishing I’d taken more before we found this lovers’ corner.

  Shifting on the soft velvet cushion, I take a deep breath and attempt to remind my wayward body there’ll be no kissing tonight. Not only will I not taste those luscious lips, I’ll be quite lucky if Reyne allows me to escort her back to the tents.

  Where do I begin?

  “I’m sorry, Reyne.”

  Again, before the words spill from my mouth, I wonder if this is the right decision. If Lord Rawlins truly was behind the attack on Saitford, and is now planning another such onslaught, my mission here has shifted from gaining the support of Moray and the Highland lords to uncovering and stopping a potential plot.

  Or both.

  I know what Cettina would have me do. But I cannot lie to this woman any longer.

  “After the attack on Saitford,” I say. Reyne’s brows furrow at the sudden change in topic, but I press on. “. . . the call for a counter-attack on Meria was immediate. However, Cettina is not convinced it is the best course for Edingham, an assessment I agree with even more now, having learned what we did earlier today.”

&nb
sp; “Why are you telling me this?”

  A fair question.

  “Whereas her father would have mounted an attack already, Cettina sent a contingent to King Galfrid to open a discussion. A move which infuriated some in the capital and beyond it.”

  Reyne waits patiently for me to continue.

  “The calls for war grow louder, even among the Highland lords, who typically avoid the politics of Edingham. Cettina’s allies cannot quell them all. Only your father would be able to do so effectively.”

  I can see she begins to understand, but unfortunately, I’m not yet finished with my tale. Bracing myself for her anger, I continue.

  “I was sent here to gain his support. To ask for his assistance in helping Cettina calm the Highlanders.”

  Reyne laughs. “Then your visit here is for naught. Since Hendrelds, he has withdrawn his involvement with the crown in all matters. If your queen attempts to tame him, I wish her well. It cannot be done.”

  I sigh, understanding Moray’s position, unwilling to remind Reyne, or her father, they are still subjects of the crown. But I know such a reminder would only serve to inflame matters, especially if it came from the son of Bern Stokerton.

  This is the reason, I’ve always believed, I was made commander. A Highlander myself, I understand what those who were not raised in these mountains do not. In all but name, these men and women are as independent as those in Murwood End.

  “She does not wish to tame him, but to work with him to avoid a war. One which may even make its way into the mountains.”

  Reyne, still amused, speaks like a Moray. “With a king wrapped up in a battle over his own succession? Who just lost two hundred of his best men? I think not, Erik. If war comes to Edingham, it will come to its border and its shores. Not the Highlands.”

  I do not wish to be harsh, but I will be nonetheless.

  “We’ve taken children within the castle walls who lost both their mother and their father at Saitford. One who lost an ear and another who was carried through the gates by a farmer whose land was burned. The lad was still covered in his mother’s blood.”

  Reyne recoils at my words.

  “I serve all of Edingham.”