by Amy Tolnitch
Aimili deserved better than that. Better than him. He traced the deepest scar on his face. Though there was no way to be sure, he’d always believed it came from the first slash by Connor MacVegan, Laird of the MacVegan clan.
He had only to touch the scar to remind himself that it was a brand of his arrogant stupidity, a permanent mark to let everyone know of his failure.
He knew in his heart and his mind that he did not deserve a lass like Aimili. She was like the blue center of a flame: reckless, beautiful, and pure.
And he, well, he was none of those things.
Sebilla stood in the antechamber of the archives, and fought the unqueenlike urge to stamp her feet in impatience. “Tell me you have found something, Arailt.”
Arailt stood in the shadows cast by the tall, fluted columns set at ten-foot intervals on either side of the antechamber. Behind him, the immense gold-plated door to Paroseea’s archives stood wide open. A warm breeze lifted the edge of his deep blue robe, the color traditionally worn by Paroseea’s scholars.
“Sebilla, my queen, I am sorry. As of yet, I have failed to find a solution.”
The touch of breeze did nothing to cool the heat rising in Sebilla’s face. “How can that be? There must be something. At the very least, there should be a record of how our forbearers were able to imprison Vardon in the first place.”
“We are still looking, your majesty.”
She frowned and waved a hand. “Please dispense with the titles, Arailt. This matter is far too serious to waste time on such formality.”
“As you wish, my, uh, Sebilla. As I said, we are still searching. The oldest records are difficult to sort through.”
“After this is over, perhaps you should undertake organizing those records,” Sebilla remarked.
“Aye, but for now—”
“Father!” Arailt’s daughter, Vanasia, burst out of the doorway clutching a scroll in her hand. She stopped abruptly when she saw Sebilla, and curtsied, her face flaming red. “My apologies. I did not know you were here, your majesty.”
Sebilla had to force her mouth into a polite smile. She knew Vardon’s escape was not really Vanasia’s fault, but the girl did bear some responsibility. If she had not snuck around with Vardon’s guard, Paroseea would not now be faced with exposure and possibly worse.
“What is it, Vanasia?” Arailt asked, putting out a hand to steady his daughter.
“I … I might have found something.” She cast a timid glance at Sebilla.
Well, spit it out! Sebilla wanted to shout, but she forcibly reminded herself that queens did not lose their tempers upon timid young girls. “Pray, tell us, Vanasia,” she said instead.
“I had forgotten all about it as it’s been so long since I saw the scroll. It tells of how we defeated Vardon.”
Sebilla held out her hand, excitement and hope rising in her. “Let me see this scroll.”
Vanasia handed it to her, and Sebilla began to read. Immediately, disappointment crushed her earlier hopes. The scroll did, indeed, tell of Vardon’s capture, but more as a story of Paroseea’s triumph than exactly how it was done. She rerolled the scroll and tapped it against her palm. “’Tis not specific enough.”
“Aye, I know, but… I thought it was a start.”
“There must be other records, Vanasia. We need the spell of enchantment used to contain Vardon.”
“Assuming it was written down,” Arailt said with a frown.
“Oh, I am sure it was,” Sebilla countered, never moving her gaze from Vanasia. “Somewhere.”
The girl flushed again and ducked her head. Though Sebilla had been restrained in placing too much blame upon Vanasia, she had still let the girl know of her mistake. The secrets of the archives were to remain exactly that, not idle postfornication talk with a lover.
Worse, the girl could neither remember the location nor the information she’d imparted to Ulf. Vardon’s doing, no doubt, Sebilla thought with an inward curse of frustration.
“Of course, your majesty,” Vanasia said. “If you will excuse me, I shall return to our search.”
Sebilla nodded, and the girl scampered back through the doorway.
Arailt looked at her with an odd expression. “Sebilla, is there aught else wrong?”
For a moment, Sebilla considered confiding in him, then rejected it. It was better Arailt stay solely focused on searching the archives, not worrying about his daughter’s indiscretion or his queen’s strange visions. “Nay, ’tis just difficult waiting. I want the matter of Vardon resolved.”
“As do we all.” Arailt sighed. “If there is an answer in the archives, we shall find it. That, I promise.”
“Make haste, Arailt. I fear for the MacCoinneach clan.”
He bowed and followed after his daughter. Sebilla stood for a moment in the large antechamber, absorbing the absolute quiet. The archives, the historical library of Paroseea’s knowledge, were located at the very end of the central roadway, a place few ventured. Even if they did, access was severely limited to protect the irreplaceable scrolls and other documents.
She doubted if most of her people even gave the archives a thought. Perhaps we have created too soft a life here, she thought, turning to walk out of the wide, stone building. We are ill prepared to take on one such as Vardon.
A group of young children went skipping across the marble paved road, their laughter filling the air, and Sebilla paused to watch them with a smile. Why should they live in fear? Always on guard? No, that was the beauty of Paroseea, a beauty that she would die to protect.
The prospect of death did not worry her overmuch. She’d lived a long time, led a full life. At the last thought, her inner voice mocked her. A full life? Devoted to her people, to her duties, true.
Her thoughts strayed to D’Ary, the way he’d looked emerging from her pool, all golden muscle and gleaming amber eyes. What would it be like to lie with a man like that? A man who did not even make the pretense of deferring to her? She shivered.
It would be absolutely wondrous and absolutely foolhardy.
Chapter Ten
Vardon was having more fun than he’d had in three hundred years. By the gods, the expression on Padruig’s face when he’d found unfortunate little Aimili’s body on the ground had been something to savor. That one moment confirmed Vardon’s suspicions.
He hadn’t planned any of it, but he hadn’t expected her to appear so close to his hiding place. It wouldn’t do to have anyone discover the things he’d hidden. Not yet, anyway. Ah, how he loved an unexpected opportunity.
Chuckling inside, Vardon lay on his pallet and contemplated his next move. It was far too soon to finish off Padruig. Perhaps he should pick off his family members one by one, Padruig’s pain and guilt increasing with each one. Oh, now that was tempting. The pitiful mother would have to be first. Silly woman, slinking about the castle like some sort of shadow. Oh, poor me. She was weak in character, and that was something he despised.
A flash of a long-ago face sifted through his mind, a woman beautiful and ethereal, her pale blond hair framing a soft face, blue eyes warm with tenderness. She’d been weak, too, weak and dismayed to find her only child capable of such strength of will, determined to improve his state in life.
She’d been content to labor for one of the “high” families of Paroseea. A bloated man and his vapid wife, surrounded by luxury yet undeserving of any of it.
Before she’d died, he’d taken over the lavish dwelling, but even then she’d refused to live there, somehow suspecting that Vardon had a hand in her former employer’s timely demise.
So, Padruig’s mother first? He wasn’t sure she was even worth his effort. And surely Padruig cared little for her at this point. She’d made no secret of her rancor for her only son. Ah, sweet vengeance, indeed.
No, there was better prey to be had. His thoughts kept returning to Aimili. She had no idea how alluring her strength could be. This was no shapeless pillow of a lass, soft and yielding from countless hours of tediou
s women’s work with little more in her head than which color of embroidery thread was her favorite.
No, Aimili was a different kind of woman, or nearly a woman. Strong in body from working with the horses, and from what he’d seen, strong in will. She’d certainly wasted no time dispatching dear Ciara.
For a moment, Vardon regretted Ciara’s death, then inwardly shrugged. He’d thought of making her his whore after Grigor’s imprisonment. Between Grigor’s loose talk and what Vardon had witnessed himself, the woman had certain talents. Still, she’d nearly ruined his plans, and that could not be tolerated.
He decided the matter required more thought. He’d waited for too long for his revenge to make a misstep. Each step must be exactly right.
First, the MacCoinneachs.
Second, Paroseea.
Third, well, his course was only limited by his imagination, which was considerable, indeed.
He fell asleep with a smile on his face.
The next morn, Efrika stomped into Padruig’s solar and shut the door with a firm click. She put her hands on her hips and stared at him.
“Good morn, Efrika,” he said mildly, setting aside an account of foodstuffs in the storerooms compiled by Alasdair.
“Hmph.” She sat on the window seat to the side of his worktable.
“Did you know that we have fifty barrels of pickled cabbage in the cellar?”
“I dinnae care for pickled cabbage.”
“Obviously, you are no alone in your taste.” He looked over the piece of parchment. “What of pickled onions? How do you feel about that?”
“Padruig. I do not give a cow’s teat about pickled onions. I am no here to talk about that.”
Padruig sighed and put down the parchment. “Alasdair is doing a fine job as my seneschal.”
Efrika waved a hand. “Of course, he is. Alasdair is a very skilled man.”
“Ah, yes, skilled.” Padruig grinned at her.
“You’ll not distract me. I am no here to talk about me.”
“I am doing all I can to shore up our stores for the winter, Efrika. Magnus is set to take men to Inverness to acquire what he can with the coin I found, and I have sent to an ally for aid, as well.”
“What ally?”
“A friend. Lady Giselle is her name.”
“A woman friend.”
Padruig lifted a brow. “Obviously.”
Efrika looked out the window. “I was beginning to wonder about you,” she muttered.
Oh, no, Padruig thought. The very last topic he wished to discuss with Efrika, who had always lacked a sense of boundaries in her discourse, was his relationships with women.
“Who is this woman?”
“As I said, a friend.”
“A former lover?”
“Nay. The lady is well wed, and has most likely borne her first bairn by now.”
Efrika narrowed her gaze. “I am worried about Aimili.”
Padruig started to rise. “Is she ill?”
“Nay.” Efrika waved him back to his seat. “’Tis not that. Strong constitution, your lady has.”
“Aye.”
“Did you find out anything about who attacked her?”
Padruig scowled. “Nothing. None of the guards saw anything amiss, and, of course, Aimili did not see her attacker.”
“Strange.”
“I am putting patrols on the ground at night.”
“Good.” She smiled at him. “You are doing a fine job as laird, Padruig, as I knew you would.”
He felt as if he was caught in a river’s rapids, dodging rocks in the water, but it would not do to confess such to Efrika. “Thank you.”
“But not such a great job as husband,” she continued, eying him sternly.
“Efrika, ’tis—”
“Not my affair you are going to say, but I think it is. Who else is going to discuss this with you? Mairi?” Her mouth turned down. “God bless her, your mother’s mind is no longer sound.”
“She blames me for Brona’s death. ’Tis hardly a sign of madness. I doubt she is alone in her beliefs.”
“Well, she is wrong.”
Padruig blinked at the rush of emotion her emphatic words evoked.
“Have you bedded the girl?”
Padruig blinked again. “Efrika, I am taking the best care I can of Aimili. Do not fear.”
“’Tis not what I asked.”
“’Tis my answer.”
“You have not.” Efrika stood and began to pace. “Aimili told me you didn’t want her, but I assumed she was simply overset with all that had happened in her life.”
Want? Padruig wanted to laugh aloud. Hardly a matter of not wanting, he thought. “Aimili is very young.”
Efrika whirled and frowned at him. “Aimili is seventeen years of age. Old enough to be wedded and bedded. Why do you reject the girl?”
He put his palms on the table. “Efrika, you know I had no choice but to wed Aimili. She had no choice, either.”
“’Tis not unusual. I never even saw my Humfrey before the day of our wedding.”
“Not everyone falls in love at first sight.”
“You are saying you care nothing for the girl? ’Tis a lie, Padruig. I have seen the way you look at her, the way you behaved last eve when she was hurt.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t care for the girl. Leave it be, Efrika.”
“She is no happy, Padruig. I can see it in her eyes.”
“And you think my lying with her will make her happy?” He barked out a laugh. “I doubt that.”
For a long moment, Efrika tilted her head and studied him. “Do not squander your chance at happiness, Padruig. Leave the past where it belongs.”
Padruig blanked his expression. “I have work to do.”
“Aye, you do, indeed.”
Before Padruig could refute her message, Efrika sailed out of the room. Padruig gripped the quill so tightly in his hand that it snapped in two.
When Aimili awoke the morning after her attack, she expected Padruig to be in their chamber. He was gone. She then expected him to check on her, to let her know if he’d made any progress in determining the identity of her attacker, but as the morning stretched on without any sign of him, she’d gradually come to understand that he was avoiding her.
It was the kiss. There could be no other explanation. Had she so repelled him? It hadn’t seemed that way at the time. In fact, it had seemed very much like he was finally giving in to a desire he’d suppressed.
Obviously, she’d been mistaken. With a long, dejected sigh, she got out of bed, and caught hold of the bedpost as a wave of dizziness washed through her. She gritted her teeth and took small steps over to a basin of cold water.
After soaking the cloth, she cautiously pressed it against the back of her head. The bump had receded some, but was still tender to the touch. Shuffling over to the window seat, she kept the cloth in place, shivering as the cool water dripped down her back.
A knock on the door preceded Efrika’s entrance, armed with her healing basket. She stopped abruptly. “Oh. Oh, my.”
Aimili wrinkled her nose. “Do I look that bad?”
“Of course not, dear,” Efrika said as she walked to the window seat and set down her basket.
“You are a liar.”
Efrika laughed. “True. How do you feel?”
“A tiny bit dizzy, but I shall be fine. Thank you for your aid. I slept well.”
“Headache?”
“Not too much. I can handle it.”
“I’ve no doubt you can.” Efrika glanced around the chamber and frowned. “Has no one come in with food and drink this morn?”
Aimili shook her head, immediately wishing she hadn’t. “Mayhap they had orders to let me rest.”
“Hmm. Excuse me for just a moment, child. I will summon—”
Freya poked her head around the door, her eyes bright. “Oh, good, you are awake.” She tripped into the chamber. “Your horses have arrived!”
Aimili couldn�
��t believe she’d forgotten that today was the day. She started to rise, but Efrika pushed her back down with a surprisingly firm grip. “Freya, can you find someone to bring wine and food? I need to mix something for Aimili’s headache.”
“Aye.” Freya walked to the door, then turned. “Aimili, I saw the most beautiful mare!”
“What did she look like?”
“White, with the prettiest face, and one blue eye.”
“Zara. She is an Arab, about four years old.”
“Can I ride her?”
Freya’s expression was so excited that Aimili hesitated. She didn’t want to discourage Freya, but Zara was not usually a calm, placid mount. Still… she’d never done anything mean-spirited. “Perhaps. Work with Mist first. She is easier to handle.”
“You must see her, Efrika. She is beautiful,” Freya said as she bustled out of the chamber.
Efrika looked at Aimili and quirked a brow. “Can she ride the horse?”
“Not yet. Zara can be very energetic.”
“Mayhap this is a good thing. It will give Freya a goal.”
Aimili nodded. “Aye. And Zara has never really bonded with me. She is very independent.”
Efrika stood and swept Aimili’s hair to the side. “Let me see your head.”
Aimili removed the cloth and felt the light touch of Efrika’s fingers. “The bump is almost gone,” Efrika said.
“I have a hard head. ’Tis a fortunate attribute given how many times I’ve been thrown by a horse.”
“You have no idea at all who struck you?”
“None. And I dinnae understand why someone would. It makes no sense. I have no enemies here.” As she said the words, Aimili remembered the sense of danger she’d long felt, the same feeling shared by Mist, the same voiced by the mysterious Queen Sebilla.
She turned the problem over and over in her mind while Efrika concocted another drink to ease her headache. Freya returned and chattered on about her new love, Zara. Thankfully, neither expected her to participate much in the conversation.
Over Efrika’s protest, Aimili dressed in her usual attire and headed out for the stables with Freya. She tried to keep from looking over at the training field, but in the end couldn’t help herself.
