his smile almost hiding his annoyance. “Perhaps the lady
had bewitched both of us, highness.”
“To be sure she must be. And more than that the lady has a mind for opportunity, MacKay. Your espoused wife would have me
sign over Trevelyan to her regency, MacKay. What think you?”
“I think her perspicacity in enlarging my estates is admirable. What think you, most lovely intended?”
Silence gouged through the gothic curves of thestately trees dotting the glen. His words had been beyond courteous, though spoken in lazy fashion. Some murmured they had
loverlike tones. How could that be? MacKay didn’t know the princess, had never met her.
“I think…” Morrigan said in measured tones, knowing her enunciated words would carry. “… that I cannot receive what is not
to be given. My riddle is simple to solve when one is bound in the truth that I alone, by blood, can carry the Trevelyan estates
in my regency.”
The bald, bold statement brought gasps, sighs, mutters, and groans. Then a light chuckle that began with her intended and
brought a reluctant response from the king allowed the onlookers to breathe again.
Morrigan shook inside like a pudding, but she pressed her lips and knees together and prayed for strength. Her gaze touched
the man who was soon to be her spouse.
Taller than any man there. His hair seemed dark until it hit the sun, then it was auburn flame as were his brows. His cheekbones
were wide. Such breadth of shoulder she’d not seen in all her family. His mouth was as firm as his jaw, and some would call
him handsome. The colorful tartan became him. The claymore proclaiming his title of laird looked like a giant’s weapon, yet
he wore it with ease. His eyes were black, then blue, or both. His skin had a smooth, ruddy tautness that covered his strong
bones. Though big, he looked so smoothly muscled one couldn’t call him brawny. This man was formidable—and more comely than
any warrior she’d beheld.
There was a movement to the right. A woman richly dressed, though in the black of mourning, her gem-encrusted gown and headdress
winking in the sun, stepped to the side of MacKay. “Has my godson need of me?”
MacKay turned, noting the agitated frown. “No need to fret, milady. I believe you know our royal.”
The woman sank in deep curtsy, bringing a smile to Edward’s face.
“And this is my intended, the most beautiful woman in Wales.”
There were titters and murmurs. The lady’s brow elevated just a trifle.
Hugh touched his godmother’s arm. “Lady Maud MacKenzie, my godmother. Lady Morrigan Llywelyn, soon to be MacKay.”
Morrigan was impressed by the woman’s lustrous skin, the blue-black hair that peeped from the side of her headdress. She was
struck at how beautifully the mourning colors became her, how they enhanced that white skin and her bejeweled garb. “ ’Tis
an honor to meet you, milady.”
“The honor is mine, dear one, since you are soon to be espoused to my godson.” She waved her hand in a languid, graceful way.
“ ’Tis my son who will support the cardinal at your vows.”
Morrigan turned to look. “He’s a priest, then?”
MacKay chuckled. “Not quite. Kieran MacKenziehasn’t taken all his vows as yet, though he soon shall. He’s too caught up in his Latin and Greek studies.”
His mother sighed. “ ’Tis true.”
The king coughed and Lady MacKenzie bowed, then faded back to the throng. “ ’Tis past time for the vows.” He glanced at Morrigan.
“Shall we, milady?”
Morrigan pressed her lips together. “I would have an answer to my query for regency, if it please your grace.” She could tell
that the monarch wished she had forgotten it and not mentioned it again.
MacKay stepped nearer. “What say you of my intended, good royal? We stand before you and God to say our vows. This day truth
will be spoken.”
The king nodded once. “I’ve been outflanked by the Celt,” he murmured for her ears
Yvette Hines, Monique Lamont