“Is that what this is all about then?” Alyn heard himself exclaim. “Well, all right then!” In a fit of fury, Alyn shoved Ronan so hard, he tumbled backward over the bench and onto the pallet behind. In another situation, the sight of Glenarden’s chieftain, arms and legs aloft like a turtle on its back, would have made him howl with laughter. But his was not a humor of amusement.
“I love her,” he bellowed. “Is that what you want to hear, brother?” Alyn ran his hands over his temples and paced away as far as the room would allow and pivoted on his heel. “I knew it the moment I first saw her and kissed her in Gwen’s garden. Soundly, I might add.”
Brenna did laugh at her upended husband. “Satisfied, my love?”
Ronan’s stern veneer cracked with a grin. “Aye. But I wanted to hear him say it. None of this logic”—he spat out the word as if it were bitter—“that he’s so fond of.” Ronan rolled out of the box and to his feet. “You see, laddie, there’s nothing logical about love.” He seized Alyn’s arm, shaking it. “But congratulations, anyway.”
Alyn’s response was guarded. These two had pulled his strings until he snapped. Part of him wanted to storm away, as Kella was prone to do. But their actions and words bespoke of naught but concern for him.
“I thank you, brother … and sister,” he replied, unable to totally suppress his sulk. “Though I pray you did not perform this same drama for Kella. She’s been through enough as it is. Though I do hope that, in time, she’ll come to feel as I do.”
Brenna got up and gave him a hug. “You are her knight in faith-gilded armor. How can she not?”
Because her heart belongs to another man? Alyn wanted to ask Brenna that. Instead he stood and shoved open the door. There was more he needed from Ronan’s gifted wife. As a healer, she might help him with the blinding headaches … and the unsettling visions that accompanied them. At least, he prayed as much.
“But do tell me, milady,” he inquired, “did you foresee all this in a dream?”
It only makes sense.
Kella groaned as she rolled over in her bed the following morning.
Her wedding day.
But why did Alyn have to add that to his proposal?
Granted, it was true. If she married Alyn, few would know the baby was not his. Her honor would be saved. The baby would have a family and, no doubt in Kella’s mind, a good father. She should be grateful for his offer. Even a little excited, for the kiss he sealed their agreement with had been as fervent as the one in the queen’s garden. One that had almost made her forget she belonged to another.
Who was forever beyond her reach, she recalled as guilt assailed her.
And had she not once fancied Alyn, but for his maddening logic and preoccupation with his studies? His declaration of love would have put any woman’s head in the clouds. While her heart still belonged to Lorne, Alyn’s zeal left her staggered in its wake.
And then he followed it with, “It only makes sense.”
Stopping her midswoon.
Instead of answering in kind, Kella responded in cool agreement. ’Twas either that or smack him with the hand he held as they returned to the great hall to announce their betrothal. Once thawed from the shock, the O’Byrnes fawned congratulations upon them with breath-crushing hugs and handshakes. Though something told Kella that Daniel suspected the truth behind their facade of newfound love.
She could see it in his gaze as he beckoned her over to where he sat, leg propped on a bench, for a celebration kiss. Whether ’twas pity, concern, or both, she couldn’t tell.
And Brenna knew, of course. No secrets could be kept from her keen intuition. And if Brenna knew, then Ronan did as well. Part of Kella was glad that her secret was out, at least among family. Yet how could their thoughts not be shadowed by her shame, even though they outwardly rejoiced over the wedding and surrounded her with love and acceptance?
Regardless, today she would become a priest’s wife. It would even lend weight, as Alyn judiciously pointed out, to their reason for traveling north. A priest and his new wife would need a benefactress such as Queen Heilyn to help them establish a church and home. The practicality sapped what remained of bliss.
But what sort of home could Kella expect for herself and her child, once the books were safe? A cold stone cell in the middle of the highlands?
And would Alyn expect husbandly rights?
She shivered with uncertainty. She still loved Lorne in that way.
Although she had not forgotten the night that she’d rubbed the liniment in and around that horrid scar, how the muscles of Alyn’s upper torso bunched with tension beneath her fingers. Somewhere in the midst of her genuine concern for his suffering, something more primitive had invaded her senses.
Kella tossed aside the woolen covers. How could God possibly forgive her, as Alyn insisted, when such thoughts plagued her?
Because Alyn would soon be her husband in His eyes. Because she would go as his wife and sin no more.
While her heart knew it betrayed another.
Despairing of peace, Kella closed her eyes in prayer.
Father God, help me. My thoughts spin in confusion, sometimes sin-ward, though I mean not to go that way. Keep me from temptation, for my fickle senses and rebellious heart have led me to naught but heartache and confusion. Help my heart to become of one accord with my mind in accepting Alyn as husband and father to my child. Show me the way You would have me go on this second chance You have, in Your mercy, given me.
A wondrous sense of renewal washed over Kella as she whispered, “Amen.” She could almost feel ethereal arms wrapping tenderly around her and the babe in her womb. Tears trickled down her cheeks from what she’d thought, after last night’s misery, was a dry well. Her beleaguered soul swelled with undeniable conviction.
And for the first time in a long time, she felt God had heard and would answer.
Chapter Fifteen
Alyn had seen his own wedding. Kella was the weeping bride he’d seen in the dream at Lockwoodie Tavern, and the priest and faceless groom had been himself rolled into one. It was surreal as the event unfolded that afternoon, just as he’d dreamt … or almost.
Such dreams, Alyn had learned from his sister-in-law the previous eve, were frequently unclear. They were but shadows of possibility that the Holy Spirit brought into light when God saw fit. “Yet you are convicted in your soul,” she explained, “that these are of God and not sleep’s whimsy.”
But Alyn had been too distracted for such conviction, although the notion of marrying Kella had taken root.
When Brenna heard how the headaches plagued him as much as the vision, she had invited him up to the second-floor room she shared with Ronan rather than venture into the night again for privacy. While Alyn sat on the end of their bed box, she placed her hands upon his head as she’d once done for his tormented father, Tarlach. Keeping her voice low so as not to wake the children sleeping beyond a privacy screen, she prayed for God to reveal the nature of Alyn’s torment.
The scene of the explosion came alive in his mind, so real that Alyn felt the smoke scorching his lungs and the ram-like impact. He’d been on his way out the door when an invisible fist knocked him farther away, saving his life.
“Poor laddie,” Brenna commiserated, her forehead pressed to his as though looking into his mind. “Such a great fire from such a small bundle.”
But Alyn could see no bundle for the throbbing in his temples.
Nor could Brenna explain what she meant, when he questioned her. She didn’t recall even saying it. “Just pray about it,” she advised. “If it’s important, God will make it clear.”
Ronan fetched a soothing tea for Alyn, while his intuitive wife massaged the exact spots on Alyn’s head that were about to burst with misery. “I’ve pondered why such pain oft comes with visions. Perhaps because that part of the mind isn’t used as often,” Brenna suggested. “Yet the pain and the frustrating lack of clarity must have their purpose. God does nothing without purpose
.”
Brenna’s observations echoed in Alyn’s mind as he surveyed Glenarden’s great hall, now draped with fresh garlands of flowers and vine for the wedding. The bundle Brenna mentioned was still a mystery, but truly God’s purpose—and hand—was involved in bringing all this about.
He and Kella married in the orchard, accompanied by birdsong, surrounded by friends and family. The O’Byrnes’ old friend Bishop Martin had come down from his cave retreat in the hills to officiate for the couple. The Gowrys clan, now dear friends but long-ago enemies who’d once held Alyn hostage, had showed up that morning after having received word yesterday that their prince, Daniel, had returned from Carmelide.
Ronan stood in for Egan. Not a dry eye was to be found when he presented Kella to Alyn, along with a handsome dowry her father had, unbeknownst to her, put away from his earnings on the battlefield and in contests. As a priest and youngest son, Alyn had the barest to offer in return, save his mother’s gold ring and a deed to the same tract of land that his father had given Lady Aeda on their wedding day—enough to support the bride should she find herself a widow.
The servants who’d known Alyn and Kella since childhood played dual roles as guests and staff. When Alyn kissed his bride, their “huzzahs” were loud enough to be heard in Strighlagh. With no time for congratulations afterward, the servants dutifully retreated, an army under the steward Ervan’s command, to the hall to put on the wedding feast.
All that was missing was Alyn’s middle brother, Caden, and his family from Trebold in Lothian. Though had Caden delivered that bearlike clap-on-the-back congratulation he was famous for, Alyn would be seeing stars instead of his bride.
Bedecked in one of Brenna’s gowns of ice-blue silk and with spring flowers woven into the braid crowning a cascade of long, shimmering spirals, Kella took Alyn’s breath away. A maidenly blush bloomed on her cheeks, though her tear-reddened eyes betrayed exhaustion.
She’d wept through the wedding vows, babbling “I’m so sorry” at each pause. But given the recent loss of her father, none considered the bride’s behavior unusual. Many cried with her, for Egan was as well thought of as his daughter. If Alyn could, he’d spare Kella further distress and take her directly to Egan’s hut, which, at Kella’s request, had been cleared of weapons and converted into a love nest for the two of them.
“Father will be honored,” Kella told him when the plans had been made that morning.
Alyn had contained his doubt. All things were possible, but this was not probable.
“He always fancied you as my husband, you know.”
Husband, Alyn thought, taking in the delicate curve of her jaw. And that small nose that could lift in such great defiance. Aye, he’d be at least that for Kella, if not quite in the way Glenarden’s champion anticipated.
Kella turned suddenly now, catching him in his intent contemplation. “Have you second thoughts?” Her expression spoke more of worry than the humor she attempted.
Neither of them had gotten much sleep the night before. He couldn’t but think that the food she’d barely touched on the silver charger they shared—a gift from Ronan and Brenna—was neglected due to fatigue.
Alyn raised her hand and kissed it where his late mother’s ring sparkled on his bride’s fourth finger. “None, wife. Never,” he vowed. “Not about you or our babe.”
Our babe. His certainty flinched at anxiety’s prick. Alyn had not been around infants, not even when his nieces and nephews were born. He had witnessed childbirth in Baghdad’s hospital but had been of no use.
It didn’t matter. Having pledged heart and soul to the babe, as well as to its mother when he took his vows, Alyn would do what he had to do when the time came … which should be wait and pace while the women took care of the wife and bairn.
A happy squeal drew the couple’s attention to where Ronan and little Joanna danced between two long rows of tables set up in front of Alyn and Kella’s place of honor. Though it looked more like frolic, it was to music provided by a hastily assembled musical trio.
Glenarden’s bard and tutor to the children, a Welshman by the name of Teilo, had plucked soothing tunes on the harp throughout the meal, but now his strings had turned lively. Lady Brenna revealed yet another gift as she joined him with a pipe. But most surprising of all was the bodhran player, ten-year-old Conall. He played the drum with a bone-shaped stick well enough to make his teacher proud.
“Why don’t Uncle Alyn and Aunt Kella dance?” Joanna declared, once the tune wound down. “I thought a bride and broom had to dance at a wedding.”
“That’s groom,” her father corrected. “And they are probably like the rest of us—weary from the wedding and the effort to make it a grand day to remember.”
Taking up Ronan’s cue, Alyn rose from the bench he shared with Kella. “Remember the long trip we took from Carmelide?” he asked Joanna.
The child held up pudgy fingers and counted. “Six days?”
“Aye,” he said, “six days of hard riding, little sleeping, and fighting outlaws at night. It’s enough to tire the High King’s army, so you know your aunt Kella—”
“—would love to dance,” Kella cut him off. She slipped her hand into Alyn’s, whispering, “’Tis the least we owe them.”
Her father’s spirit would not allow Kella to mourn a moment longer. She remembered him sitting at the end of the family table, roaring with laughter, teasing the ladies, and watching, with a hawk’s eye, the young men watching Kella. But when that sharp gaze fell upon Alyn, it lost its edge. How oft had Egan nudged her with a nod when Alyn sought to invite her into the hall merriment? That was why she thought it right to spend their first night together as man and wife under Da’s roof. His blessing was here, even while—she was certain—he was away, using all his skills of survival to come home to her.
Once Kella took to the floor, the oppressive shadow her grief cast over the hall dissolved. Others joined in the clapping and stomping, swinging and skipping, twirling and laughter. She counted each person a blessing as she wove her way through the O’Byrne and Gowrys men, women, and children. Each hug renewed the spirit that had drained from her very soul these last days. Each congratulation whittled away at the stone in her breast.
Even Alyn seemed to gain a second wind. The darling of Glenarden’s womenfolk from the day he was born overlooked not a one with his dancing and kisses. He even dragged Annie the cook and her girls from the kitchen for a reel. But then, Alyn had always loved the world, and it loved him. Tonight, his priestly and scholarly decorum was abandoned, and the lad of sixteen that Kella had adored was back.
“Gotcha!” Alyn grabbed Kella’s hand at the end of the line and spun her into his arms.
As her husband.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m done, my love. I’ve kissed every woman here, including toothless Annie, but now I’d have my wife.”
His hand splayed at Kella’s back, drawing her closer until the heat of his body drew the breath from hers. Or was it the heat closing in from the room? Even her clothing sought to smother her.
Alyn kissed her long but ever so tenderly.
Her body cried yes. Her heart, nay. Her senses drifted up as though trying to escape the contrary swirl of reactions. The room moved about Kella and her knees, but they had abandoned her—
Alyn swept her up into his strong arms, concern etching his flushed features. “To bed with you, milady.”
His hoarse command shattered her thought into icy slivers, one falling upon another.
Would she?
Could she?
Celebrating a marriage was one thing. Consummating it—
’Twould be an insult to her child’s father, hardly cold in his grave.
And an insult to Alyn for all his sacrifice if she refused him.
Kella could barely hear the tumbling thoughts over the chorus of cheers that gained and gained in volume as the guests realized she and Alyn were about to leave. But for Daniel’s ear-piercing whistle to silenc
e them, none would have heard Alyn’s declaration of gratitude.
“There are not enough words, not even in the five languages my wife speaks,” he said, teasing Kella, “to thank you, each of you, for making this day so wonderful. May you all be blessed as you’ve blessed us.” His words carried well, like those of a bard.
Until he ran out of them. Something Alyn O’Byrne rarely did. If possible, the flush of his face deepened, and the strands of his muscle supporting Kella tensed even more as he sought out the senior priest for help.
“Bishop Martin?”
The old man waved from his seat at the Gowrys board and rose, though it took a while with his arthritic joints. “Ah, yes,” he said, clearing his throat. He made the sign of the cross over the one on the front of his white dress robe and bowed his head, arms spread as though to embrace them all. “Great Father in heaven, go with this man and this woman as they start their life together as man and wife. Bless their table with bounty, their union with children, and their home with love. Amen.”
To the echo of amens, Martin raised his voice even more, so that even those who were deep in conversation round the hearth stopped speaking. “Now go in peace, Alyn and Kella O’Byrne, and may the rest of us be mindful of Egan’s memory,” he said, sweeping the room with a challenge. “For if he were here, that big red-haired giant would plant himself in the door to stop any mischief that might follow these two into the night. Do I make myself clear, good friends?”
Disjointed murmurs of agreement and complaint followed Kella and Alyn out into the keep yard. The fresh air helped clear the dizziness that had nearly made Kella swoon inside.
“I … I think I can walk now,” she told him as he struck out for the training grounds. “But ’twas so warm in there, I lost my breath.”
His indignant snort shook her. “And I thought it was my kiss.”
Though his ribs surely plagued him, Alyn did not put her down. Even when he fumbled with the latch on the door of Egan’s house and nearly dropped her.
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