The two men exchanged a glance.
"Would you like to help with the war, Lady Rhona?" Rudolf ventured. He almost sounded like he wanted her to refuse.
Fat chance of that. "My father will not approve."
Lewis laughed. "Old fool. He thinks my son should save you, for what man would follow a hero who got himself saved by a maiden?"
No, her father worried about her. Needlessly. "Something of that sort." It was Grieve she worried about. If she went to war…Grieve agreed with her father. He would not forgive her for going to war, when it was his place to fight.
Lewis jerked his head at Rudolf. "We can blame the victory on the Viken. I'm sure he won't mind."
The Viken looked affronted. A proud prince, this one. "I prefer to fight my own battles, but I am not such a fool as to refuse the help of an ally. There are shieldmaidens among my people, Lord Lewis's late mother among them, who fight alongside their men. If you can assist my army..."
He didn't believe she could. Then he was a fool.
Rhona bit her lip, and the bush behind Lewis burst into flame.
He yelped and ran down to the water, but she sent the fire racing after him, blistering the very sands to glass until the sea steamed around him. "I told you! This witch can burn anything! With her on your side, you can't help but win!"
Witch. Rhona didn't like that word. She fought to find more that would burn in the sand at Lewis's feet, but all she found was a clump of seaweed that sent up a satisfying cloud of steam. She would not help this man conquer her countrywoman. They were Islanders, not Vikens or Albans who used women like slaves. And Lewis was a traitor who deserved to die with them.
There was a whump as Rudolf fell to his knees on the sand. "Lady Rhona, I beg you to help me free the Southern Isles from the invaders. I will give you anything you ask."
It was so easy to say no, but then she would be as much a fool as Lewis. If this man with his three ships prevailed, he would face Grieve. And Grieve would die to protect Portia.
Rhona took a deep breath. "I want all I've ever wanted. My husband. Free him from his oath to Portia, so that he can come home and marry me."
The Viken bowed his head. Understanding lit his eyes. This man had known love, too. Time would tell if it was for Lady Portia, and whether she shared his love. And Rhona would be at his side when it did, to protect her own people if it came to it. Damn Grieve and his stupid pride. It was time for this war to end, and this wolfish Viken had the power to do it. With her help.
Rhona took a deep breath. "What would you have me burn first?"
"Myroy Isle, and every other island where Albans seek to hide," Lewis said, splashing out of the sea. He shrugged. "What? I'm the Lord of Myroy. I can burn it if I want to." Lewis produced a jug from under his cloak and lifted it in a toast: "To winning this damned war!" He drank deeply.
Rudolf held out his hand. "Do we have an accord?"
If Rudolf was to live up to his name, he would have to win this war. Perhaps Grieve need never know the part she'd played. Rhona placed her hand in his. "We do, Wolf Prince."
His fingers closed around hers with a delicacy she had not expected. If it weren't for Grieve, she might actually like this Viken. Perhaps Portia would, too.
But it was too early to think of such things. First, she had a war to fight, and win.
Thirty-Eight
Rhona had seen death and destruction enough for a dozen lifetimes. She'd seen men die screaming, burning, and she'd enjoyed it. Prince Rudolf was the only man who dared stand at her side, or anywhere near her, and he did his best to arrange his face into an expression of battle-hardened watchfulness. But he was still a man, and sometimes he'd feared, sometimes he'd despaired, but more often he cheered in triumph as their growing army won yet another victory over the diminishing Alban army.
For he might be a Viken, but the Islanders treated him like one of their own. What Lord Lewis had told her was true – Rudolf had grown up on the Isles, Rhona had learned, fostered by Lord Angus, though none had known he was a prince then. And he'd fought alongside many of them as a boy, which even Rhona had to admit made him one of them. For who but an Islander fought to defend the Southern Isles?
Albans ran at the sight of him, for his reputation flew faster than an eagle. He slaughtered and burned everything in his path, they screamed, little knowing it wasn't Rudolf at all they feared, but Rhona herself. And she didn't slaughter and burn everything. Just Albans. But she let the stories spread, as stories always did. She laughed when her own people called her the Viken witch, thinking she had arrived with Rudolf. Better that they believe a lie than that she was one of their own. The men of Rum Isle knew the truth, but they kept their lady's secrets. As did Rudolf.
Twice Rhona had seen Rudolf's spirits rise at the sight of a red-haired woman on Isla, only for them to be dashed the moment the women opened their mouths. They were Lady Portia's sisters, identical in all but name and disposition. Rudolf had two of the Little Pigs, but he really wanted Number Three. Who was kept captive in a castle the Albans had dared to build on Council Isle.
When he'd heard that, he'd ordered them to ride without rest until they arrived at the loch. No one had dared argue with the hard Viken. Not even Rhona. This war had gone on too long – they all wanted it to be over.
The sisters rode with Rhona all the way to Loch Findlugan, which made the men keep their distance. They needn't have – the pregnant one, Arlie, spent most of the journey describing the gowns she wanted to make for Rhona. If it hadn't been raining, Rhona didn't doubt the woman would have had a needle in hand, making a start on the first gown while she rode. Rhona had half a mind to take her up on the offer. It would be nice to have a new gown again.
Lina had little to say, except when answering her sister's questions about the cloth bales in Lord Angus' storerooms. But Rhona could feel her eyes everywhere, sizing up the army and the land and everything they encountered. No doubt taking stock so that she might report to her husband, Lord Angus' steward.
Rudolf stayed away when the women were with her, which suited Rhona fine. Every time he looked at them, his eyes burned with a desire that forced him to look away. He burned for Lady Portia, hotter than any blaze Rhona had kindled. If Portia refused him…Rhona wasn't sure what he'd do. That's why she would see this through to the end. Prince Rudolf, the Wolf Prince of Viken, as he was now known, had fought too long and too hard to just give up, and with an army at his back, Rhona might be all that stood between him and Portia, if the girl refused him.
But Rhona would stand, for this war would be all for naught if Portia was forced into a marriage against her will. For the women of the Southern Isles fought for freedom as much as their men, and Rhona would not yield.
When Rudolf sent his envoys across the loch, against Rhona's advice, she considered returning to her tent, not wanting to see if the Albans opened fire on the two helpless women in the tiny boat. But something within her could not turn away, so she stayed. A whisper of magic sent a breeze behind the boat, speeding it to the castle, then swirling back to her, carrying the voices of those inside.
But not the words she wanted to hear.
For the first time in years, she heard Grieve's voice again: "I don't care if they're her sisters or not. If they are soldiers in disguise, then they die on our swords, but if they truly are Lady Portia's sisters, then we'll send them up to the tower with her, where they'll be safe. God knows she could do with the company of a woman again. Keeping her amused is more than I have the wit or energy for, I fear."
Grieve's loyalties had shifted, as Rhona had known they would. He served Lady Portia now. He'd forgotten Rhona had ever existed.
Rhona bowed her head, wiping away a tear before anyone could see it.
"What is it? What's wrong? Is it Portia?" Rudolf seized her shoulders, forgetting in his panic who she was.
Rhona eyed him coldly. "Your Lady Portia is in the tower, soon to be joined by her sisters. So safe her guards have little to do but amuse
her."
Rudolf's breath whooshed out of him. "Thank the heavens for that. For a moment, I thought…"
He remembered himself and released her.
"Forgive me, Lady Rhona." The Wolf Prince bowed regally. "By this time tomorrow, our alliance will be over, and the war will be won."
Rhona wiggled her fingers. "I could set fire to the castle from here, if you want it to be sooner. The walls are stone, but there is enough timber in there to burn."
His eyes widened in horror. "You cannot! Portia is in there, you said. Safe. You can't risk…and what of your man? The bargain we made? If he is dead, then he is freed of his vows, and I release you from yours."
Oh, the bitter gall, that both Portia and Grieve lived, and neither she nor Rudolf would be reunited with the ones they loved, for the pair no longer loved them. She had killed plenty of men, but she would not be the one to rip Rudolf's beating heart from his chest.
"He lives, too," Rhona said shortly. "Until tomorrow, then, Wolf Prince."
Thirty-Nine
It was strange to have a tent to herself again, but Rhona lingered there as long as she dared the next morning. She toyed with the idea of avoiding the noon peace council, but in her heart she knew she could not.
The Wolf Prince believed the cowardly Albans would surrender Portia. If she was lucky, Grieve would be among the girl's honour guard. Rhona could remain in the background and watch unseen as she saw how things played out between Portia, Grieve and Rudolf.
But when the boat landed, there were three armoured men aboard – no women.
Rudolf appeared as impassive as ever, not showing the surprise Rhona knew he must feel at not seeing Portia with them.
They came ashore, removing their helms as Rudolf did. That's when Rhona clapped both hands to her mouth to stifle her cry. The cowardly Albans had sent Grieve to treat with Rudolf in their place, without Portia. They'd sent him to his death.
Rhona had chosen a place where she could not hear them, and no magical breeze would carry their words across the whispering of half an army. She began to shove her way through the men, intent on hearing what was said. Grieve's last words, if that's what they were.
She would not let them be, she vowed. Even if he now loved Portia instead of her, she would not let him die.
A sword scraped out of its scabbard and Rhona lost patience. She sank her teeth into her lip, and magic blew a path for her to the lakeshore.
"Sheath that thing, you bloody fool!" she shouted, running toward Grieve.
His eyes widened. "Rhona?" Down came the sword, and his eyes lit up.
Rhona could feel the fire inside her, ready to burn the world twice over in Grieve's defence. Thrice, if he loved her still.
"You lay one finger on this man, Wolf Prince, and our alliance is over!" She marched past Rudolf and took her place at Grieve's side. No man in Rudolf's army would rise in his defence against her.
Even Rudolf hesitated. He looked at Grieve for what was likely the first time. "Who are you?"
Before Grieve could speak, Rhona snapped, "He's Grieve Lewisson, my betrothed, and the head of Lady Portia's personal guard." She half expected him to wince at her words, but Grieve merely nodded. Rhona turned to Grieve. "Why have the Albans sent you to negotiate?"
The men behind Grieve burst out laughing. "What Albans? They've all fled, like the cowards they are. Even Mason, when we shut him out. Council Island and the castle belong to Lady Portia."
"No. It belongs to my husband."
Everyone turned to stare at the newcomer. Her red hair was a banner of flame brighter than anything Rhona could conjure, marking her as the lady herself. But as she approached, Rhona found it hard not to laugh. The third Little Pig indeed, for Lady Portia's gown was caked in mud to the knees.
Then Rudolf's eyes lit up, brighter than her hair. He mustn't have noticed the soiled gown as his oh-so-majestic lady made her muddy way along the lakeshore. He'd gone to war for her. Men had died for her. More men would die for her, if this war went on. One muddy girl.
A girl who hid behind her guards, and Grieve. No longer. Rhona fixed her gaze on the girl, willing her to show some sign of why they had all fought so long and so hard.
"My husband." When Portia repeated the words, she laid her hand on Rudolf's arm. She'd placed herself opposite Rhona, so that their eyes met.
Rhona expected curiosity, or hostility…something that told her Portia had no idea who she was facing.
But Portia's face lit with a friendly smile. "Lady Rhona." Then she offered her cheek.
But she did not leave Rudolf's side or take her hand from his arm, all the while her gaze held Rhona's. In order to give Portia the kiss of peace custom demanded, Rhona would have to approach and bow her head to kiss the shorter girl.
Portia knew nothing about Rhona. Not her power or her rank or…anything. Every man present feared her, holding their breath as they waited to see Rhona's response, yet Portia smiled on, oblivious.
"It is a pleasure. I have heard so much about you," Portia said, glancing at Grieve.
Or not oblivious.
With one glance, she said it all. She knew all about Rhona's magic, for Grieve had told her, but she was Lord Angus's daughter. A politician, like her father before her. In her father's absence, Portia stood as ruler of the Isles, but she recognised Rhona's power over Rudolf's army. Between them, they held the power to end this war, unite everyone present, and bring peace.
Rhona would drop to her knees and kiss a pig for that. But Portia was no pig. She was a lady who outranked Rhona. A lady who winked, the moment Rhona's lips left her cheek, as though they were the best of friends sharing a secret.
They had done what countless fighting men could not do. Two women had ended a war with a kiss.
"I look forward to your wedding. You must sit beside me at the feast to celebrate mine. Of course, you and Grieve must sit with us at the high table. I insist." Portia's eyes were on Grieve as she said this. Either she enjoyed his pain or…was there nothing between her and Grieve, after all?
Rhona dared to hope.
"My lady," Grieve breathed. It wasn't clear which lady he was speaking to, as his eyes darted from one to the other.
Portia lifted her eyebrows. "I hope you mean Rhona, for I'm not yours any more. Protecting me is Prince Rudolf's job now."
Of course. Her marriage released him from his vows. Grieve was free.
Portia lifted her and Rudolf's linked arms, raising her voice in a warcry that would have made any general proud. "Isla is ours!"
The army – her army – echoed her words, over and over until the valley rang with a woman's warcry. As it should be.
Rhona felt a timid tap on her shoulder.
Grieve stood there, the only man among them not cheering. "I am no longer needed. Is there any chance…would you still be willing…I mean…"
"You'll marry me today, or not at all, Grieve Lewisson. I've waited long enough, and there's a priest hereabouts who will say the words for us, or I'll light his boots on fire," Rhona said.
"But what will your father say?" Grieve asked.
"Who cares, as long as you say yes?"
Of all the men present, Grieve alone had the power to crush Rhona entirely.
She moistened her lips. "If you don't say yes, I give you fair warning I'll light your boots on fire. I'm getting really good at that."
Grieve laughed. "You need no magic to light me on fire, my lady. But you have always known that. If you wish to be married today, then I will do everything in my power to grant your wish. The war is over. It is past time that you are wed."
"You're telling me." Rhona would have said more, but Grieve caught her in his arms, and her mouth was soon too busy for anything as dull as words.
Forty
Father Fintan was only too happy to perform the ceremony, boasting that he'd officiated in the prince's wedding to Portia, only last night. When Rhona finally said the words that she'd dreamed about for so long, she wasn't sure who was ha
ppier – her or Grieve. The priest pronounced them husband and wife, then dropped his voice to a whisper to tell Rhona he would happily counsel her on the duties of marriage at any time, especially after the wedding night.
Rhona just laughed. "If my husband has forgotten how to please me in bed, I'm not the one you'll hear it from, Father. I'm not sure Grieve will confess it to you, either." She seized Grieve's hand. "Come, husband, we have a wedding feast to attend."
The camp was strangely empty, though the tents crouched like ghosts in the moonlight. Everyone else was in the castle, and the sounds of merry feasting carried across the water without the help of a breeze, magical or otherwise.
"The only feast I want is you." Grieve's words hung in the air, tantalising, tempting. Too much to refuse.
He tugged her into his arms. His embrace and the kiss that followed felt as natural as breathing – all things she wanted to do for the rest of her life.
"To my tent, then," she said, leading the way. She entered, waving her hand to light the braziers that turned the tent from chilly to bearable. She heard a clink behind her. Grieve's sword belt, most likely. He would not need it here.
"I have some wine here somewhere. It is not a bottle of Father's best, but…"
"Perhaps after, my lady. I am drunk on you already."
No one spoke to her as sweetly as Grieve. Oh, how she'd missed that. Rhona whirled, wanting to see the love in his eyes as he looked at her.
He tugged off his hose and stood naked in the firelight. Her husband. War had only improved him, turning lean, boyish muscle into the harder, muscled man before her. Everything she could ever want.
Grieve laughed. "I seem to remember I was the one lost for words, seeing you naked. Have the tables turned?"
"I…" The fire began in her belly, coursing through her veins until it flamed in her cheeks. She'd never needed a man more than she wanted Grieve now. "I need to feel you inside me, Grieve. Now."
"Then let's get you out of this gown, for I've dreamed of you every night since the day I left." His hands didn't fumble as he unlaced her gown and had her out of it before he'd finished kissing her. Her shift vanished, and now she was naked before him. He carried her to the bed, fingers caressing her even as he kissed her. There was none of the boyish nervousness from before. Now, he played her body with the deft strokes of a masterful man.
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