by Beth Mikell
Her niece leaped off the bed, excitement brimming in her eyes. “Truly?” She ignored Cylah’s hand, throwing her arms around the female knight, squeezing her waist. “Oh, thank you, thank you! I cannot wait!”
As the sounds of Cylah, Taryn, and Kayden left the room, the chamber door clicked shut. Adara gazed over at Decimus to find him staring at her, his expression somber.
“You are troubled,” he said quietly.
She flushed, looking away from the intensity of his gaze. “It is nothing—” He chuckled, causing her to meet his eyes, and she frowned. “What is it?”
“You were never good at keeping things from me.”
A hint of a smile curved her lips. “There was never a need to do so.”
“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked in a gruff tone.
Her eyes widened a fraction, her lips parting in surprise. “Why would you think so?” She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her heart hammering in her chest. She had not spoken of Rowan to the man as dear to her as a father. She was worried he would not approve, trying desperately to mask her heartache.
“Because I know you, Adara,” he said, his voice softening. “I know your spirit is depressed and shaken, so do not pretend with me. You cannot wear the mask of disguise and hope I will fade into the background without questioning your listless demeanor. Tell me what is wrong.” He reached for her hand, squeezing with light pressure.
She could not tell him. The words would not come. Though Rowan’s name was on the tip of her tongue, she could not utter one syllable. “Do not force me. It is too painful.” She felt foolish and love stricken and such a burden was hers to carry alone.
Decimus was quiet a moment before he said, “Is it the Elite knight? Rowan, is it?”
Tears stung her eyes and she looked down, her eyes fastening on the clever design on the coverlet. The torture, of hearing his name spoken aloud, twisted like a knife in her stomach. “Please, do not—”
He squeezed her hand. “Look me,” he said softly.
As she met his eyes, a tear slipped down her cheek. She did not bother to brush away the evidence of her distress. “There is nothing to say, Decimus. He is sworn to Lord Darrius, and I was foolish to believe in possibilities,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Nothing happened. It is over.” Her words were a lie and her troubled heart broke into pieces to say them. Every wonderful possibility happened while Rowan had been at HieLach. He had bathed her heart with love—he had made her live again.
“Stop.” He placed his other hand atop hers. “A knight’s honor is the truest purity in his heart, but that does not mean he cannot love.”
She shook her head, giving an incredulous expression. “What about Taryn? She loves you—worried for you—yet it was weeks before she could approach me—and share of her fears. A knight’s honor is clear, but the ability to act on the love is another matter entirely.”
“This is not about me,” he said gently. “But if I must place my asinine actions on display, then I will. I love Taryn and I know I have not done right by her. I believed she could do better than a worn out knight more than half her age, but I plan to make her my wife as soon as I am able.” He leaned forward. “I am not the one suffering inside depression, Adara. And for all my faults, Taryn does not pass judgment on me.” He drew a deep breath, exhaling his next words, “I heard Rowan at Chevington Manor. I know I was near death’s embrace, but I heard how much you love him, and his declaration of love for you. You are not a woman to give herself freely to someone dishonorable.”
“There is no future for us—” she protested
“God teeth!” He cursed, shoving a hand through his gray-brown hair. “Dear daughter of my heart, but that is a lie,” Decimus pushed out hotly. “I heard his oath—he promised to come to you. Do not think him so unworthy for a bit of absence. His honor must be protected for his lord. His duty must come first, no matter what his heart feels. As a man and a knight, I know he will take his word seriously.”
Her spine straightened. She pulled her hand away, shaking her head. “You cannot be certain.”
Decimus shifted on the bed, grasping her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I would give my soul to see you happy, my lady. I would battle the demons of hell for just a glimpse of your smile as father to his daughter. If Rowan feels a tenth of love, he will honor his word.”
Her resolve crumpled. Tears fell hard from her eyes, tracing down her cheeks. “I miss him, Decimus,” she whispered, her words barely audible. “Please do not make me say more. I am breaking…”
He gathered her in his arms, murmuring soft words against her temple. As she sobbed, he rocked her back and forth. She cried until there was nothing left but quiet misery.
*.*.*.*
The king’s private room.
King Henry III sat regal before a warm fire, the room glowing at his left. He held a goblet in his hand, clear gaze direct with fortitude. His gray-brown, wavy hair fell to his shoulders with a simple but elegant gold crown atop his head. A thick, full beard matched his hair, covering most of his face, but trimmed neatly against the smooth white of his skin. He wore a deep blue tunic with a gold belt around his waist.
He smiled as Rowan entered his private solar, delight transforming his pensiveness. The king waved him over. “Come sit with me,” he said. “And have some wine.”
Rowan bowed, trekking closer, smoothing a hand over his beard. His steps were heavy, his lips drawn tight. His insides were weary, his tolerance but a myth to calmness. Since he had traveled to the palace to give news of the end of the Gray Legion, the king had kept him close. For four months, he waited patiently at his side, traveling with him or giving counsel when called upon. They had attended parties or he had stood at the king’s side at court, offering advice to problematic issues.
Due to the lateness of the hour, he could not find the wherewithal to care of drinking the king’s fine wine or tomorrow’s schedule.
He was broken. His heart was too heavy to beat his blood through his veins.
He missed Adara. Every breath dared whisper her name, a repetition he craved more than his own life.
When Lord Darrius had sent him to inform the king of the Gray Legion and deliver the remaining prisoners, he never imagined he would be here so long. The days were endless, the nights torture. He was tired of smiling when he could not feel anything but numbness. Though duty kept him tethered to the king, he was but a shell.
He sank down in the opposite chair, taking the goblet of wine from the king’s hand, quietly murmuring his gratitude. The cool metal matched the chill of his skin, a proclamation of his pain and suffering at being so far from the beloved of his heart. Endless questions bombarded him every second. Was she healthy? Did she miss him as he missed her? Would she understand his lengthy absence? Or had she sunk into despair and loneliness? Did she still love him?
“I would like for you to deliver a message to Lord Darrius,” the king began. “I want to convey my gratitude to him and his Elite for a job well done on the Gray Legion matter.”
Rowan straightened in his chair, a small burst of hope flooding him. If he were sent back to Blackstone, he could eventually make the journey to Adara. A stinging thrill lifted his countenance, and a genuine smile touched his lips. “Yes, Yer Majesty?” His Scots brogue was thick over the title.
The king’s brow furrowed. “That is the first time you have appeared truly excited since you have arrived. Why is that, pray?” He chuckled, holding up a hand when Rowan tried to comment. “Nay, do not tell me. I will guess.”
He cocked his head, waiting.
“You are tired of my company,” the king said, his eyes twinkling.
Rowan blanched. “Yer Majesty! Please—”
“No, that was not correct.” He laughed more. “Well, it cannot be the lack of beauties at court. I have seen many ladies giving you the eye, but none of them have grasped your attention. You wear all the telling signs of a man in love, correct?”
Swallowing hard, Rowan nodded. “Yes.”
“And I have kept you here most ungraciously.”
“No, not at all.” He set his goblet aside, meeting the king’s gaze. “May I speak plainly, Yer Majesty?”
“Always.”
He drew a deep breath and explained Lord Samuel of HieLach’s death and Lady Adara’s plight in the borderlands. He outlined Sir Robert of Chevington’s family connection with the lady, highlighting his failed attempts to marry her to his son Erik. He tried to keep his words distinct and clear, but he was unable to keep his emotion from bleeding into his voice. He struggled as never in his life to lead the conversation toward his ultimate goal: permission to marry her.
The king was quiet, a heavy silence filling the air. The monarch stood to his feet, moving to the hearth. Rowan followed suit, standing to attention. A grave solemnness traveled over his spine as the minutes ticked by.
Finally, the king spoke, “I am deeply grieved by the news of Lord Samuel’s death. He was a good and honorable man. I knew him for years and relished the day I would attend his request for his daughter to marry.” He looked at his faithful knight, his expression pensive. “I assume you would like to have the privilege of marrying Lady Adara?”
Rowan inclined his head. “More than anything, Yer Majesty.”
The king smiled, holding out his hand. “Let us seal this moment with celebration and thanksgiving.”
He shook hands with him, a renewed freshness beating through his chest, making his hope soar. “You do me a great honor, sir.”
King Henry grinned. “You have my blessing, Rowan. Take care of her.”
Chapter 21
The sun was minutes from setting and HieLach gleamed in the fading light. Rowan had pushed himself, urging his horse north. Spring had arrived, and a haunting chill settled in his bones, the wind slapping his long hair in his face. Snow layered the ground, the beauty a frigid blanket over the uneven terrain.
He reined in his horse, his heart pounding hard. His breath whispered out his lips in hard gasps, the air cold and stinging. He gazed upon the stones built long before he had been born. This was Adara’s home, and his destiny—he was humbled.
A week had slithered by since the king gave his permission to marry the Lady of HieLach. He had made a brief stop at Blackstone Castle, relaying the king’s gratitude to his cousin, Darrius, but he had not stayed long.
Thoughts of his lord’s words echoed in his mind, “You have done well as a faith servant to King Henry, Rowan, fighting by my side with honor. We have achieved the ultimate mission by ridding the north of a great enemy, so that we could be free. Be at peace, cousin, I release you from you post. Take your happiness with Lady Adara and live.”
He had fulfilled his duty, now his heart demanded the same attention. His days and nights swam together in a sea of necessity—he ate little, he slept even less. Nothing reached him but his need to see the woman of his dreams.
Whenever he was alone, he could almost feel her until his hands ached. He drew a deep breath, wishing the fragrance he inhaled into his lungs were her earthy scent. He missed the image of her fiery hair, and cool dark eyes. He wished for her smiles and warm caresses, surviving solely on his memories to keep himself sane.
A flash of light beamed in the distance. His eyes narrowed. Iron Mountain stood proudly, a place where he and Adara consummated their hearts. A location he would forever love. Perhaps he had imagined the light, but he remained hopeful. He knew Adara sought her mountainside herbal as refuge. Hope burned in his chest. If she were there, it was worth investigating in order to save time.
Turning his horse left, he took off.
As he traveled the base of the mountain, a figure loomed the closer he rode. He recognized her. Cylah sat on a rock, using a knife over a piece of wood. She glanced up at his approach, but her gaze returned to her carving. Dismounting, he dropped the reins, taking a few steps toward her. She appeared the same, wearing her warrior’s armor with a mantle fastened around her shoulders, her expression unfriendly.
“Cylah.” He was not sure what kind of reception he would receive.
She grunted. “Took you long enough, McLeod.” She straightened, tucking her woodcarving in her armor and sheathing her knife. Thumbing behind her, she said, “Lady Adara is in there.” She took several steps, stopping in front of him, glaring. “I was very close to hunting you down and killing you. I hope this means you will be staying,” she said, lifting an eyebrow.
He flashed a smile, though after seeing what she could do with an axe, he knew to be wary of crossing her. “It’s lovely to see you too, lass.” His smiled faded when she sneered. “I’m here to stay, I promise.”
She rolled her eyes, walking passed him and grabbed the reins of his horse. She vaulted up, grinning. “Well…?” She waved him toward the mountain. “Lady Adara is waiting. See you… whenever.” Within moments, she was gone.
*.*.*.*
Cylah cleared the entrance of HieLach, dismounting and took the reins in her hand. Leading Rowan’s horse toward the stable, she met Decimus and Taryn, taking their usual evening stroll. Her gaze fastened on their arm-in-arm closeness. Their relationship was not a surprise to her, often overhearing them together when no one was looking. They had married after he had recovered from his Gray Legion captivity. In a strange way, she was happy they were now open and honest—and free to be a couple. However, she winced at her sappy thoughts. Love was messy, but she admired them nevertheless.
“Has Lady Adara returned?” Decimus asked with a frown.
She shook her head. “The McLeod is with her at Iron Mountain.”
The older knight did not give any expression, only giving a curt nod. “He is in for a surprise,” he murmured, while his lady patted his arm and flashed a soft smile.
Cylah snorted. “Aye, and he better do right by her or I will sharpen my sword with his clavicle,” she said, walking by them, winking.
*.*.*.*
Without hesitation, Rowan climbed the rocks, finding the slight groove. He eased the hilt of his sword up, slipping easily inside and pulled aside the large dark cloth hanging over the entrance. He went inside and stopped. The cave was just as he remembered—well-lit and warm. The large bed was made, the plush coverlets and pillows inviting. The bubbling hot spring rippled with its natural, spikey canopy, while the smell of earth and water traveled through the air. Memories of when he was here last swarmed his mind, piercing his heart, even as he shuddered under the joy.
He had been gone too long and his hope for a loving reunion was discouraging. His heart drummed in his chest, willing himself not to collapse under the pressure. No matter what the outcome, he would fight for the love of his heart.
The sound of movement came, along with footsteps. They drew closer, but stopped.
“Cylah? I will be ready in a moment,” Adara called from a distance, a clanking noise following.
He moved closer, his lungs struggling as his heart pounded. He was so close to her after months of separation. He could feel her presence—she beckoned him without words. There was no way to calm his rapid pulse or stave down his need to see her. His eyes were hungry for the sight of her. He had dreamed of this moment, but the reality was ever so bitter sweet. His palms shook, and his chest hurt. The more steps he took, the more he felt as though he were dying a slow death.
Then he saw her.
He stilled.
She was at the far end of the cave and bent over several medium sized clay pots. Her thick, red braid swung in the air, a lot shorter than before—no longer to her knees. And her dress of dark green complimented her fiery tresses. As she sealed the last pot, she straightened. She rubbed the small of her back, as if discomfort had taken its toll. She sighed, turning slightly, and her hand caressed over her stomach. The motion drew his gaze. She smoothed her hand in a circular motion over her slightly swollen belly.
His breath caught.
The truth was there… she carried his bairn.
Tears
stung his eyes. “Adara.”
Chapter 22
Adara had sunk further into depression, often keeping to herself. Detachment had been easy, withdrawing into her responsibilities, but her body followed another course. On numerous occasions, her nauseous stomach sent her to the garderobe before she had a meal, yet she did not show any other symptoms of illness. Each morning there after repeated. The days following would find her body sensitive and achy or the scent of certain foods affected her strongly. She would tire easily. Then, she counted back the days since her last menses—she was most assuredly carrying Rowan’s child. While she was thrilled, her heart was breaking.
The man she loved was following his destiny, his duty, and honoring his fealty. All the promises he had whispered were out of reach. He was bound to another life—a life without her. Her destiny was at HieLach. She could not leave. Decimus’ words repeated in her mind, “A knight’s honor is the truest purity in his heart, but that does not mean he cannot love.” This also meant a knight’s honor could not be forgotten for the sake of love.
Months ago, she had made a decision: she would be strong enough to let him go. She would shelter and love their child. This was the only way to seal her heart against the pain of Rowan’s absence.
Yet his voice echoed behind her and shattered the darkness.
She fought hard to breathe, her heart ramming against her ribs. Turning to face him with her hand still covering her abdomen, Adara found him standing at the second cave entrance. She had not imagined his voice. He was here. Her eyes soaked in his appearance. He stood tall, yet leaner. A dark, full beard hid his face, his lips unsmiling. The strands of his hair reached his chest over his black mantle. He appeared tired and weary. Her eyes connected with his, and her lips parted in surprise. Tears sparkled, the wetness sliding down his cheeks.
Her eyes closed against the intensity of his weariness, his pain too much to withstand.
