Free The Pledge by Helen Mittermeyer Page A

silenced party guests who watched.
    Morrigan touched the top of the boy’s head, her handonly shaking a bit. “Come along. This party has gone on long enough for you. We’ll find your bed.”
    “No. Don’ wanna’,” he told her, his mouth opening on another yawn.
    “Yes, you do.” Grasping his hand firmly, she turned the boy. She was about to tell Hugh where she was going when she realized
     he was deep in conversation with Toric and Gordon. She hoped he’d know where she’d gone. Speed was necessary. If Rhys became
     too tired he’d cause another ruckus. His lung power could be awesome.
    Whisking him from the dining and drinking guests took too much time as it was. Many had her pausing to comment on the courage
     of her son riding a destrier. She had every intention of telling Rhys he’d never ride another horse until he was a man if
     he ever attempted to mount a destrier again. She tried not to slight anyone, but Rhys was getting crabbier by the minute.
    Finally she reached the castle and hurried him through the bailey, then in under the portico and through the wide open doors.
     She was all but running. She didn’t care. Throwing aside dignity was better than having a battle with a five-year-old with
     a mind of his own.
    Passing no one, she all but carried the hefty lad up the stairs that hugged one wall. Getting him into the chamber that connected
     to her guest chamber took time. He whined for milk, for sweets, for ginger beer, for strawberry ale. His eyes were closing
     as she undressed him, gave him a quick wash, and put him beneath the covers.He was mumbling protests as she tucked him in and kissed his cheek.
    “Oh! Milady, I didn’t think you’d be up here. I’ll take care of the boy, if you wish.”
    “I wish to let him sleep. You are Lilybet. I remember.”
    At the nod, Morrigan continued. “He’s exhausted. Let him sleep. If he awakens before the last feast is served, he may wish
     to eat something else. Otherwise let him sleep the night away.”
    Lilybet nodded. “I will.”
    Morrigan tried to smile, but nothing quite buried the rising panic she felt at the coming night. The sun had gone. Flambeaux
     lit the glen and castle. Soon there’d be the awful “headache heaviness,” as the wedding night had come to be called. Taken
     from the Celtic and Latin customs by the Scots, they’d brought it to a methodology unheard of by the ancients, she was sure.
     It had become one of their cherished traditions. Charivari! The dreaded night of copulation when the bride would be sport
     for all the groom’s friends, where rape occurred at regular intervals, where women… She swayed, pondering what could occur.
    “Milady! You are faint. Here, let me help you. Lie down—”
    “No! I… I must go.”
    “Ya canna gang awa’ this way,” the handmaiden broke into the patois of Gaelic and Anglo. “You’re fair sickened, swaying like
     a reed you were.”
    Morrigan pushed at the hands that held her, the moist pieces of lint held to her head. “Please, I—”
    The door crashed open. MacKay stood there, others of his clan behind him. His eyes found her, the sleeping child, the ministering
     women all faster than the light that courses the sky when Thor himself rumbles across the heavens. His Viking connections
     allowed the great gods into his life. Not that he believed in much beyond his own powers. She was sure he didn’t. Did the
     mighty MacKay believe in anything but himself? It scored her feelings to know that whatever small trust he had in her would
     be flayed alive that very night.
    “What ails milady?”
    His mild query didn’t fool Morrigan. His eyes danced with fury.
    “Nothing,” she answered, cursing the hoarseness in her voice.
    He went around the handmaiden hovering over Morrigan. She faded back as though a large besom had swept around the room. He
     lifted Morrigan’s hand, his fingers pressing on the inner wrist.
    Stunned that he should know where to find the pumping of