My Highland Bride (Kingdoms of Meria Book 2) Page 4

“Moray?”

  We both turn as someone calls my brother’s name from behind.

  “Lord Beine. I’ve been told you lurked here at the tourney somewhere.”

  The two shake hands and hardly notice as I slip away. Lord Beine’s son and my brother are old friends, just like our fathers, and I have little desire to stay for their idle chatter. Fara always accused me of being unfriendly, although that is not precisely true. I just do not care to speak to everyone and anyone. I would prefer to keep company with our family. Or our tutor. Or even with myself, if the alternative is exchanging empty pleasantries.

  But not Fara. She loved being around people. Talking to them. Laughing with them. Dancing. Singing. She was the brightest star in the sky, always glittering even when all others were dimmed for the night.

  “This is a tournament, a place to be joyful, Reyne.”

  I didn’t even notice him approach. But as he does, my heartbeat quickens.

  “Lord Stokerton.”

  He rolls his eyes, smiling. “Erik, please.”

  It seems odd to call him that, even though I’ve known him for years. He is a Curia commander now, the third most important person in Edingham after the queen and her first commander. His surcoat with the official blue tree of Edingham is a reminder, as if I needed one, that this is not the boy I knew. He is all man.

  “You did not enter in any of the day’s events?”

  One thing that has not changed is Erik’s smile.

  I point to his pristine surcoat. “This may be my first tourney, but I’ve seen many men who’ve competed, and none look quite so clean.”

  Erik crosses his arms.“Perhaps I’ve changed clothing?”

  He’s teasing me, reminding me we are not strangers.

  “I did not see you on the lists.”

  “Were you looking?”

  My surprise at the question stops me from answering. Which, of course, is all the answer he needs.

  “I was not,” I insist.

  Though Erik is not the first man who has flirted with me, he is certainly the first one who has made me want to crawl under one of the merchant’s tables and hide. I’ve no notion how to act with a man who makes my stomach twist up each time he looks at me thus.

  “Hmm.” He looks down at my hand. “Have you made a purchase?”

  Thankful for the change in subject, I show him the pin.

  “The woman who sold it to me was a Garra.”

  He moves closer, to look at the hairpin of course, but when he does so, awareness washes over me. My body comes alive in a way I’d not believed possible.

  “There is a woman, a Garra, who lives in the capital,” he says, inspecting the pin. “I’ve spoken to her more than once.”

  I show him the carving of the mini Kona on top, curious now about Erik’s visits to the Garra. They can treat a variety of ailments, but their focus is on love and romance, which is the reason for the church’s contempt. It is said they can cure a broken heart or make a man or woman fall in or out of love. Did he visit the Garra because of the queen? All know of his attachment to her. Rumors of Cettina and her commander have reached my ears more than once, even when the king was still alive, when Erik was the then-princess’s personal guard.

  “Does this truly give the Garra her power?” I ask, having heard the real Kona, a yarn doll passed from mother to daughter, does that very thing.

  “I do not believe so,” he says, looking at the pin. “But that is a remarkably intricate carving.” He looks up then, his eyes a deep blue, like the sea. “I am sorry about your sister,” he says suddenly. “I’d have come to her funeral had I been able to leave the capital.”

  Her funeral was the only occasion Erik’s father and mine have come together since their disagreement. All of the Highland lords and ladies came, a show of support like none I’d ever seen.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I glance back at Warin, and although he is still in conversation with Lord Beine’s son, he has clearly noticed I am talking with Erik.

  “You said you’ve not been to a tournament before,” he says to me, jolting my attention back to him. “Not even this one?”

  “Nay.”

  I don’t wish to admit the reason, so instead I ask a question of my own. Something I’ve wondered about since this morning.

  “Why are you here? These are uncertain times, from what I understand. Surely you are needed back at Breywood?”

  Erik glances over my shoulder, and when he responds, pointedly avoiding my first question, his tone is less warm. “I am needed here as well. Good day, Warin.”

  I hadn’t noticed my brother’s approach.

  “Erik.”

  Unlike me, Warin immediately takes Erik’s cue to use his given name. It is so very like a man not to question himself. My father is the same way, even when some circumspect thinking would be to his benefit.

  “My father told me that he spoke to you earlier.”

  “Aye, that he did.”

  I’m not sure I understand the look Erik gives Warin, as if questioning him, but it fades when Warin reaches out his hand. “It has been too long.”

  In response, Erik takes it and pulls him close. As the men embrace, I watch with fascination. What just happened there?

  Erik slaps Warin on the back as they stand apart. “I’ve heard of your travels,” he says. “It seems we missed each other in Murwood End.”

  “You were there recently?” Warin asks, surprised.

  “Aye.”

  He does not elaborate, and my brother does not ask him to. Instead, he asks, “Will you be at the feast tonight?”

  The Lord Ledenhill will host a feast this eve, according to Father. Our whole family will be there, and it seems that Erik may attend as well.

  Do not overexcite yourself over the possibility. He is the queen’s man, not yours.

  But my mind and body do not seem to be speaking to each other. I await impatiently, heart thudding, for Erik’s answer.

  “Will you be at the feast, Reyne?” he asks me.

  If I had thought Erik flirted with me earlier, the look he gives me now confirms it. Curiously, Warin does not seem affected. Every potential suitor who has attempted to so much as speak with me has been the subject of my brother’s intense scrutiny. But here is the son of a man Father dislikes enough to avoid the western borders of our land, and Warin says nothing. Does nothing.

  I will have to question him about his behavior. But first, to address Erik’s question.

  “Aye,” I say, “I plan to attend.”

  As if confirming my suspicions, Erik brightens. “I look forward to it. Forgive me for intruding on your walk,” he says to us both. “Until this eve, then?”

  Bowing slightly and attracting a fair measure of attention with his mere presence, Erik walks away. And I do not waste any time addressing my brother’s odd behavior.

  “Would you like to tell me what just happened, Warin?”

  7

  Erik

  Ledenhill Castle, built partially into the side of the mountains, surrounded by rocky peaks on three sides, is in some ways more magnificent than Breywood. Our capital is along the sea, beautiful in its own way, but a Highlander born is a Highlander for life, and I have always preferred the mountains.

  But as I enter Ledenhill’s glittering hall, the sounds of music and revelry flowing over me, it’s not the castle I’m thinking about but the woman who holds my fate—some would say Edingham’s fate—in her hands.

  Though she does not know it yet.

  Moray is doubtful she will agree to the union, however he wishes otherwise, and has said as much. If she balks, he will honor her wishes . . . and I will leave without his support. He is adamant that she will not agree to an arranged marriage, so I must convince her she wishes to marry me. He was very clear on one point: I’m not to dishonor her in any way. I replied that I valued my life too much to try it.

  “You are a bigger fool than Lord Bowes,” Gille says as we enter the hall to
gether.

  Lady Hilla’s decapitated lover has become synonymous with foolish, reckless decisions. But my role in the affair’s discovery is not one I wish to be reminded of at this particular moment. Of course, Gille does not know all.

  “You do not think I can convince her?”

  Our hosts are already seated on the dais as their guests, easily more than one hundred men and women, mill about. Some begin to sit as others flit from table to table, greeting their friends and neighbors. Fiddlers give the hall a festive atmosphere completely at odds with the current tense mood in the capital.

  Being here, I can understand Moray’s ambivalence toward the queen’s dilemma. It all feels very far away. But he’s mistaken if he thinks even the wildest corners of the Highlands are safe. Meria’s influence can be felt even here, and the Prima’s power spreads throughout both kingdoms like disease through a tree.

  Some eye us with suspicion. Others, with respect. If I’ve learned anything from my years in the capital, it is that some men will defer to a position more than they will a man or woman, and others will do just the opposite.

  “Do you wish to marry her?” Gille’s question jolts me out of my thoughts.

  “I do not wish to marry anyone. But as my mother tells me in nearly every missive, I’ve no siblings to carry on the Stokerton name.” I am lucky to be alive, my birth not an easy one for my mother. Afterward, she was never able to become pregnant again. “So if I must marry, ’tis as good a reason as any.”

  “To please the queen?”

  Gille knows by now that I won’t respond. He accepts a goblet from a serving maid, and we make our way through the crowd, Gille enjoying his drink while I search for Reyne.

  I spot her father first and then . . . and then the bright red hair of the woman standing next to him with her back turned to us.

  “There,” I say, walking toward her. As we do so, she turns.

  “In the name of the Prima,” he mutters. “One man cannot be so lucky.”

  His reaction is much the same as mine was earlier in the market. I hadn’t expected to see her, and the jolt I felt was unexpected. Reyne’s beauty is wild. Untamed. Were she at court, those slight freckles across her brow would be covered with powder. Her full lips accentuated with unnecessary color. Though she is not as refined as the ladies who flock to Breywood Castle, she is lovelier for it.

  “I’ll do it,” Gille says. “Surely Moray would be equally as pleased to ally with my family.”

  He’s jesting, surely, and I don’t point out that the Morays and Elliots are already in good standing, a fact he knows well.

  When we reach the Morays, Gille plays the charming courtier almost immediately, not even waiting for an introduction.

  “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Lord Moray. Sir Gille Elliot.” He juts out his hand. Moray gives me a slightly startled look, but he takes it, giving Gille his attention. “You’ve met my father, Lord Elliot. And you must be Lady Reyne.”

  It’s only when he takes her hand and kisses it that I realize he was not jesting.

  Both father and daughter are taken in by the lout, who pretends I’m not standing next to him. Not only have Gille’s father and Moray met, Gille reminisces, but they hunted together in the spring. I watch the exchange with some amount of amusement, until Reyne sneaks a glance at me.

  And suddenly, I’m no longer amused.

  Her long lashes brush her cheeks as she gazes at me. For a moment I think she wishes to say something, but Gille steals her attention away. He has shifted to regaling them with stories about his own hunting escapades. Reyne laughs and smiles, and I find my good nature is overcome with . . .

  Anger?

  Nay, I am not usually quick to anger. Jealousy? Perhaps, but only because Gille has made a practice of stealing attention.

  “Was that the same hunting excursion,” I interrupt, “when you were shot in the arse with an arrow?” Reyne nearly spits out her wine. “Pardon, my lady, if my words offend you.”

  “It was not,” Gille says, as affronted as if the woman he’s attempting to charm is not the very same one I’ve agreed to marry. “And well you know it, Commander. Were you not present the day your squire shot me?”

  Indeed I was.

  I have a history of fostering squires none deem adequate to train. Which reminds me of Bradyn, whom we left back in the tents. Servants, squires, and pages, though not invited to the hall, typically hold their own feast of sorts. I tried to prepare Bradyn for the kind of revelry awaiting him this eve. How does he fare?

  “We’ve obviously much to discuss. Would you sit with us this eve?” I direct the question both to Moray and Reyne, looking between the two. If I’ve learned one thing from Cettina, it is that a woman does not take kindly to being talked over.

  My mother may have her own mind in many things, but it is the queen who truly showed me the traditional gender roles in our society needn’t be that way. Women and men are given equal status in Murwood End, and she aims to make it so here as well. Much of the current dissent has less to do with Cettina’s policies than her gender.

  Reyne looks to her father, who nods.

  “Warin will be joining us as well,” she says, looking toward the table set closest to the dais. It is the only one with Edingham’s banner, the Tree of Loigh, draped down the side.

  “I look forward to meeting him,” Gille interjects.

  Likely not as much as I look forward to speaking with my friend alone. For now, it seems, I’ll content myself with the company of a potential ally, a potential wife and brother-in-law, and, very likely, an ex-friend and comrade.

  Gille laughs at the look I give him, and I cannot help but smile along with him. Looking at Reyne now, can I truly blame him for trying? She is lovely and charming, and I find myself warming to the idea of marrying this woman I knew in childhood.

  Moray says she will not marry me if she knows about our talk . . . but I have given it thought, and I cannot bring her to the altar without telling her. Charm her, aye. Fool her, nay. My hope is that by the time this tournament has ended she will have gotten to know me well enough not to care how the match came to be.

  The nagging voice in the back of my head urging me to tell her now? I shove it aside despite the advice my father has given me many times.

  That feeling inside here, he’d say, pointing to my chest, that is the one you must trust.

  Sometimes, I’ve learned since leaving home, that feeling can lead you astray.

  8

  Reyne

  “I cannot look.”

  Sitting with Warin on the wooden stands and watching as Erik takes his place, axe in hand, I feel the urge to cover my eyes. Aside from the melee, the Triumph is one of the most prestigious events at this tourney, but it is also one of the most dangerous. Our uncle was badly injured years ago on this very field the last time this tourney was held at Ledenhill. Since then, my father has skipped it each year. Warin doesn’t participate either.

  I recognize the dangers of the melee are just as great, but logic does not seem to play a role when it comes to this tourney. Or, in fact, in many things Highlander men hold dear.

  And yet, two days after arriving at Ledenhill, I am enjoying myself more than I would have thought possible. Aside from some lewd stares and even a few comments that made my ears turn pink, these past few days have been some of the best of my life.

  The sense of camaraderie among the Highland families is unmistakable. Blackwell has hosted gatherings and feasts in the past, but none compare to the scope of this tourney. According to Warin, the melee on the last day is the greatest event of all, but if we left now I would be happy.

  And then there is Erik.

  Last eve, he and Warin drank outside our tent, and my family sat with him for the entirety of the opening day feast. We’ve only spoken around others, and then only briefly, but I’ve oft felt his gaze on me. I’ve wanted to get closer, to talk more intimately, yet I cannot forget his relationship with the queen.
<
br />   He may be charming. And handsome. And clearly a man of influence. But he is not mine. And I shall never be with a man whose heart belongs to another.

  Erik’s axe lands in the center of the painted circle. The poor tree never stood a chance.

  I gasp. “Did he win? How can he throw the axe that far so accurately?”

  Warin watches me but does not answer.

  “Why are you looking at me thus?”

  Not for the first time, I feel as if something is amiss. Warin, in particular, has been behaving oddly.

  “You like him?” His words sound more like an accusation than a question.

  “I hardly know him,” I counter.

  “You did once.”

  “That was many, many years ago.”

  Cheers break out, interrupting our conversation. Erik speaks to the constable and then seems to glance our way.

  “Aye,” Warin says, standing, “he has won. And I believe he wishes to speak to you.”

  Sure enough, Erik is walking toward us. Without his surcoat, he looks less like a commander and more like a Highlander today. Leather boots, breeches, and a loose linen shirt, its ties hanging open at his chest. I cannot take my eyes off him.

  I get up so quickly I almost trip.

  “‘I hardly know him,’” Warin mocks as he assists me down the stands. I don’t have time to shush him before Erik reaches us.

  “Well done,” I offer, dropping the skirts I’d lifted to descend the steps. As spectators stream past us, we move off to the side of the field.

  “Rawlins seems pleased,” my brother comments to Erik. And, indeed, his opponent is staring at us with obvious contempt. I look away quickly.

  Erik huffs a laugh. “He is a traitorous backstabber who did not deserve to regain his lands.”

  I look between Erik and my brother, attempting to pretend the former is just an acquaintance. Truthfully, I’ve never dreamed of kissing any of my acquaintances . . . or any man, until this morn. Not even Sir Edward, the only man I’ve actually kissed. My parents hinted at a possible match between the border lord and me, and he visited us at Blackwell on his way to the coast. When he approached me in the garden one day, I decided not to decline his offer of a kiss.