The Sea King

by Jolie Mathis

  "Yes?" she demanded.

  His next words, though spoken softly, cut like a blade. "Why, Isabel, if you must know, 'twas the king himself."

  With a sharp laugh she challenged his claim. "My brother despises outsiders, especially Northmen, and would never have invited you, let alone an army of raiders, into the kingdom."

  His blue eyes darkened. Smoldered. "'Tis not your brother of whom I speak."

  Not her brother?

  Isabel's mouth snapped shut with a click. Her father.

  At this, the Dane grinned darkly and turned on his heel. As he crossed to the door, he hooked the heel of his boot against the edge of the water bucket and tipped it onto its side. Liquid spread like molten amber across the floor to dampen the tips of her once-scarlet slippers. From the table he lifted the linen Vekell had brought into the room and tossed it in a high arc. The bundle landed in her lap.

  "Cleanse and bind your wound. No doubt the ditch surrounding this burh swarms with the vilest pestilence."

  Isabel looked down at the sodden shreds of her clothing and sniffed. Heavens, she did smell foul. But he had kissed her still.

  Shadows hid his eyes. She saw only his lips as they moved. "The salve you spread upon my back... use it if you have it still."

  "Wait!" Isabel commanded, unease sharpening her tone. "My son. When will he be returned to me?"

  Kol's long fingers clasped the edge of the door. Beyond him she saw the shoulder of a warrior who apparently had been posted to guard her door, but Kol moved to shield her from any outward view. "Until you wish to divulge Ranulf's whereabouts, you and I have no further cause to speak. Until that time, you may consider the boy... well, you may consider him to be mine."

  As the door closed, the blood drained from Isabel's face.

  Invited. He had been invited, damn her to Hell.

  Angrily, Kol stripped to his braies and stood before the fire, allowing its heat to cauterize the rush of blood and emotion still raging, unchecked, through his body.

  In the distance, waves crashed against Calldarington's shoreline. Even now, the wooden floor seemed to move beneath his feet, in cadence with the ocean.

  Slowly his breathing returned to normal. So long ago, he had taken command of his anger, harnessed its energy to work for his benefit alone.

  So what had just happened?

  "Bolvadur sé hún," he muttered. He had simply wanted to tend her wound. To dress her in dry, warm clothing. Instead he had allowed himself to be provoked, and he had become exactly what she had called him. A barbarian.

  Remembering the insanely fierce surge of desire he'd experienced for the perplexing young woman from his past, he rubbed his palm against his forehead.

  Alone. Alone. It was best he remain alone. He and his silent companions. Even now they danced on the wall, shades doing their very best to haunt him. Always there— in reality or as creations of his frozen conscience, he knew not—those remnants of souls he had sent into the afterlife. He had never attempted to make peace with them. Why trouble himself, when more would be added to their ranks? As was his custom, he ignored them. To acknowledge them in any way would make them real.

  Instead he turned his attention to the mundane. He perused Ranulf's chambers. He had slept in better. He had slept in worse. The bed was large enough for his frame, and that was all that truly mattered. Sleep and seclusion were the only two luxuries he insisted upon for himself and his demons.

  The day had been long. With steady hand he hung his hauberk and helm upon the wooden armor tree that had been Ranulf's. He folded the remainder of his clothing in an orderly bundle, and set his boots beside the fire to dry. Upon a stool he sat, the flames warming his back. With reverence, he oiled his sword and sheathed it in its scabbard. He commanded no servant to tend to his armor, to stoke his hearth.

  He had always been alone and had somehow grown to prefer it so. Upon his birth he had been an unwanted child. His slave mother had cast him into the snow to die. Raised ever since by men of war, he was never without companions, without a brotherhood.

  But somehow, always alone.

  Finally he examined himself for injuries, running his palms over his abdomen, shoulders, and thighs. 'Twould not be the first time he discovered an injury without first suffering so much as a slight irritation. His fingertips lingered upon the narrow gash upon his cheek, laid there by the princess in her fury. Each scar upon his body was a mark upon the path toward an inevitability he had long since given up trying to escape. This time he found no injury greater than a scratch.

  Too easy. He was somewhat disappointed at how easy the taking of Calldarington had been. He had walked the rows of the Saxon dead, not once, but twice. The man he had come to challenge did not lie among them. Coward, to run and hide when the others died for him. For their families and their land.

  Kol took up his knife and polished its blade. Tomorrow he would lead a force into the uplands in search of Norsex's craven king.

  And once Ranulf had been eliminated—what then?

  Although Kol's future held no happy ending, he could no longer ignore the wishes of his men. They could accompany him on his quest only so far. The rest he would travel alone. Perhaps soon he would truly be alone. In recent years his men had grown less satisfied with the mercenary way, despite the riches it brought. He smiled. He could not imagine Vekell as a simple farmer, married and with children.

  Children. The smile faded from his lips. A memory of the princess, holding her child close, came forth from the dark place in his mind. Long ago he had renounced the pain and regret that came with the knowledge he would never sire a child of his own.

  But something about this place challenged his inner peace.

  'Twas her.

  He moved toward the far side of the room to stare at the wall that separated them. She was there. Even with the thick barrier between them, he could feel her. He even imagined her scent transient upon the night air, sent aloft by the warmth of her beauty and hatred.

  In the king's prison he had lain like a child with his head in her lap as she prayed over him. She had touched his face and hair with gentle hand. Her tears had dampened his skin. He did not understand. How could that benevolent girl have grown into the woman who now occupied the chambers next to his? The same one who glared at him, all the fire inside her dead except for the flame of hatred?

  Kol frowned at the tapestry on the wall, a hunting scene. The huntsmen were narrow, weak-looking men, with no more collective prowess than a flock of pea fowl. Mentally he named each of the scrawny hunters "Ranulf.

  Surely the princess had known he would return.

  No warrior of substance could survive the bloody injustice he had and not return to seek vengeance. To do so in this age would mean only cowardice.

  In his mind she had been preserved as a simple young creature, pure and chaste. The woman with whom he had reunited today was complex beyond his understanding.

  "Who are you?" he said to the wall that separated them.

  A huntsman moved. Kol was sure it had. Clearing his mind of all else, he stared at the tapestry. Again there was a wavering, slight but sure. Fisting his hand in the cloth, he ripped it from the wall. Her fragrance swirled about him, lavender and mint. He'd smelled such on her skin, and in her hair, when he'd held her close.

  He passed his hand over the timber. Coldness came through, and yes, a faint glimmer of light. He bent for a closer look. The hole was small, almost imperceptible in the dark mortar between the stones. Perfectly round, it had most certainly been bored on purpose. He stared at the peephole, a portal to her sanctuary. He ran his finger around the edge, his mind circling the possible explanations.

  Powerful men spied upon those whom they did not trust, that much he had experienced during his travels into the courts of the Franks and the Byzantines. Perhaps, in the past, visiting dignitaries had occupied the chamber, and the king had felt they required clandestine observation.

  Or... could Ranulf have secretly observed his own
sister? Nay, surely not. Just the thought made him uneasy. More likely the old king, Aldrith, had enjoyed spying upon his young queen, who, years before, had most certainly occupied the comfortable chambers next door.

  Kol stared at the hole.

  To look would be no weakness. After all, the hole could be used to spy upon him. Surely there had been a corresponding hole in the tapestry and if he were to lift the cloth and take the time to look, he would find it. Only a fool would decline to probe further.

  Without further deliberation he bent and peered inside.

  He saw light. A scant moment later his vision focused and he saw what lay beyond. The trestle and the hearth. But that knowledge registered only vaguely.

  She stood beside the overturned bucket. Naked.

  His mouth went dry. Low in his belly, it began. A slow, exquisite burn that spread to and filled his loins with molten flame.

  Her skin shone flawless in the firelight's glow. She lifted a strip of linen to her arm. Shadows etched the delicate lines of her ribs, and shaded the undersides of two full, pink-tipped breasts.

  The moment she turned away he suffered crushing disappointment, but was rewarded with the sight of her unbound hair. He remembered it. The slippery-clean feel of it against his cheek as they had struggled. Its scent, lavender and mint.

  Darkly, the silken curtain fell over her back to tease his eye, just above her rounded—

  Kol whispered a curse and stepped back from the peephole, his body raging with fire.

  Her deviant, damned half brother had spied on her. What other purpose could the peephole have served?

  He closed his eyes, but the memory of her nakedness remained scorched upon his mind. He should never have looked. He was no better than the one who had created the hole.

  And, damn himself to Hell, all he could think of was how much he wanted to look again.

  He stared at the opening.

  Kinsman or saint, he was neither. In truth, he suffered a pitiably small conscience when it came to lust. Of the sins he had committed, this would be among his least.

  With his fingers splayed against the stone, he bent and peered inside again. Isabel pulled a long, pale gown over her head. He snatched only the briefest view of her softly curving buttocks and long legs.

  Isabel turned. She stared directly at the wall. At him. Surely she couldn't see him.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  With a hiss, Kol closed his eyes.

  Exercising more effort than he wished to admit, he stepped back. As far away from the hole as he could remove himself.

  He fell back on Ranulf's bed and stared at the ceiling timbers, a crucifix above him.

  Of course she would cry. Had he expected otherwise? She was a woman. Her home had been attacked, her loved ones defeated and killed. He had taken her child from her. And perhaps a beloved husband.

  And he would change nothing if given the chance.

  Closing his eyes, he immersed himself in the same self-taught meditation he had practiced since he was a child. He willed the blackness to consume his insides; his mind, heart, and soul, until he felt like nothing more than a shadow, transient upon the earth. Indifferent to the lot which awaited him in the coming days.

  When he at last saw nothing, he slept.

  And dreamt.

  She came to his bed, her eyes brilliant as jewels against her white skin. There were no more tears. She gleamed with fearlessness. He smiled. She smiled in return.

  He saw the glimmer near her breast.

  'Twas no dream—

  As quick as an asp, his hand shot up to halt the dagger's murderous plunge.

  Chapter 5

  "How—?" Kol demanded, squeezing her wrist. The tip of the blade quivered just above his bare chest. What of his guards? How had she breached the security of his chambers?

  The princess peered down, her cheeks aflush, her eyes wide. Her upper lip twitched into half of a smile but behind, her teeth were clenched.

  "I had an inkling you fancied knives, Thorleksson." With a tug she attempted to free her wrist. "So I brought you another."

  Beside him, she crouched upon the bed, all curves and hazy softness. The glowing hearth, behind her, gave her a surreal glow. Two slender feet peeked out from the hem of her linen gown. How pretty she was.

  God save his soul. He felt nothing but excitement with her bent above him, blade in hand.

  "Who are you, Isabel?" Kol stared into her eyes. With one stiff shake of her wrist the blade clattered to the floor.

  He arose to one elbow. "The suffering princess or the brave warrioress?"

  Her smile grew by a hair. "Neither, Norseman."

  "Then what?"

  She bent low, so close he felt the quiver of her breath upon his lips. Silken tresses caressed his shoulder. Deep within his chest something staggered, and he recognized it as the beat of his heart. With gentle pressure, he pulled her hand to his chest. Cool, slender fingers splayed across his skin. Her pupils were huge. Fear shone in her eyes, but was he wrong to believe he also saw exhilaration?

  He lifted his head, just a fraction, and brushed his lips across hers. She exhaled, then murmured, "Your executioner."

  And in that instant her other hand swung up. Though he could not see the blade, he knew—

  "Isabel!" he rasped, stunned by her ferocity.

  Instinctively he deflected her attack, and at the same time scuttled back, up the mattress. His senses exploded in shock as his own weapon plunged between his legs, a hair's breadth from her original target.

  His loins.

  While he gaped, stunned, the princess tugged frantically at the blade, trying to get it free. Her knuckles brushed heavily against him. In one white-hot flash, blood surged into his member. A half-moan escaped his lips.

  The princess ceased her struggle and stared at his groin. There, the hilt of the blade protruded rigid and phallic. Color suffused her cheeks.

  The sight of her fingers, slender and white, around the shaft—

  Jesu.

  Kol felt heat flush his own cheeks. Dismayed, he clasped his hands over hers and, by proxy, took control of the weapon. Clenching her hands tight, he yanked the blade free and hurled it to the floor. God, how he wanted to put his hands on her. He pulled her forward, into his lap.

  She shoved against him, all elbows and rigidity. "Godric is mine. I will kill you before you take him from me."

  She attempted to scramble away, but he flipped her onto her back and with his own body pressed her into the bed.

  "I do not want the boy."

  Liquid-onyx hair fanned out around her shoulders, and rippled with each arch of her body. Beneath him, Isabel let out a low groan and set about shoving him off. Easily he held her, peering into wild, violet eyes. While she might want nothing more than to slay him, he could only imagine lifting her tunic to ease the erection presently wedged between their bodies like an iron pikestaff.

  "Nei." He caught her clawing hands beside her head, weaving his fingers between hers. "I do not want the boy. Nor do I want Norsex."

  Her eyes widened. "You lie. Every word you speak is a lie."

  For a woman she displayed fair strength, but he aligned his thighs against hers. "I want only Ranulf."

  Her linen gown twisted about her body and gaped at the neck, revealing the round swell of her bosom. Desire, heavy and thick, mottled his thoughts. "Perhaps now I want more."

  Some things were fated. He knew that truth too well. Why should he fight this? Isabel could be his, for as long as his destiny allowed.

  As she lay trapped beneath him, he drew the backs of two fingers over her cheek. Emotion flashed in her eyes, but she did not turn away. Against his naked chest, he felt the beat of her heart, as rapid as his own.

  "Your husband, does he live?" Though he spoke her language, for a moment she did not seem to understand. Dark lashes lowered, shutting him out.

  "Aye."

  Along the delicate line of her collarbone he brushed the same two fing
ers. She gave a shallow gasp.

  "Then why is he not here, tearing down timber and stone to save you from me?"

  Her pale skin blanched a shade more white. Through the fine gossamer of her gown, he felt her nipples against his chest and his mouth went dry.

  His control weakened. "Do you honor him?"

  The princess did not answer. His eyes roamed her face. How he wanted to be inside her, to drown himself in her crushed, tragic beauty. To consummate the hazy web of emotion between them, to experience the intensity of their unspoken connection as they made love. The dark fringe of her lashes fluttered, and her eyes closed. Beneath him, he felt her tremble. She tugged her hands free. What she did next sent his mind into a dizzying whirl.

  Her hands bracketed his face. She lifted her head and brushed her lips over his in a kiss as soft as a butterfly's blush.

  Oh, God. He closed his eyes, not believing. Pleasure surged through him. The world disappeared. He was left with nothing but the invitation of her body, warm and pliant, beneath his. Her sweet scent, all around him. Her mouth grew bolder in its foray.

  Impatient to taste her completely, he thrust his tongue inside, vaguely aware of her uneven breath, her hands clenching his upper arms.

  With a low groan, he fisted his hand in her hair and gently arched her neck back so that he might test her delicate skin with his lips, and his teeth. In the back of his mind, there rang satisfaction: He would have her in his enemy's bed. He smoothed a hand over the firm swell of her breast.

  Isabel arched. "You will return the boy to me?"

  Kol grew still. Slowly he drew back and looked into her face, knowing, with a sudden and complete blackness of heart, what he would see. And indeed, he did see fear and hate, manifested in the tremble of her lip and the pallor of her skin.

  She used her body as barter in an attempt to regain her child. Kol had never felt such self-disgust.

  Fate? He nearly laughed out loud. Nay, 'twas merely blind lust on his part. Cursing, he lifted himself from her and backed away.

  "But I am willing," she insisted in a low voice. "I will do as you wish if you will return my son to me."