Shana Abe (27 page)

“Why haven’t you informed me of this before?”

She set her pole down on the grass and leaned back on her hands. “I thought it none of your concern, frankly.”

He paused. “And now?”

Avalon sighed. “I suppose now I would like your opinion on it.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes, reading her so clearly. “What, had you planned to take revenge on Bryce alone, is that it? That’s why you didn’t say anything?”

She faced him fully. “Of course I did. I could not let this go unanswered.”

“No.” He read the note again. “I understand.”

“Good.”

“But it doesn’t actually condemn Bryce by name. It merely gives your family name.”

“I know. There’s the knot. And the coinage was French.”

“And Warner d’Farouche has been living in France for almost twenty years,” Marcus said slowly.

Avalon nodded. “You perceive my problem.”

“Hanoch never captured even one of those Picts, and he had the resources to do it, if anyone could. I know he tried. He told me that much.”

“Well, he captured someone, apparently. This MacFarland. It was enough.”

“The MacFarlands are southeast of here. I could have a man there in three days.”

“Don’t bother,” said Avalon. “I imagine he’s dead, as well”

Marcus looked away from her, out to the deep, still water before them and then the rushing falls beyond.

“Interesting,” he said.

Avalon’s line jerked, she had to leap for her pole as it began to slide into the water.

Marcus said, “Looks like your feathers have caught dinner.”

Chapter Eleven
 

O
f course, Marcus sent an inquiry to the MacFarlands anyway. Despite what Avalon said about Keith MacFarland being dead—and his instinct told him she was correct—he couldn’t let the information lie. He needed confirmation.

She seemed content to allow him this liberty, and he did not doubt it
was
a liberty, bestowed upon him by her. She was a warrior indeed, fully capable of carrying out her own plans. Yet for reasons of her own she had brought him closer to her, had shared information vital to one of a warrior’s most intimate acts—revenge—not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

Another compliment, Marcus supposed. At least, he was going to take it as such. Now he had to do whatever he could to ensure she didn’t go off and get herself killed by her cousins.

His baser emotions told him to lock her up again, to hide her away in the secure little room he had chosen for her, protect her. Watching her proudly carry back the string of trout they had caught this morning, light-hearted from this simple pastime, it had taken a great deal of willpower to allow her to retire freely to her chamber. He had to go into his solar and focus on
nothing for long minutes to rid himself of the desire to imprison her for her own good, to keep her safe here at Sauveur.

Eventually he had conquered this impulse and pulled together a group of men to go to the MacFarlands. Avalon had unwittingly handed him what might be the key to her own undoing: If he could prove that either of the d’Farouches were behind the raid on Trayleigh, Warner’s claim would be forfeit. Marcus would win.

And Avalon would be unequivocally his.

She would not be able to find her sanctuary. There could be no other outcome to this dance, as far as Marcus was concerned. She had to marry him.

Already she faltered in her determination to leave, he knew. Already he had found the chink in her defenses, and he had been steadily enlarging that chink ever since. She felt for the clan. She harmonized with Sauveur. She belonged here as surely as any of them did.

And, whether she knew it yet or not, she belonged to him. She would see this as well, with time. So time was what he intended to give her. At least for now.

Let her walk the halls of the castle. Let her converse with anyone she wished. Let her become so intertwined with life here that she could never disentangle herself from the clan, from Marcus. It would happen.

She paced above him now, outlining the perimeter of the castle. He knew this, though no one had come to tell him of it. Marcus knew it because he felt it. Because what he had told her about being able to find her had been, God help him, the simple truth. He could feel her with his thoughts. He could place her as sure as anything, and that was perhaps the final thing that made him
allow her to remain free. Marcus knew where she was, anyway. So let her roam.

A
valon turned her face into the wind that blew in from the south, let it push back her hair and cool her brow. The day was finished but still she felt disinclined to go back to her room, which seemed to get smaller and smaller every time she walked in. She had been unable to nap after fishing, and spent her time instead tossing and turning on the pallet, struggling to clear her thoughts.

Marcus, framed against the scarlet and gold of the forest.

Marcus, smiling at her as he handed her the tart. Marcus, congratulating her as she pulled in her first trout.

Marcus.

At supper he had seemed removed again despite the fact that they all ate the trout she and Marcus had caught that morning, amid easy smiles and laughter. He was now very much the laird—that swift shifting in him that still managed to catch her off guard—talking to his people, holding a polite conversation with Ellen to inquire how the stewardship was going. Avalon knew he had sent out men to the MacFarlands, and this preoccupied him, too. But he had barely looked at her during the meal.

Sauveur was truly a stately castle, she thought as she continued her walk. The gray and black stones created an air of dignity and power, a very apt dwelling place for
the chief of the Kincardines. Already repairs were in motion using some of her wealth, hastening to beat the onset of winter. Yesterday some of the men had worked in shifts on the stable roof, patching and strengthening it to bear the weight of the coming snow.

It gratified her, knowing it was her inheritance from her mother that made it possible; just a few coins traded for practical materials. There was so much more work to do. But now there was also the means to do it.

The sentries greeted her as she passed, and she called them each by name, pleased that she had remembered.

Avalon liked it up here at the very top of Sauveur, above the trees, scraping the sky. From here she could see for miles. It felt like freedom, though it was false.

Ahead of her, in a nook in the turret stones, a family of larks had made their nest. She could hear them contentedly crooning to each other as she approached.

But when she came around the corner she found it was the wizard crooning to the larks, and they who listened, looking down at the robed man.

He saw her and gave a short whistle, an exact replica of the lark’s song she had heard in her father’s garden on that fateful night, what seemed like ages ago.

She halted, staring, and he did it again, then bowed to her.

“You
are
a wizard,” she said before she could help herself.

Balthazar smiled. “I think not, lady.”

Avalon walked closer, crossing her arms together to block out the wind. It was growing colder. Perhaps it was that wisp of freedom she felt from being so close to the infinity of heaven. Perhaps it was the comforting
shield of the darkness that made her feel safe, a blanket of obscurity to hide her differences. For whatever reason, she found herself saying to the wizard, “But the other night in the solar you told me to listen to the dream.”

“Yes. And did you?”

“You must know what happened.”

“I am but a lowly servant, lady. I know nothing.”

“Oh, a lowly servant indeed,” she scoffed. “That might work on those who cannot see you, but I can.”

“Can you?”

Avalon hesitated, aware that she had trapped herself. “You are not just a servant,” she finished lamely.

Balthazar turned away from her, looking back up at the larks. “Not many see as you do, lady. Yet you scorn your gift. You hide from it. It is most puzzling.”

“I see nothing more than the next person,” she said, suddenly afraid for no good reason, except that now the cold stuck to her bones, and this man was leading her down a crooked trail she had no wish to follow.

“Did you not see the serpent? Did you not taste the water? Were you not in the desert?”

“No,” she lied. “Such a power is not real.”

“A sad contradiction, a willing blindness from the most sighted.”

“It is not a contradiction!” Avalon hugged herself tighter. “All I have seen or heard is nothing but the formation of logic! Nothing that any intelligent person could not reason out.”

Balthazar gave a song to the larks, and one of them answered him back, a sweet succession of notes.

“Superstition is for the ignorant,” Avalon whispered.

“Yes. But there are many things which cannot be explained
away with superstition, lady. The world is vast. God is great. We cannot understand it all.”

“You said you renounced your vows,” she accused, feeling somehow betrayed.

“I did. But I have not renounced God, merely the church.” Now he laughed out loud, from his belly. “God would not stand to be renounced! He is everywhere, He is everything!”

The wizard turned to her, came close, so close she could follow the swirling lines of the tattoos on his cheeks. “God granted you your power, lady. God gave you this gift.” His voice was deep, hypnotic. “It is your destiny. You will succumb.”

“No!” She pushed past him, almost running down the wall-walk to the next turret, the next door that could take her away from this conversation.

Inside the winding stairway the murky light buried her, veiling her, and she began to slow down and take the stairs at an even pace.

How stupid, to run away like that! She had let her own fears take over her heart, and now she looked like nothing more than a frightened child, scared of spun stories in the dark.

She rued her actions, very much so, and actually considered going back up the stairs to find Balthazar again, to show him she was not intimidated by his words.

But the night was advancing in rapid steps, and this was reason enough, Avalon considered, not to return to the wall-walk. She was exhausted. She had not slept in so long. Better to sleep and let the accusations of the wizard retreat to nothingness over the course of the night. Better not to think about what he had said at all.

She had left her chamber well lit before she began her prowl, knowing it would be full evening before she returned. Yet to her surprise the lamps had gone out, all but one, a steadfast flame on the little table. And then she saw why the rest were dark.

Marcus was waiting for her, leaning out the narrow window as she so often did, though she doubted he did it for the same reason. Avalon hesitated as she entered the room, surprised and unsurprised, because she couldn’t deny there was a tiny part of her that had expected to see him here, that had wanted to see him.

She opened the door as wide as it would go and stood there.

“My lord. Is there something you require?”

He had moved her pallet to one side so that he could stand directly in front of the window.

“I was just wondering,” he said slowly but did not turn around, “what you thought might be the appeal of a nun’s life.”

She closed her eyes, not wanting to speak again on this topic, knowing there could be no answer that would satisfy him.

“My lord, I must ask you to leave. I am too tired to spar with you now.”

“I don’t want you to spar with me.” He turned to face her; the small curve to his lips showed her he had found some amusement in her words. “This may come as a surprise to you, Avalon, but I really don’t enjoy fighting at all.”

She looked away, down to the smoking flicker of the lone flame, then back up to him.

“Will you leave?”

“Are those my choices? Either we fight, or I leave?”

“It would seem so.”

His smile grew thinner—but still amused. “Am I that disagreeable to you?”

Avalon pressed herself back against the door, feeling surprisingly cornered. “If you wish to discuss my decision to join a nunnery, then yes, you are disagreeable to me.”