The Sea King

by Jolie Mathis

  Nothing, he quickly learned. She clasped his hand, and pried it from her. Agitation bloomed on her cheeks.

  "Nay, my lord." She did not turn to meet his eyes. "My curiosity has been duly satisfied. Prithee, allow me to return to the burh. I have duties, and they have been neglected due to your interruption into our lives."

  He relented, easing his hold. Her punishment would come when the time was right. Not here, in full view of his men and the abbey walls. Between his teeth, he expelled the aggression built up within.

  "Your duties will keep." Around either side of her waist he tugged the reins, setting her mare into motion. "This morning you insisted on coming, and so you will complete the journey." Moreover, he could not spare the armed escort. He steered her mount alongside his.

  He thrust his boot into the silver stirrup and crossed over to his steed. Cold air eradicated the warmth their bodies had created against his thighs and chest. He took one last look into her furious, amethyst eyes, and urged his horse away.

  Why did he crave her, despite his knowledge of her duplicitous nature? Each husky utterance from her lips sent a thrill down his spine. The slightest brush of her body sent waves of awareness blazing through him.

  Did she please her lover, or lovers, well? Jealousy reared up within Kol.

  As if to defy him, the princess cantered past, taking a place at the forefront of the party. His eyes followed the straight line of her back into the saddle. His cloak concealed her buttocks, but he'd felt her, pressed against the center of his thighs just moments ago. Warm, soft and feminine.

  Shamed, he bit down a curse. He tugged one rein, whirling his horse about, and set off toward the abbess. She shrank away, but only a step. Bundled in furs, Godric lay in her arms. What would he do when he awoke to find his mother gone?

  Kol removed the crucifix from where it hung at his neck, and laid it upon the tiny form. " 'Tis costly. Consider it my bestowal, in the name of the princess's child. In addition, I leave a contingent behind to defend the abbey."

  "To defend the abbey?" Confusion mottled her expression. "From whom?"

  Kol did not answer. "Keep the boy close to you, always."

  He urged his mount to join the others. His act of contrition had done nothing to empty his mind of that which tortured him. Who about him would suspect that behind his emotionless mask, an amalgam of past encounters pulsed in shocking flashes of black and red. But the flushed female faces, the writhing, sweat-slick bodies were replaced by images of another. A woman he had not yet experienced.

  Into his hair he thrust his fingers, raking a path for the cold along his scalp. Lord knew he no longer needed his damn cloak—or the crucifix. He felt eaten up inside.

  As they rode north, into the forest, he caught a glimpse of his ghosts, dancing in the shadows of the trees. They laughed and taunted, pointing their long, skeletal fingers at the princess.

  Not yours, they snickered. Never yours.

  Not good enough for a mother's love, not good enough for a woman's.

  Chapter 10

  It was late afternoon when Isabel saw Kol signal to Vekell to stop and water the horses. She urged her mount alongside Kol's marshal. "There is a river, just past that copse of trees."

  Vekell's brows raised in question, but she rode on without offering explanation. Aye, she knew this land well enough, though it had been some time since she had visited. It belonged to Aiken of Leswick, the young warrior-eorl who acted as cupbearer to her brother and king. Aiken had also been her betrothed.

  Once they came to the river, Isabel nudged her mare forward to drink. Several of the Danes, after allowing their mounts to take their fill, rode into the forest.

  "Where do they go?" Isabel asked Vekell, who remained close to her, as always.

  "To hunt." He knelt to the ground and lifted his mount's foreleg. From his belt he took his blade, and pried the packed dirt from the animal's hoof. "If you require a moment alone, my lady, now would be the time."

  Without further contemplation she rode in the opposite direction of the soldiers, into the darker shadows of the forest. Finding a sheltered spot, she dismounted. She fisted her hands in her skirts, and almost lifted them, but her eyes perceived a slight movement in the nearby trees.

  A scream arose within her throat.

  There, just a stone's throw away, stood a man, his back pressed against the trunk of a tree. Mud covered his entire body. Through the filth, the whites of his eyes shone shockingly bright.

  "Isabel," he gasped.

  "Aiken." Aiken, the man who had withdrawn his suit after it had become known she carried another man's child.

  For a moment he did not move. He only stared, his expression aggrieved. With one white-knuckled hand, he gripped his sword. With a groan, he slid down the tree to sit at its base. Isabel rushed forward and fell to her knees beside him.

  He groaned. "Tell me... tell me you have not been harmed." One bloodstained hand gripped her sleeve. He still wore his battle garb. Embedded in his mail shirt were bits of leaves and grass. Mud matted his long, golden hair.

  And there was blood, on his braies and splattered upon the leather of his boots. Frantically, Isabel skimmed her hand over his knee, and up his thigh, but she found no injury. When she reached the area of his groin he caught her hand.

  "No." His voice was hoarse, but firm. He clutched her hand so tightly it hurt. "I do not want you to see."

  Though she trembled, she forced a stern expression. "Aiken, you are injured. You must allow me tend to you." She could at least stanch the flow of blood with mud or leaves, and hide him where he would not be found by the Danes.

  He touched her cheek, but his hand fell to his side, as if the gesture had required too much energy. Green eyes burned with physical and emotional pain. "There is naught you can do."

  The resignation Isabel heard in his voice terrified her. While they had not exchanged more than a greeting since Godric's birth, she still cared for this man. Presented to her father's court when she was but fourteen summers, he'd quickly engendered her admiration. And despite the pain his disavowal of their betrothal had inflicted upon her, she had understood his reasons for walking away.

  She pulled his arm across her shoulder and urged him to rise. "Anon, Aiken. You must hasten to the border, as fast as you can. There someone will help you."

  Hewn of a warrior's muscle and bone, he weighed three times as much as she. He refused to budge.

  "Nay," he gritted between clenched teeth. Carefully he withdrew his arm. For the briefest moment, his hand touched her hair. Naked longing gleamed in his eyes.

  This she did not understand.

  "Take her," Isabel insisted, pointing at the mare. Her heart beat erratically with urgency and fear. "Now. You must go now. Soon, they will come looking for me."

  Slowly he stood, bracing himself against the trunk of the tree. With great effort, together they lifted and sheathed his sword. His breath came in sharp bursts, as if his lungs did not allow him to take in enough air.

  "Only if you come with me."

  "No." Isabel shook her head. "The Dane holds Godric and Rowena captive and I will not leave without them."

  Aiken's injuries slowed their progress across the distance to where Isabel's mare stood, her ears alert and twitching.

  "Can you mount? I will divert them somehow, until you have escaped."

  "No, you will not," he hissed, his palm pressed hard against his wound. He avowed, "I would rather die than leave you to them."

  Isabel experienced an almost overwhelming urge to cling to Aiken, to beg him to save her, to find some way to save her son. But she knew to run away would only prolong the inevitable confrontation between herself and the Dane.

  Kol would never let her go. Somehow he considered her a prize. And as she had been the one to unleash him upon the world, she intended to be the one to end his rampage of conquest and terror. Even if she sacrificed her life to the quest, she owed that much to her family and to her people, even if it never bro
ught about their forgiveness.

  With a steady heart, she met Aiken's gaze. "Do not be foolish. Your gallantry is wasted on me."

  It took all her strength to pry his hands from her shoulders. Firmly, she took his chin in hand. In a softer voice, she pled, "Look at me and listen."

  The hand he raised to cover hers trembled, but his voice did not. "You cannot force me to leave you here. What man of honor would abandon you to them? To him? It is him, is it not, Isabel? The beast who—"

  "You must," she insisted. "The survival of Norsex outweighs your concern for my safety. You must reach Ranulf. Tell him the Danes entrench themselves for the long term."

  Aiken pulled away, and turned toward the mare. He gripped the pommel, but did not mount. Instead he rested his forehead against the saddle. Exhaustion manifested itself in the sag of his great shoulders, the raggedness of his every breath.

  Suddenly he turned, his eyes ablaze.

  "Has he touched you, Isabel?" A grimace contorted his face, as if the words were the foulest bile. "Have any of those barbarians touched you?"

  Isabel swallowed hard. In a brilliant flash, she remembered Kol's face above her, the hard planes of his cheekbones reflected by firelight, his eyes burning with need. "No," Isabel lied.

  Beneath the intensity of Aiken's silent stare, Isabel flushed. The smooth skin of his brow furrowed, and his nostrils flared.

  "If I had pressed my suit to Ranulf sooner, we could have been married and perhaps you would never have suffered the Dane's—"

  "No." Fervently, Isabel shook her head. "There is naught you could have done."

  His bottom lip out-thrust, he retorted. "You would not have been out riding that day alone if you had been my bride."

  Isabel laughed, despite her fear that they would be discovered at any moment. "What makes you so certain?"

  "Wildling." Sadness dimmed his smile.

  Aiken had always conducted himself with the utmost formality, both before and after their betrothal. She had never suspected he had such an intensity of feelings for her, and certainly not as strong as the ones written plainly on his face.

  Feelings she had once told herself she felt for him.

  Abruptly he said, "I have delayed in finding a bride because 'twas you I wanted."

  Isabel frowned. "You ended our betrothal."

  "Nay. My king commanded me to sever that which bound us together."

  This revelation stunned Isabel. Why would Ranulf have done such a thing? Nearby a tree creaked loudly in the wind, startling them both.

  "We have no time for this." Isabel tightened the straps of the saddle. "Now, go. You will be of no help to our king nor our people if you lie dead in the forest."

  Forlorn, he swung, with visible pain and effort, into the saddle. Isabel slapped the mare's rump, hard. The horse cantered away. But Aiken whirled the animal about and drew up beside her. He leaned low. His hand caught the back of her head and he pulled her close.

  "I should have fought for you."

  His mouth brushed hers, and then he was gone. Isabel stared after him, her fingertips pressed to her lips.

  "Aye," she murmured. "You should have fought for me. But you did not." She watched until she could see him no more. Then she turned.

  And gasped.

  Kol stood an arm's length away. In that instant, she could not breathe. Her heartbeat drummed over the nearby rush and gurgle of the river. His eyes revealed nothing, no anger, no condemnation. No suspicion. Would he not display all of those things if he had seen Aiken? His sword still berthed in its scabbard.

  She lied to fill the silence. "My horse. She wandered away. I have been searching for her here and there."

  "Wicked animal," he responded quietly.

  "Yes. Wicked. Wicked, indeed." Isabel licked her lips, feigning an expression of concern. "She has been contrary all day. I am not at all surprised she has ignored my calls to return."

  "Oh, yes?" He affixed his blue gaze on her. Inwardly her composure faltered. Had he seen? She felt rather as if he were a wolf, watching her. Making his decision.

  "Yes," she confirmed softly, her voice nearly stolen by fear.

  "Do you ride often?" He took one step closer.

  "Ride?" She blinked, stepping back. With his advance, her mind scattered. What had he asked her?

  "Yes, ride. That day, two winters ago, I saw you riding. Clearly you found joy in it. At least up until that moment your horse tossed you into the river."

  Beneath her heavy garments, Isabel grew cold. The Dane's words tugged her memory dangerously close to the gaping hole of nothingness, a time she did not remember, but which terrified her still. Had he watched her from the forest, like a predator waiting for the most fortuitous time to attack?

  "I am not allowed to ride. Not any longer, not after you—" She looked down, at nothing in particular. Anything but him. Layer upon layer of moldering leaves covered the forest floor. Their earthy aroma rose up to scent the air about them. "Not after what happened. Ranulf does not allow it."

  His voice took on an unmistakable edginess. "You told me earlier you rode often with your husband. Was that not true?" He stepped close. "Did I misunderstand?"

  She grew flustered. "What I meant was that I am no longer allowed to ride without the company of my husband, or without a ridiculous escort, so why do it? The freedom is gone."

  With an unsteady hand she pushed aside a branch and looked very hard into the dense forest, as if searching for the missing animal. Anything not to look at him.

  "I did not take your freedom, Isabel."

  "Yes you did." She whirled to meet his gaze.

  "I did nothing but save your life that day."

  A black chasm spread all around her, threatened to swallow her whole.

  "I don't want to talk about this."

  What was wrong with her? She had wanted nothing more than to confront him about what he had done, to scream her accusations at the top of her voice. But now the opportunity was here, staring into her face with such blue-eyed intensity, she did nothing but shrink from it.

  He did not so much as blink. "All right. We'll talk about something else."

  She stood, fixated by his gaze. As if through a tunnel, she saw his lips move.

  "Was that your husband?"

  The question echoed inside her head with such force she nearly stumbled. Requiring support, she pressed her hand against the trunk of a tree.

  "What?"

  He stepped nearer, and nearer still. "Sitting atop your wicked horse." She stared at his lips. "The man who kissed you. Was that your husband?"

  Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps. His hand cupped her chin, and disallowed her from looking away. The set of his mouth had gone cruel.

  " 'Tis not a difficult question to answer."

  Slowly, with one hand he pulled the mantle from her hair. His eyes fixed upon her mouth. Oh, God. She felt the burn of his stare, the heat radiate from his body.

  "Yes," she blurted, pressing against the tree. "He is my husband."

  Perhaps if he believed she held the status of wife, he would not touch her again, would not awaken the deplorable weakness in her.

  "You would not lie to me?"

  Blood pounded in her head. She barely heard herself whisper, "No."

  He withdrew his hand. Something in his features cooled. "Then I can understand, of course, why you would help him escape."

  He stepped back. "Come. Let us return to the others."

  Isabel hesitated. Was that all? Relief trickled through her veins in tiny, near-strangled streams. There would be no punishment? Of course, the man she despised still held her prisoner, but Aiken would have ridden far by now.

  Silent and brooding, the Dane followed her down the narrow trail. How she craved even the company of his hated Danish warriors.

  They entered the clearing where the others waited. Immediately she sensed a sharp edge of excitement in the air. Some officers were mounted. Their steeds danced and circled about some common q
uarry. Others were on foot. But they blocked her view. They swarmed like wolves on a hunt.

  Her mare wandered nearby, riderless.

  "No. Aiken." In one horrifying glimpse she saw he was there in the center of the Danes. On his knees, beaten and bloodied, a leather noose about his neck. She ran forward, only to be captured from behind. Kol took hold of her forearm and pulled her toward the melee.

  Aiken looked up through the curtain of his hair. Hatred exploded in his eyes.

  "You," he shouted at Kol, springing to his feet. "Do not touch her."

  Isabel cried out, and tried to rush forward, but Kol held her. Isabel watched, sickened, as the men subdued Aiken with a kick to his groin and a tug of the noose. He fell to all fours, groaned, and collapsed facedown in the mud.

  "No," she sobbed.

  Kol pulled her forward, through the gathered circle of warriors. There, he pushed her down, and forced her to kneel beside the fallen Saxon. Cruelly, he did not allow her to touch him.

  Kol crouched between them. He grasped a fistful of hair and lifted Aiken's head. The man moaned, insensible.

  "Look at him," Kol commanded quietly.

  Isabel did look. Beneath the filth, Aiken's skin cast a deathly pallor. She had to do something. She would continue the lie if it would save him.

  "You cannot kill him," she cried. "Please. He is my husband."

  Kol looked at Aiken as if he were a chicken being considered for the pot. Without passion, he murmured, "He will most likely die of his wounds."

  "Then help him. You must have physicians."

  He stared at her, his eyes devoid of sympathy.

  Isabel's anger exceeded her fear. "You said you understood."

  "And that I do." His voice was gentle, but deceitfully so, considering he still held Aiken's head by the hair, one step away from its becoming a trophy. "I understand you have lied to me. That this man is not your husband."