It was not a question, but Brochadh answered her. “It is not seemly for a woman of rank to go into battle, or even to touch an instrument of death. The Church forbids it.”
Erika thought about that for a moment. She was still too Nordic, too Viking, to ponder the ramifications of the Church. How could God damn her for being what she was, and doing good with it?
Brochadh gathered her hands in his. “I listened to you, my lady. I know you take sorrow in killing. I also know you did not have much in the way of choice. Now you do.”
Yearning pulled at her, sweet and strong. Putting away her sword...it was the secret dream buried in her hearts of hearts, a dream she never believed would come to light. Doing battle had been a part of her for so long, she did not know anything else.
“Has Conor asked this of me?”
“Nay, my lady, the tigerna has not asked this,” he said, his eyes lowered.
The priest seemed so distressed that Erika longed to cheer him. “I will make a vow, that you will not see me draw a sword. Will this satisfy you and the Church?”
“Of a certain,” he replied, vastly cheered. “Thank you, my lady. Your new path will not be regrettable, I promise you.” He left.
Fionnuala smiled serenely. “I noticed that you neglected to mention that you would not draw a sword when Brochadh wasn’t looking.”
A shrug lifted Erika’s shoulders. “If the priest did not notice the oversight, far be it from me to point out the faults of a holy man.”
Gwynna’s laughter echoed theirs. “You will be more than a match for my brother, Erika. I welcome you as my sister.”
Touched beyond words, Erika found herself initiating the hug with her new sister. “Thank you.”
Fionnuala broke the emotional silence by clapping her hands. “It is time.”
Gathering her sword, Erika moved towards the door and her rendezvous with destiny.
Chapter Nineteen
His bride came to their wedding armed.
Conor saw his sister descend the flower-lined path to the verdant plain first. She wore a deep tunic of green banded with gold, her dark curls adorned with delicate white flowers. He heard Olan, standing beside him, gasp for breath and whisper something in Norse. Conor smiled to himself. Gwynna would overrun the young Viking if he did not learn to control his impulses.
It was the last coherent thought he had.
Erika made her way towards him, a vision in silver, gray and lavender. Held before her was her naked blade, point towards the earth and festooned with flowers and ribbons. The amethyst pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat as if it belonged there. The gem highlighted the deep color of her eyes, making them a mystery. The afternoon sunlight flocked to her until it seemed she glowed, from the artful array of braids, curls and purple ribbons adorning her hair, to the silver beads on her slippers.
He watched as she smiled to everyone she passed, robbing all of speech. When she reached him, she bestowed upon him a smile so brilliant he forgot the effrontery of her sword. He wondered, dazed, if he courted the danger of going blind. She stood to his left, urging him to poetry, her beauty stealing through him like a fog.
Radiant.
His mind latched on to that word. Yes, she was radiant, more luminous than the moon, brighter than the sun. He gloried in her presence, finding her scent beneath the perfume of flowers. Tonight she would be his. Tonight, after the feast of Beltaine, he would claim her.
Beautiful, untouchable. Yet she suffered his touch, seemed to glory in it. Why?
The question shook him, releasing a flood of others. Why did she suffer his touch? Why, after pursuing her quest for freedom with single-minded intent, why did she capitulate?
What did she want from him?
And the deed was done. For good or for ill, the Angel of Death was joined to the Devil of Dunlough in holy matrimony.
Whatever their feelings for their new mistress, the people launched themselves into celebration with exuberant wholeheartedness. It was Beltaine, after all. The great festival heralded the rebirth of the earth, and the Celtic spirit in all was unleashed with a zeal that would have been debauchery anywhere but in Eire.
Tinder for the great bonfire that was the hallmark of the festival day had been laid after the completion of the duel. Horse and foot races and feats of strength—not to mention great barrels of wine—kept the crowd occupied and the mood festive. Now was the time for feasting, singing and drinking. With sunset would come the lighting of the bonfire and the time for lovers new and old.
The hall overflowed with revelers. Conor surveyed the gathering with satisfaction. For too long Dunlough had been overshadowed by grief, death and war. Today changed that. His bride changed that, starting with lighting his dim corner of the hall and deliberately sitting to his left, in full view of his ravaged face. Those simple acts won her the admiration of his people—their people.
Over the rim of his tankard he watched her converse with Fionnuala. Conor was glad that Niall’s wife had befriended Erika. His bride knew little of managing a household, much less one of Dunlough’s size and stature. The mistress of Dun Lief would be a welcomed aid.
The dun was rowdy. Erika grew more intoxicated, her eyes rounding with each passing libation.
A tittering sound had Conor turning. Did his wife just giggle? “Something amuses you, my lady?”
A weaving hand gestured towards a darkened corner. “Your people dance passing strange.”
Gaze following her unsteady gesture, Conor realized that the couple in the corner participated in a dance as old as time, the only rhythm that of their bodies. “Passing strange, indeed.” He shifted to block her view.
Undaunted, she peered around him. “I wish to dance,” she stated, her voice imperious with wine. “Will we dance that way?”
Heat assailed him. The image of Erika writhing beneath him caused his hand to tremble as he reached for his goblet. He couldn’t keep the huskiness from his voice as he said, “In time, my lady wife, we shall indeed dance.”
The new mistress of Dunlough smiled and clapped with delight. Conor damn near found himself smiling in return. Her eagerness drove blood into his manhood, making him achingly erect. Nothing would do but satisfaction, and now.
He shot to his feet, need making him clumsy as he overset his seat. Music and revelry ground to a halt. Erika rose to her feet as well, her smile for him alone. “Now shall we dance?”
The need to throw her over his shoulder and carry her to their chamber drowned out all else, including good sense and decorum. He reached out, hands settling on her waist—
“It is time.”
Aine’s voice cut through his fevered senses, reining in his ardor. He couldn’t help his muttered curse of frustration, however.
Niall, damn his hide, noticed his state. “Let us light the bonfire before you quench your own,” the older man jested. “You’ll dance soon enough.” Ardan and Fionnuala joined his laughter with their own.
There was nothing for Conor to do but follow the old woman out to the bonfire site, Erika weaving along beside him. Most of his people, it seemed, were paired off. Those maidens still awaiting marriage contracts had already been secluded by their protective mothers.
Impatient, he hurried through his duty, giving his speech and laying his torch to the kindling. Tradition held that conceiving a child at Beltaine was a good omen for the year to come, and he meant to do his part.
As soon as the fire sprouted Conor turned away, seizing Erika’s wrist and all but dragging her toward the dun. Niceties and tradition be damned—he wanted his wife, and he wanted her now. No one would gainsay him.
Except his bride.
She dug her heels in as people streamed around them, ribald comments and well-wishes coloring the air. “I do not wish to go inside as yet.”
Petulant as a child, Conor thought, feeling the frown stealing over his features. “Whyever not?”
Her lower lip pushed forward in a pout that would have been amusing at a
ny other time. “You promised me a dance, and I shall have it.”
“So you shall.” He turned to the dun once more. “In our bedchamber.”
“No.”
“No?” Surprised that she dared again to contradict him, he let her go.
With a trill of laughter she spun away from him, graceful despite the amount of wine in her blood. “If you think marriage will make me meek and biddable, you are mistaken. Just because you won our duel does not mean you shall have me so easily. You shall have to catch me first.”
She gave him a measuring stare that fired his blood anew. “If you can.”
Taunt still ringing in his ears and too dumbfounded to do aught else, Conor watched her traipse down the path to the lake.
“I’d be after catching her, were I you,” Niall remarked, his wife tucked close under his arm.
Conor glared from his friend to Fionnuala’s all-knowing smile. “Did you coax her to this?”
Niall’s wife gave him an innocent stare. “And would I be doing that to your good self?”
“In a moment.”
Laughter boomed from Niall’s barrel-like chest as he gave Conor a push down the path. “Let your bride lead you on a merry chase, my friend. Have no care for your bedchamber. My lady wife and I shall see that ’tis used proper and get ourselves a Beltaine bairn.”
Still laughing, they turned away. Conor did not conceal his growl of frustration and he headed in the direction his wife had taken. A merry chase indeed. There was nothing merry about trying to run with an erection.
ERIKA BROKE THROUGH the stand of trees circling the pond, pausing to catch her breath. The crisp night air sobered her enough to make her question her sanity, but not enough to return to the dun and seek Conor out. Besides, she was enjoying herself.
Nervous energy skittered along her veins as she found the supplies Múireann had prepared earlier in the day and set them out. More than once in the course of the day she had overheard speculation concerning the virgin sacrifice to the Devil of Dunlough. She knew now, for instance, that no woman had been in his bed since Aislingh’s death more than a year ago. Many of the dun’s women had wondered if that would serve to make a normally painful event even more unbearable.
A mixture of emotions clogged Erika’s being. She wanted Conor’s touch, craved it with everything within her. At the same time she feared the warnings of women more knowledgeable than she. Would Conor hurt her?
Branches snapped as her new husband burst through the trees, outraged and triumphant together. He certainly looked as if he meant to do her harm, if his expression was any indication.
“So, my Angel—you wish to dance?” His voice hummed with want. “Then dance we shall.”
Before she could react he swooped down on her, clasping his hands about her waist. Lifting her, he spun about in a maddening circle until laughter escaped her and they were both dizzy. Yet he planted his feet firmly, and it was a measure of his strength that he was able to set her down slowly, imprinting the front of her body with his own and leaving her unequivocally aware of his aroused state.
“If you wanted to lead me on a chase, my lady, you should have picked another destination,” he chided her softly. “This is the first place I thought you would go.”
“That was my hope,” she admitted as his gaze took in the cushioned pallet, jug of wine, and candle and tinder. “There was magic here, the night you brought me.”
Her eyes lowered as she confessed, “I thought if we returned, I might feel it again.”
Sword-roughened hands slid up her arms to cup her cheeks. “Beltaine is a night of magic. Perhaps enough remains for us.”
The touch of his lips forced her eyes shut against the flare of passion that swept through her. His kiss was a slow melding of mouths that left her breathless. She pressed against him, reveling in the feel of his masculinity, aching for something she could not name.
She barely noted her silver belt falling to the ground, followed by her over-tunic and gown sliding down her arms. It wasn’t until she stretched out on the cushioned pallet that she realized the moment was at hand. Involuntarily she stiffened, then forced herself to relax and hoped he would not notice.
Conor did indeed notice. “Erika.”
Loath to interject reason at such an unreasonable time, he knew if he didn’t make the effort now, he would not be able to later. Besides, his honor demanded nothing less.
He shifted away from her. “Erika, if you do not wish to do this, we shall cease.”
Pale brows knitted. “Why?”
Now his brows knitted. “I told you before, I will not take a woman against her wish.”
“It is not against my wish.” Yet, her rigid body denied the declaration.
A flash of insight had him leaning over her, caressing her cheek. “You are afraid.”
Scarlet crept up her neck to her cheeks. “I am...uneasy. Several of the women told me the first night is not joyous for the woman, especially if she has never... They said it would be best to lie as still as possible, that you would be done soon enough.”
She took a deep breath, then burst out, “If it is so painful, why do some women take coin for it? Surely the payment is not worth the agony?”
Conor struggled for words to reassure her. His last virgin had been his last wedding night, a fact he did not care to recall at the moment. He had not given a thought to his partner’s pleasure before. Now he found himself wanting to hear Erika’s breath catch with pleasure, feel her body hum around his as she found her fulfillment.
“I will not lie to you,” he said. “There can be some discomfort when the maidenhead is breached, but it eases.”
“Do you think it will be worse than a sword thrust?”
Conor felt his lips twist at the ludicrousness of it all. Only his wife would liken deflowering with a sword thrust and mean it literally.
“There are few things worse than a sword thrust, and a wedding night is not one of them,” he assured her. He cleared his throat. “There is also the fact that you have led a life that most women have not. It is possible that your maidenhead was broken before.”
She stiffened, and even in the dark of the night he could see the flash of her eyes. “I have said that I have known no other man. Do you not believe me?”
Of course he believed her. The trepidation in her eyes, the instinctive stiffening of her body were true. “I believe you. It was but a thought, that the harshness of your existence until now may have done damage. I will endeavor not to hurt you.”
She stared at him for the longest time, then cupped the nape of his neck, drawing him to her. Wordless, he took the offering of her lips. Under his gentle coaxing, her mouth opened for him as a blossom for the sun, and he drank his fill of her nectar.
When her arms went about his neck, drawing him even closer as she matched the depth and intensity of his kiss, Conor couldn’t restrain his groan of pleasure. He had to have her. He would go mad if he didn’t.
Rising to his knees, he ripped away his wedding finery. Erika’s gaze was a physical touch to his burning skin and he felt himself swell even more with his need for her.
Her gaze moved from his throbbing arousal to her own body. “Are you certain you will fit?” she asked, worry leaching the passion from her voice. “It seems impossible.”
“Aye, if there’s one thing I’m certain of this night, ’tis that we’ll fit well together.” He lay beside her, claiming her lips as his hand slid from the base of her throat to the rising swell of one milky breast. A soft sigh escaped her as his forefinger teased he delicate pink bud to life, and she pushed her body against his in a wordless entreaty for more.
And more he gave. He forged a trail of kisses from the cleft of her throat to the rise of her breast, branding first one, then the other with his tongue. As she writhed beneath him, his hand commenced a slow glide down her belly to the crisp hair at the juncture of her thighs.
The soft touch at the molten center of her core caused Erika to emit a
muted shriek of pleasure. “What do you do to me?” she asked, breathless. “It is beyond anything I have ever felt!”
He kissed her again, his mouth demanding as it slanted over hers. “I am using the magic of Beltaine to claim you as mine,” he whispered, his breath hot against her cheek. “I will bind you to me with chains of pleasure. You cannot escape me.”
“I-I have no desire to escape,” she confessed, “only to feel—more...”
“More you shall have.”
His hands and mouth seemed to be everywhere at once, tasting her, stroking her. Instinct claimed her as her hips strained against his hand. It was as if she were caught in an elemental storm, buffeted by winds of the purest ecstasy she’d ever known as she hurtled towards the edge of the sea. Fervent hunger rose within her, drowning out all but his name as she reached the ends of the earth and catapulted off into the stars.
In the depths of her release, she felt Conor move above her. “Hold onto me, my Angel,” he compelled her, then entered her with one surging thrust.
Everything froze. Her heart, the night, their bodies. He filled her so completely she could scarce draw breath.
“Erika?” His voice was a strangled whisper. “How do you fare?”
“It is not a sword thrust,” she said, her voice thin. “It is more like being impaled by a spear. Are you done?”
A shudder passed through him, echoing in the depths of her core. “Nay, my sweet, I am far from done.”
Concern for him caused her to forget her momentary and now dissipating ache. “But you sound as if you’re in pain.”
A groan broke from him. “A moment... I did not expect you to be so tight.”
He withdrew from her, slow and measured, and Erika drew in a deep breath of relief. Just as slowly, he flowed back into her. Prepared for pain, she was surprised to discover none. Indeed, in its place was a curious rippling sensation that made her want to melt like springtime snow.
She shifted beneath him, causing him to settle even deeper. A mewling sound collected in the back of her throat as a wave of pleasure washed over her. When Conor attempted to withdraw again, she clamped her arms about him, silently urging him to stay.
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