Page 90 of Rebellion's Fire

Gormflaith gave her a clear look over her shoulder. “You know, I wasn’t sure I liked you, or this marriage, but the more I think about it, the more I believe it is a good idea.”

“I have the right blood. Maybe.”

“There is that,” Gormflaith allowed, “but you are…rightfor Adam as you aren’t for Donald.”

Christian blinked. Although she didn’t want to, she asked anyway. “Why do you say that?”

Gormflaith shrugged, shaking out the embroidered green overgown Christian had worn at court in Perth. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s always been different about you. Whenever he speaks of you. And you understand the nuances behind everything he says. Most people don’t. I think this would do, don’t you? What jewelry do you have?”

“None,” Christian said vaguely. She’d sold what she had long since to pay William’s soldiers in the lean times. In better times, it had never been replaced, although Alys had some pretty trinkets.

Gormflaith frowned over the problem. Then she jumped up. “Of course! My mother brought a wedding gift for you. We meant to give it after the wedding, but now would be best.”

“No, please…”

But Gormflaith was already whisking out of the room, leaving Christian to rub her temples with distress. This wedding was becoming like a huge ball of snow, rolling downhill so fast and growing so big that it was going to crush her. It was becoming impossible to resist.

Could she really do that? Just refuse to make her vow?

Oh yes. If she was brave enough. It would make no difference. Last night had proved that. She would be pronounced married anyway by the MacHeths’ tame priest, whatever objections Bishop Symeon might have. But at least Symeon would know the truth. And the MacHeths would know. If they cared.

Adam knew what he’d done to her last night, and she was aware he’d taken time and trouble to do it. Ensuring compliance. But her urge to lash out was all the stronger because of it, because of her own weakness and hurt.

She’d woken this morning with his heat curved around her—hard limbs, hard body. As she’d lain there, she’d been conscious of wonder that he was still with her, and a peculiar comfort that had grown gradually heavy and aroused, just like last night.

When he’d moved, leaning over to look at her, she’d been sure, so sure, he would begin it again. She’d wanted him to do it again. But after a long, tense moment, when she’d kept her eyes defensively closed, he’d slid out of bed and gone.

She’d been wrong last night. She couldn’t deal with this. He was…solvingher, like any other problem.

And now Gormflaith was dressing her for a celebration, giving her jewels, being kind as she never had been before. So, she was “right” for Adam? She begged to differ. Why did no one ever care what or who was right for her?

Because she was a woman.

Gormflaith herself seemed destined to be married to Fergus of Galloway’s son. Would she accept that so willingly?

*

Even during theceremony, she wouldn’t look at him. She’d emerged from the bedchamber wearing a dark green gown heavily embroidered in gold and belted in close to disguise the fact that it was too big and too long for her. A gold disk inlaid with garnets and pearls hung from a heavy gold chain, adorning her pale breast, and the prettier mask was back on her face. A lighter chain with a garnet crescent hung from her veil over her forehead. His mother and Gormflaith had dressed her, and she wasn’t happy about it. On the other hand, she did look beautiful and regal, enough to stir his blood just looking at her.

And at least he didn’t feel ridiculous in the red silk tunic Donald had brought for him, and which he wore with a gold filigree brooch and the jeweled belt buckle his mother had given him when he’d left Ross to join Somerled.

Everyone, in fact, was dressed for celebration. Only the bride was not celebrating. Like last night, she held herself with rigidity, the delicate glass he’d imagined then, reinforced now with the lead of determination; her eyes were hard, her lips set. As if last night had never been. As if he’d made it worse by bringing her pleasure she’d clearly never known before.

It came to him that the best thing he could do for her was get this over with and leave. Only who would be the best person to stay with her to make sure she didn’t send word to the King of Scots?

As earlier with his mother’s arrival, he tried to fill his mind with things other than Cairistiona and the fact that she hadn’t once looked at him since waking. He felt curiously unstable, and it wasn’t until the marriage ceremony had already begun that he began to recognize the feeling.

It had only happened a few times before. Massive visions that went on and on. He’d lost consciousness altogether at least once, and he’d never been able to keep his feet through that kind of vision. He needed to lie down. In the middle of his own wedding.

Inappropriate laughter caught at his breath. Symeon gave him a quick, worried glance but carried on. Symeon took their hands to join them but instead of this forcing the visions back as he’d hoped, they began to surge. Everyone was waiting for his response. He gripped Cairistiona’s hand in a feeble effort to keep himself grounded in her, but it was her, her nearness, her touch in this particular situation that had set the dreams off. They were at a crossroads of futures, when their lives could go in so many directions…

“I will,” he managed.

For the first time that day, Cairistiona glanced at him. Although he couldn’t see her for the flashing images imposed on reality, he felt her head turn and then turn back again to face the bishop. Fearing his grip hurt her, he strove to loosen it, and her fingers curled around his, holding them.

Stunned, he almost let go, almost fell, but she was there beside him, closer now, gripping his hand. Her voice, soft, barely a breath, managed somehow to break through the cacophony in his head.

“Stay with me. Stay with me.”

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