Conquer the Night (35 page)

Father Corrigan was a swordsman—and a dancer. She dropped a curtsy to him; he bowed to her. In seconds she was spinning around the hall. And a moment later they heard the first stirring as Ragnor joined in with his pipes; the tempo increased, and Kyra went on spinning around the room.

“Father! For the love of God!” Jay cried. “Let a lonely man cut in on a beautiful lady!”

Father Corrigan bowed, and she clutched her skirt in her hand and began to spin with Jay, and the rest of the men began to join in, seeking a dance. Tyler Miller cut in, Roger, Philip, and men she barely knew. They were charming, laughing, and she was growing breathless. Elizabeth, one of the maids clearing the supper, stood at the end of the table, tapping her toes.

“Elizabeth! Here, dance with this strapping young warrior, please!”

“Oh, but, my lady—” Elizabeth's eyes went wide. “Is it proper?”

“It's a dance, Elizabeth, like May Day; that is all. Ingrid, we must summon Ingrid! Jay, go find her—” she began, turning, and finding that she turned into another of the men. He was huge, she realized, one of the biggest men she'd ever encountered. Of course, she'd seen him here before, moving about the hall—she'd just never been so close to him before.

It was daunting.

He was a giant in height, as muscle-bound and broad as he was tall, with a shaggy red beard and bright blue eyes.

“I'm Swen, my lady.”

“Indeed.”

“May I ask the maid, Ingrid, to dance?”

“Swen, aye, you must ask Ingrid to dance. And you mustn't take no for an answer!”

And so a few minutes later Ingrid was down, and she pro tested avidly at first, but then proved that she could kick up her heels and dance like a girl. And the ale flowed, and laughter, and the maids and soldiers and kitchen help laughed and mingled, and they were all talking, and there was a very strange camaraderie in the great hall.

She was exhausted herself, breathless; her hair was loose and wild, and still she was smiling, and she had forgotten for a moment that they were on the brink of a desperate battle, that life at very best was uncertain, and her own life, perhaps, the most uncertain!

It was amazing that this evening could come about, that there could be such pleasure, and such joy.

She looked across the room at Father Corrigan. He met her eyes, smiled, and walked around to where she stood, watching the dancers as the players began anew.

“This is Scotland!” he said softly.

She looked at him, tilting her head curiously.

“This is why, in the end, the Scots will win. It is their country.” He smiled, a sure passion in his eyes. “Hear the pipes, my lady; look at them all! There will be a nation, for the pipes call out, the wind calls out. You'll see.”

“Let's pray we all see,” she said softly. “What is certain is that there will be a battle, and perhaps another battle, and another—for years to come.”

“Rebels may die, my lady, but the rebellion won't.”

“My lady! Come dance again, please!” Tyler Miller called out. He was young and engaging, charming, and his smile was contagious.

“Aye, then,” she agreed.

She had to dance, to laugh, to play. To pretend that she didn't long to run from the great hall and find Arryn.

He had gone to commune with the dead, she thought.

I
will never marry you!

The words seemed to haunt her, playing over and over again in her mind.

She brought a sweet and brilliant smile to her lips.

“Aye, Tyler, gladly; let's dance!”

And she swung into his arms, and she prayed that Arryn would come back, and that he would see her, and that he would know….

She would never care for him too much!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The night was beautiful. So why was his temper so foul? Why had her simple explanation about Kinsey made him so angry? Because she had never been Kinsey's, and he had made her the object of his revenge?

Or because she was such a fighter, spirited—and capable? She had managed to wage war with Kinsey.

Alesandra had not.

Or because his cousin, ever careful, aware how much treachery existed all around them, had planted the seeds of doubt in his head?

Leaving the castle behind, Arryn called to the guards, identifying himself, and strode up the steps to the parapets. There he walked the distance from lookout post to lookout post, greeted his men on duty, and passed them again to stand alone, staring toward the cliffs.

There were no fires tonight. Darrow's men had moved on. Arryn was glad they were gone, yet certain that his summons would come from John at any time to join Wallace and de Moray. If Warenne's men were gathering, as they had all heard, then they were following in the footsteps of the Scottish army, and the confrontation was destined to come soon.

He had never thought that he would want to stay here. That Seacairn could so quickly come to feel like home. It had been a fortress to seize; it had been vengeance. It had been a step in the war, and he had always thought that it would be easy to walk on.

And so it should have been.

He lowered his head and remembered, and sometimes the past was dim, faded, and sometimes he could remember too clearly—God, for the life of him he would never forget the smell of burning flesh. So many dead; a village decimated; what had been his home, ashes. What had been his life …

Alesandra. His child, who never drew breath. He had left them, and they had perished. He had forsworn his Hawk's Cairn, a family, a home. His life would be revenge, and the pursuit of justice, the pursuit of Scotland. And battle would come, and he could die by the sword, face capture, face a traitor's execution. And it had not mattered….

Since then, he had lived for the passion of the fight—for Scotland. For the death of all that Edward had done. A fair bargain; they knew they must ride, find luxury at times such as these times at Seacairn, sleep in the woods as well. But now …

He would never forget her eyes. The green tempest in her fury, her words, the sound of her voice, the very vehemence with which she had called him a fool.

Time had been fickle; too often now, since he had come here, pictures had faded. In his dreams, he was still haunted by specters.

Alesandra.

The smell of smoke seemed real in his dreams. And yet, when he was awake, he could not see her face any longer, for another intruded.

Green-eyed, golden-haired. Darrow's woman.

Ah, vengeance
.

What would he do now? Take her to battle? He mocked himself. After all, she was good with a sword!

Never trust her!
John had warned.

He'd not take her to battle.

No woman belonged on the field of battle.

Then what? Leave her here, as he thought he had intended, leave her with Darrow knowing that she had lain with him? He had thought before that such an action would be fair and just to her. He had believed that she had accepted her betrothal to the man, that they had been partners, that she might love her betrothed, yearn to be back safely in his arms.

Ah, but that wasn't what she had wanted. She had been as desperate to escape Darrow as she had been to escape him.

Would Darrow dare kill a woman who had been godchild to Edward's queen? Perhaps not. And still such a fact might not make her safe from Darrow. She might fall from the tower and hit ground rather than water, find herself trampled beneath a horse's hooves after Kinsey married her, and of course Kinsey would marry her; that would give him a legal excuse to seize her holdings.

No, it was certain. He could not leave her.

Whether he trusted her or not. He could not leave her here.

He was suddenly angry with himself. He had not meant to be so burdened; he should not have allowed himself to come to this place where he was so concerned for her welfare. There was war to be waged. She had slipped into his soul, never faltering, never losing pride, giving only when she chose to give….

He owed her nothing! He had been charitable, where Kinsey had been brutal and ruthless and heedless of human life!

She wasn't dead. He hadn't seized her violently and left her broken to burn to death. That should have been all; it should have been enough.

No, he realized. If that had been all, he could have left her to Kinsey in the forest.

He suddenly heard music and turned back toward the hall. Still in a tempest between his memories, doubts, and the reality of the present, he nevertheless found himself drawn to the sound. He hurried down from the wall, across the courtyard, and back to the huge doors to the great hall of the castle. He slipped within, but stayed against the door, watching.

The maids were dancing. Good Lord, even the dour Ingrid—who always looked as if she wanted to fall to her knees and pray every time he came near her—was dancing. Some of the kitchen girls had joined in, and most of his men. And those who were not dancing were keeping time with the music, laughing, drinking, singing.

He looked for her, without admitting that he did.

And there she was. The gracious lady of Seacairn, hair red-gold and flying in the night as she wove around his men, her partners, eyes flashing. She smiled, she laughed, she chatted, she teased—charming each and every one of them as she changed partners throughout the dance.

The music faded.

She laughed at something Jay said, touching his arm, bending to catch her breath. The men grew fond of her. Too fond of her. She must know that she could charm them all….

Deceive them? Was she too confident?

Ragnor suddenly switched to a sad lament, and beckoned to her. She approached him, still catching her breath.

His mouth parted from the pipe for a moment as he said, “My lady, Tyler tells me you know this song of ours, that you sing it like a nightingale,”

She laughed softly. “Like a nightingale? I'm not sure, but I do know the tune; it's beautiful, and it's not just
yours!
”

“I stand rebuked!” Ragnor said, “but sing it, my lady, please.”

“Aye, if you wish.”

Ragnor inhaled, taking his pipe into his mouth again, and hugging the sheepskin against his breast. The flute joined in, and the stringed instrument. And in Gaelic as fluent and clean as any Arryn had ever heard, she began to sing the words to the ancient and outlawed song. Her voice was crystal clear, melodic, beautiful, a sound to tug upon the heartstrings, to bring pain and poignancy and beauty to the heart.

When she was finished, Ragnor lowered his pipes. “Lovely, lady, lovely!” he said softly, and he grinned, and he told her, “You're more of a Scot than you knew.”

She smiled at him and flushed. “You have called me English. My mother's family is an old and honored one in Scotland. I was born here.”

She was convincing them all that she was trustworthy.

One of them!

“Ah, yes, born here! But raised by Edward in England!” Arryn heard himself call out sharply.

The laughter in the room faded. The air seemed to grow cold. No one had realized he had returned. All eyes came to him. His own men looked at him uncomfortably, and he felt like an interloper among them.

“But don't let me disturb you. It's good to take this time, celebrate life. Play another tune, Ragnor. Something lively again.”

Ragnor stared at him a moment, then nodded. The pipes wheezed and whined; Gaston joined in as the chords blended ….

One of the maids flew by on Roger's arm. Arryn swept by, stealing her from Roger. Her name … Elizabeth. She was a pretty little dark-haired thing with wide eyes and huge breasts. He danced with her, laughed with her, and when they paused, he filled a chalice and drank with her. It wasn't good for him to spend too much time with one woman. It suddenly seemed important to him that Kyra realize that.

And that she did remain at their mercy.

But when he looked around the room, Kyra was gone. He wasn't going to follow her.

He damned himself.

Aye, he was.

His head seemed to be raging, splitting. The music was still going on; the whine and wheeze of the bagpipes suddenly seemed discordant and horrible. He wanted to stop them from playing, but he forced himself to let the company be—they needed this night. More of the castle servants were joining in. It was important that they dance, sing … play.

He walked up the stairs and entered the tower room, and she was there, stretched out before the fire, just watching the flames. Her tunic that night was gold, and the flames caught the color of her hair. It was still such a tangle, wild, seductive, young, bewitching. She was so different from Alesandra. So passionate, vital, and vibrant. Always a tempest, quick to anger, to courage, indignance, quick to speak her mind, while Alesandra had been …

Gentle. Quiet. Quick to smile, eager for his every word …

The past haunted him, tormented him.

He had left her, such a gentle, timid creature as Alesandra, and Kinsey Darrow had come, and she had been like a lamb to a slaughter. And the horror here was that the memories were slipping, and if they faded then he had abandoned her again, and abandoned all the vows he had made in his heart, and the guilt was a greater torture than any man could inflict….

No. He would not abandon his wife, no matter what he did here.

She knew that he was in the room; she did not turn. She didn't move or speak at first. Then, after a long moment, she said brusquely, “Kinsey and his men have moved on, have they not?”

Of course, she knew that his enemies had left the hill. She would have noted the movement the same as any of his men. She was quick and intelligent, knew strategy and maneuver.

She had grown up in Edward's shadow.

“So,” she continued, not expecting or waiting for an answer, “it will be time for you and your men to adjourn to the battle as well.”

She turned at last, her green eyes luminous. “Arryn, you will leave. Imminently. I cannot stay here, you know. I do have family northwest of Stirling, at the base of the Highlands, my mother's clan … cousins. A few uncles and aunts. I thought that I should leave … soon. You know that I must. Perhaps even tonight.”