Seize The Dawn (22 page)
Authors: Shannon Drake
"You are blessed, sir. I have a message for you from the king. Our great sovereign Philip of France and Navarre finds you to be a gallant man. Foolish, and unlikely to live long, but possessing both courage and strength. He wishes you were a Frenchman."
"That's a great compliment."
"Aye, indeed. He considers marriage a sacred commitment."
"So do I, Father."
The man smiled. "A contract, once made before God, is not to be broken."
"I would not break such a contract."
"Or allow it to be broken in others." He hesitated, knowing what was being said. Or, at the least, thinking that he did.
"I would never dishonor such a promise by another."
"That is what the king thought that you would say. And that is why he sent me."
Her head was pounding. Eleanor wished that she could escape her own skin.
When Alain left her in the room, Bridie was waiting. She chattered, giving hints that Eleanor was welcome to question her.
Eleanor wished that she had the heart to do so.
Bridie helped Eleanor with her elegant apparel, and offered her a nightdress, the sight of which at last drew her from her self-reflection. "What is this?" It was a stunning gown, but not hers. White silk, with embroidery, it was fine and cool and sensual to the touch.
"A gift from the queen."
"For my wedding—"
"No, no." Bridie's eyes rolled. "Wait until you see the one she sent for the wedding! This is just one of the many gifts she has sent."
"How very kind. I must thank her first thing tomorrow."
"Kind ... and a waste," Bridie muttered.
"What?"
"Oh, Eleanor! My heart just breaks for you because I know now ... well, I did mention Lars to you ... such a man! I know, well, oh, my God, Lady Eleanor!" She crossed herself "We have ..." As her voice trailed, her face turned crimson. "God forgive me, we've
been
together, and I can't help but be so sorry ... you're so young, and so lovely, and Count Alain is so ..."
"Old?"
"Forgive me."
"I am grateful for Alain."
"Of course. I should never have told you—"
"Bridie, I would never judge you—"
"If you did, if you whipped me, if you threw me out, why, took my head! It would be worth it. Oh, my lady, you don't know ..."
"Bridie, I'm sure you'll tell me. But, please, not tonight ..."
"Dear Eleanor, you look so tired. Aye, I'll leave you. I, well
I..."
"If you're meeting Lars, please, go with my blessing."
"Oh, my lady!" She rushed to Eleanor, throwing her arms around her.
"Bridie, go!"
Eleanor sat on the bed, her heart thundering. What if she were to give it all up and run, a compromised woman, to ride with an outlaw in the forest?
He would be slain.
She could never allow it.
There was a tap on the door.
"Aye?" she said, walking to it and pausing.
"I'm your confessor, my lady,'' she heard in a muffled voice.
She opened the door, and a man, very tall, in the heavy, encompassing robes of his vocation entered.
"I'd thought to come to the chapel—" she began, but he pointed a finger to the floor, curtly indicating that she should kneel.
What could she possibly confess to this man? Yet a confession was sacred to a priest; before God, he could not repeat a word she said.
Still ...
"My lady?" Gruffly, he indicated the floor again.
She was about to confess to carnal sin, and she was ironically gowned for such a confession, in her gift from the queen, the nightdress of pure white silk.
She immediately went to her knees and folded her hands in prayer.
"Bless me, father, for I have sinned.
"And you will do so again," came a deep voice, rich in amusement.
She looked up. He had cast back his cowl. Brendan stood before her. She leaped to her feet, backing away from him, then striding at him, ready to slap him. He caught her hand, pulling her into his arms.
"It would be a sin not to take the night," he told her.
She struggled against his hold."You're not just a fool, you're an idiot. If you're caught here, they'll have your head—"
"I won't be caught."
"If you are, they will kill you—"
"I will die happy."
"You have to get out of here!"
"What will you do if I don't leave, call out for the guards?"
"You'll die—"
"I'll die a happy man."
"Brendan—"
He swept her up into his arms, tossed her upon the bed, and landed beside her. She started to protest anew but he caught her wrists, pressed them to the carved headboard, and found her lips, his own so forceful and passionate that if she could have, she would not have protested. His mouth was almost brutal with longing, the sweep of his tongue a flame. His lips did not part from hers until there was no breath within her, until she trembled, her limbs too molten to refuse him, her mind too numbed. He released her long enough to cast aside the coarse wool robe, to rise, and untangle himself from the kilt and plaid he wore. Then his nakedness was against the sheer barrier of the silk, and the heat of him seemed to burn through it, and she could feel the force of his sex against her thighs. She reached out, touching him.
"This is madness!"
"Aye!" But his hands were upon her, cradling her flesh beneath the sex, and it did not seem a barrier to him for he caressed her through the fabric, and the wet heat of his mouth covered her, his tongue laving her breast over the silk, wetting it as well, creating a friction that aroused her unbearably. She tugged at his hair, but he ignored the summons, moving against her, his touch frenzied, almost violent in his hunger. His hands slipped beneath the gown, his mouth continued to move atop, his tongue pressed the material to her erotically and intimately and she was afraid then that she would cry out, and gasped and bit down and the silk was gone and his liquid touch was against her and she writhed into him, as if she would die herself if she didn't reach the pinnacle now promised to her. She throbbed, burned, and gripped his shoulders then, gasping and biting her lip when the climax seized her, shaking when the silk was torn away, and he was within her, and the desire began to build again with each swift movement of his hips.
When he fell away, she was the one incensed, burrowing first to the sleek dampness of his chest, hands upon each ripple of muscle, lips moving down the length of him, the magnificent length of him, honed and scarred and muscled and taut as a strung bow. She took him into her hands, into her mouth, heard the grate of his teeth, the groan that escaped him, and felt his power as he reached for her, dragging her down beneath him, burying himself again in the anguish and ecstasy of desperate longing. The world seemed to cease around them, except for their thunder, the wind that swept them, the gasp of each breath, the drum of each heartbeat. He shuddered and tautened and broke; she felt the wave that filled her, warmed her as no other essence in life, and then they were still, he beside her, limbs entwined, apart, and yet, as one.
"You will marry soon," he said.
"Aye," she told him. And there was silence. "They will kill you if I do not."
"What if I were willing to die?"
"I am not willing that it should be."
He rose then, suddenly, abruptly. There were so many more things she wanted to say. She longed to talk.
"Brendan ..."
But he was apt and able with his dress. He was wound in his plaid, clad in his cloak.
"Brendan, please ..."
"My lady, God bless your marriage," he said briefly.
And he was gone.
The king of France was ready to be generous—especially since he had acquired a good-sized revenue from the pirate, Thomas de Longueville. In the large courtyard separating the complex of buildings at the palace, they counted crates of arms and armor, barrels of wine, and foodstuffs.
Food was indeed a boon, with so much of the borderland laid waste. The food was a generous gift; it remained winter in France, and they were receiving goods from Philip's own store.
Eric hefted a sack of grain on a wagon; Collum counted it off on the official document sent to them by Philip. Brendan had gone for another of the sacks piled by the wagons when he heard the bells of the great cathedral begin to ring.
He paused. Eric came, and stood before him, hands on his hips. "We've not finished."
"Why are the bells ringing now?"
Eric stared at him, grabbed another bag of grain and walked to the wagon. Brendan followed him. Margot, who had been counting the barrels of wine, looked up with a sigh. "Why not tell him? He knows that the wedding is taking place."
Eric stared at Margot. "You've just told him!"
She shrugged, and turned back to her work.
Brendan picked up a sack and threw it on the wagon. Wallace was at the front, giving instructions to the driver.
He walked around to Wallace, followed by Eric and Margot.
"The wedding is today?" he demanded.
"Aye, Lady Eleanor is to wed Count de Lacville today, at the grand cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris," Wallace said flatly, staring at him.
"You've known, of course. And you didn't mention it."
"We were asked to attend," Wallace said. He sighed. "I did not think you would want to go."
"Oh, on the contrary. I must be there!" Brendan exclaimed. For a moment, he fought the inevitable. He had not believed that she would do it! How could she? His fury with her was great. He wanted to cry out. How could she do this? The strumpet, harlot, whore, fool ...
English!
Ah, yes, she could be bought. For a pile of stones and a patch of land, she would wed an old man, she would betray ...
Betray what? Him? A man with nothing but the sword he wielded, and the gain gotten of his wits, a gain he would desert at any time to ride for ...
A dream.
She had never lied. She knew her duty. She would marry de Lacville. Reign supreme in Clarin South of Scotland, far south from Scotland.
And she would pray for him, of course.
What did he have to offer her? Nothing. What had he ever had? Nothing, nothing at all. He could offer her hardship, fear, and possibly death. Nothing more. He had known that she must do this, and he had known that his empty, unformed desires could not be fulfilled. To stop the wedding, he would have to betray Wallace, his men, his family, his country. Could he have done it?
"I need to attend the ceremony," he said.
"And what then? What will you do?"
"Protest in the name of decency?" Margot whispered.
"Margot!" Both Wallace and Eric stared at her, harshly stating her name.
She turned and walked away.
"I need—to see it. And end it," he said.
Wallace stared at him, then threw up his hands. "Collum!" he called. "See to the end of the packing!"
"Aye, William!" Collum returned, questioning nothing.
"We'll go," William said.
He started for the horses.
"We are ill-dressed for a wedding," Eric noted. He was in leather pants, boots, and a long woolen tunic. Wallace and Brendan were in their plaids.
"We are dressed as what we are," Wallace said, and continued.
Brendan was already on his horse.
The cathedral was beautiful and solemn. Last night, she had come here to see the priest, her confessor, and it had seemed immense and hallowed. It hadn't been in the confessional though, that she had felt she'd made her peace; it had been while alone in the great arched nave and looking at the splendor that God had allowed man to create. She had Alain's forgiveness, she knew, and however wrong she might have been, she felt that she had God's understanding. She hadn't realized what she was doing when she had begun; there was a certain price she would pay for the rest of her life. But now, she was doing what she must, and she needed no penitence to suffer, if what she had done had indeed been a sin in God's eyes. She was ready.
But as she walked down the aisle, to be given to Alain by the king, the peace she had found deserted her. She was swept by seconds of panic, wishing that she could break from the royal arm, and flee.
Marriage was not to be entered into lightly. She would make promises she must keep.
