Lord of the Wolves

by Heather Graham

  “But then—”

  “But then I found myself wed to him.”

  “But …”

  “Aye?”

  “You"re so happy!” Melisande exclaimed.

  Erin tapped her head, and Melisande ducked beneath the water, rinsing her hair. She emerged again, staring at her mother-in-law. Erin nodded, a small smile curving her lip. “Indeed, if I could wish a blessing on any lass, it would be to live as sweet and rich and full a life as I have shared with him. We have had our times of tempest. To this day we are both willful and stubborn, and he does have a fearsome temper. As do my sons … But, as Mergwin will tell you, wolves are wild creatures. They hunt, they thirst, they prowl restlessly in their quests. But most often …”

  “They tend to mate for life,” Melisande filled in. “They are fiercely loyal.

  Creatures who band together, care in a strange way for one another.” She looked up at Erin, and Erin smiled again. Melisande felt a snowy linen towel set atop her head, felt it rubbing her hair. She felt a gentle kiss upon her cheek.

  “I"m very glad that one of my wolves has you, Melisande. His growl is rough, but remember the creature beneath!”

  Erin left her then. Melisande stepped from the tub, rubbing her body dry. She found a soft clinging gown, and sitting before the fire with her brush, finished drying her hair and easing the tangles from it. She was thus engaged when she heard the door open again, and when she turned, Conar stood there.

  He leaned against it, watching her. She paused, watching him. He crossed the room, his hands falling upon her shoulders for a moment. “Continue, my love, I like watching you so.”

  She tried to continue, but she discovered that her fingers were trembling, and she didn"t want him to see that it was so. He stood by the mantel, stripped of his helmet and mail, striking in his linen shirt and tight chausses.

  “Conar,” she murmured softly.

  “Aye?”

  She looked up at him, suddenly fighting a wealth of tears again. “I"m sorry that I came here. I never did so just to defy you. I truly felt that one of us must be here; the Danes were ravaging us as well as Eire.” He came to the chair where she sat, lowered himself to one knee, and stilled her hands in her lap. “Melisande—”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Aye! You were wrong, and I was wrong. And I was furious and acted like a wild dog. But it doesn"t matter now. When I discovered you missing, I had never known a greater fear. When I thought of Geoffrey with you, I wanted to rip him to shreds with my bare hands and teeth.”

  She shook her head, her eyes wet. “I was so afraid that you wouldn"t come for me! That you might think that Geoffrey made the mistake, seizing me.” He laughed softly. “Nay, lady, never. But come to think of it now …” She lifted the brush as if she would give him a good whack. He snatched it from her, coming behind her to pick up long tresses and pull the brush through them.

  “The Irish put aside their wives if they choose to do so,” she reminded him.

  “Ah, does that mean you recognize I"ve Irish blood within me?”

  “A trickle.”

  He grunted. She fell silent for a moment, feeling the gentle luxury of his hands upon her hair. “Conar, they were wonderful!” she said suddenly. “They sailed here, all of them, coming to our aid.”

  “Aye.”

  She turned and met his eyes. “Your father is quite incredible.”

  “Aye.”

  “Of course, so is your mother.”

  “Of course.”

  Again a silence fell. She could hear the sound of the fire crackling and that of the brush moving through her hair.

  “Odo wants you to ride with him again immediately,” Melisande told him.

  “We won tonight, Conar, but you cannot imagine. The Danes cover us, seeking Paris, invading the rivers, the isles. We are in dire trouble here.”

  “Aye, I know.”

  “I don"t want you to go with Odo.”

  “I will have to,” he reminded her.

  “And I—”

  “You will be an obedient wife for once,” he told her.

  Her heart skipped a beat. “You"ll send me away again—”

  “Nay, not if we shore up the walls to an extent where I am happy and if the fortress can be made battle-ready. I don"t believe the Danes will tarry with such a difficult position now. Geoffrey is gone.” He was silent a moment. “And my son should be born here.”

  She felt a burst of happiness within her. Her fingers were trembling again.

  She knotted them in her lap.

  “Hmm,” Conar murmured suddenly.

  “What is it? Are you thinking of the battles to come?”

  “Nay, lady,” he said softly. “I was thinking of this ebony tress of hair. I was thinking of stroking it over my own bare flesh, watching it create a tangle of black silk around us both …”

  Once again her heart seemed to skip a beat. She inhaled sharply as he came around, dropping down on one knee before her.

  “Does such a sweet vision have possibilities?” he inquired, eyes as endlessly blue and piercing as a sunlit northern sky, a gentle curve to his lip.

  “You"re asking?” she whispered.

  The smile deepened, and he shrugged. “I"d hate to give up all my Viking tendencies, but aye, love, at the moment I am asking.” His voice went hoarse.

  “You did have a difficult evening. But then again, so did I, come to think of it.

  Imagine, my mother worries so about you! Does she give a care to what injuries I might have sustained in the rescue?” He sighed. “The world is not always fair.”

  She laughed. “Milord, I could have told you that years ago!”

  “Well, milady?”

  She rose smoothly, drawing him to his feet before her. “Bathed and perfumed,” she whispered softly, and she brushed his lips with a kiss, then walked before the fire. In an easy movement she loosed her gown from her shoulders and let it drift to a soft white puddle at her feet, then stepped from it.

  “Charming,” he murmured.

  “I am running out of clothing.”

  “How intriguing.”

  “Your shirt, milord.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your shirt.”

  “Oh.” Swiftly it was over his shoulders, tossed atop her gown.

  “The rest.”

  “As you wish it.”

  In seconds he was naked. Golden, gleaming muscles rippled handsomely in the firelight. She surveyed him fully, her breath catching at his loin, finding it just a bit difficult to force her eyes to rise coolly to his once again.

  Arms crossed over his chest, arrogant in his nakedness, he watched her now with keen interest.

  “And now?”

  She came toward him. He would have caught her, but she eluded his arms.

  She came behind him, palms working over his back, lips delicately falling upon old wounds and scars. “Bathed and perfumed …” she repeated. She came on tiptoe, kissed his neck, teased his earlobe. “And ready and willing …” Her hands brushed upward over the hard muscles of his buttocks. She pressed against him, the tips of her breasts rubbing erotically against his back, the ebony hair at her triangle mercilessly teasing his flesh. Then she slipped around him once again, arms rising around his neck, body flush to his, lips just a breath away from his.

  “Ready, willing … hungry, aching, eager …”

  His mouth ground down upon hers, his tongue plunging, plundering, seeking, passionate, fierce. She found herself swept up into his arms, both weak and exhilarated with excitement. She met his eyes again as he carried her to their bed, kept her gaze locked with his as she landed hard, he atop her.

  “Dying!” she whispered. “Entreating, needing—”

  His kiss cut away her words. His fingers curled into hers, driving them high against the bed. The length of his body seemed to meld to hers, then his hands were over the length of it, large, bold, creating fierce blue fires where they would roam. His palm ground against
the downy triangle, fingers slipped in it, found its cleft, rubbed, stroked. She moaned, twisting, crying out his name.

  Again his mouth covered hers. Then rose just above it.

  “No sane man, Irish or Viking, would ever set aside such a wife!” He assured her passionately.

  Her eyes widened. She laughed at the teasing smile that curled his lip.

  Then her laughter was cut short, her breath stopped, for he was suddenly plunging within her, deep, deeper. A gasp escaped her, she shivered and trembled with the sweet impalement of her body. After a moment he began to move, and in time the movement became a wild ride, rocking her, sweeping her. Her arms clamped around him, his hands were upon her buttocks, kneading, rousing her to greater heights. She arched, writhed. His mouth closed over her breast as he loved her, his hand slid down to press against her mound even as his body thrust hard with hers.

  Her climax swept her, sweet and shattering. She clung to him, lips upon his shoulder, teeth lightly biting. A low moan escaped her even as rigor seized him and he held himself fiercely above her, then thrust so deeply, it seemed that they must indeed be one, the liquid mercury of his body searing and sweet as it entered hers.

  He fell to her side. Seconds later she felt the light, tender touch of his fingers moving gently over her arm. “Could I possibly hear those words once again?” he murmured. “Eager, hungry. Wild. Indeed, and all from the same lovely witch who loathed me not a full day"s time ago!”

  “You test your luck, Viking!” she warned softly.

  “Ah! And there"s my vixen again.”

  She rolled, straightening upon her arms, to stare into his eyes. “Truly, Conar, for many things I am sorry.”

  His hands slid along her arms. “Truly, Melisande, you must not be. I would not love you so deeply were you any other than the vixen you are!” She gasped, lowered her lashes in a great sweep over her cheeks, and met his eyes again. “You … love me, milord?”

  “Only a blind man could not see it,” he answered solemnly.

  “Nay, my lord! You might have deceived the most far-seeing of men—and women!”

  “Do you think so?” he inquired lightly, lacing his fingers behind his head to study her.

  “Indeed. Perhaps …”

  “Well, you have never spoken those words before. You are surely aware that I sometimes need to hear things more than once!”

  He rose, sweeping her into his lap and stroking long damp strands of ebony hair from her face. “I love you, Melisande. Deeply, dearly. I thought that if I were to lose you, I would long for death, for the sweet harbor of a Christian heaven, or the halls of Valhalla. I was never quite sure where it all began, for you were so wild and independent and hostile—and disobedient! Yet always there was within you that sweet simmering of courage, that endless spirit, that sensual beauty, sweeping around me, seducing me, capturing my heart. I love you. Have you heard me now?”

  “Oh!” she breathed softly. She touched his cheek, the hard, handsome planes. “I"ve heard you.”

  “And what of you, milady?”

  “I love you!” she whispered.

  “Ah, so simple! After such a declaration!”

  She smiled, a small smile at first, then a sweetly wicked one. “Nay, never so simple!” she cried. And she pressed him back upon the pillow, her lips touching his, his throat, his fingers, his chest. “I love you …” She inhaled deeply. “Need you, crave you, seek you, adore you—”

  “Ah, lady!” he cried, and took her into his arms.

  The day had dawned, yet those gentle words were repeated over and over again, and day or night did not matter, for there, then, in that room, they clung together.

  And loved.

  Epilogue

  Fall, A.D. 887

  The days were growing cool. By sunset on a night like this, the air had true crispness to it, and the water at the stream was actually cold. Melisande didn"t mind. She loved the chill feel of it against her feet, for her feet always seemed to be uncomfortable these days.

  She lay back against a tree with gnarled old roots that stretched right into the water and stared up at the dipping branches. The leaves were beautiful. The dying sun touched them with a brush of fire, and the colors were radiant, orange and gold, yellow and red. Soon they would begin to fall as winter came, die along with the waning year. But what a year it had been.

  The Danes had set forth upon an astounding invasion as summer came. They came by the thousands—some estimated as many as thirty thousand invaders, though their numbers were multiplied by mercenaries, Swedes, Norse, any who would join them. They choked the rivers, they came up the Seine, they laid siege to Paris.

  Three times assaults came against the fortress. Three times the invaders were swiftly repelled with bombardments of oil and arrows.

  Melisande governed the defenses along with Bryce, for her brother-in-law, so like her own blood and so very loyal to her husband, had chosen to remain with her, a self-appointed protector for those times when Conar must be about on other business. Conar had carefully planned their defenses, taught and advised her, and stressed the importance of every action. But Conar had not been there only once when they assaulted, and that upon the morn of the last attack, for he had ridden at Odo"s side, and it was well that he had done so.

  Louis was not in Paris when the siege was laid. The Vikings had devastated Rouen and then moved in upon Paris. There Count Odo, Bishop Joscelyn, Conar, and perhaps another two hundred barons defended Paris against seven hundred Viking ships and their numbers. Paris burned, orange clouds touched the skies. But the defenders held the city. The Danes went on to ravage much of the countryside, and Paris lay under siege for a year, but Odo and his men turned them back each time they might have taken the city. The warfare was endless, yet despite it, and despite the dangers, Conar did manage to come home. And when he did, it was always a heart-stopping occasion for Melisande.

  Even as time went on, she discovered that her heart still beat too quickly each time she saw him riding home to her, the sweet fire of Wodin raced through her limbs, and she would die to be in his arms.

  He always managed to find a way to come home when it was really important. He was there in the late fall of 885 when his son was born, and he was the one to insist the boy be another Manon, for her father, Manon Robert, and yet somehow the babe came to be known to them all as Robbie.

  Her son was all that she had expected him to be, all that Conar might have commanded he be.

  His eyes were sky blue, his hair a deep, rich, sun gold. He was a big baby, hale and hearty from the beginning, and the strength of his lusty wails kept them all laughing within the household. Conar had been there through all her long hours of labor, down in the hall—drinking with his father, for Erin and Olaf and Daria had also managed to return for the birth, along with Mergwin. In the midst of absolute chaos, happiness had managed to reign. Conar was determined to be at her side, even when she had called him every dastardly name that would come to mind, and Erin had assured her that it was quite all right, it was the one time she could call him anything she desired and be immediately forgiven for all.

  She did call him many, many things. He nodded, agreed with them all, and allowed her to curl her fingers around his knuckles so hard that they might have shattered. He held her when she cried out, when she struggled. He held her even when she swore that he should let her go.

  And he smiled and reminded her that he would never, never let her go.

  And in due time, with him holding her still, the babe was born.

  To Melisande, every unhappiness in the world was forgiven, everything became a taste sweeter, a bit more beautiful, the moment Robbie entered her life. The family doted over him; poor Marie de Tresse was distressed to find that she never had the babe to herself.

  Conar adored the lad, and the most wonderful times of all were those precious moments when they would lie with him, together on their bed, marvel at his fingers and toes, and weave their own tales for his destiny.

>   Sometimes Melisande almost felt guilty for finding such sweet happiness when so much of the country suffered. Hers was a wonderful home, where Ragwald and Mergwin sat for hours discussing the sky and the stars, chemistry and medicine—and the future. Everyone enjoyed Robbie, and the household was filled with life and warmth. Not even Melisande could remember its being so before.

  She wished her father might have seen his fortress now.

  The terror that ravaged France did intrude, however, for Conar would come home and ride away again. But by the end of 886 Louis the Fat managed to return to Paris, and though Odo demanded the king take a strong stand, Louis paid the invaders danegeld for promises from them, and they turned around and devastated the countryside further.

  Count Odo was hailed for his actions, as was Conar. From being a foreign prince, he became one of the most popular of the Frankish nobles, known the countryside over as the Lord of the Wolves. Odo granted him further tracts of land, and though the Danes remained to plague them, their Danish power was disbanded, and they knew the strength of the fortress and kept far from it.

  Erin and Olaf had not stayed with her too long when Robbie had been born, but they were back now, and Olaf was out riding with his grandson, a lad now nearly a full two years old. He was not far, Melisande knew. Even now, she didn"t dare stray too far from home unless she knew someone was near. Conar had been gone several days now, in deep consultation with Odo and other barons, and she missed him dearly and yearned for his return. Her father-in-law, knowing her love for the stream, and fully aware that winter would soon keep her away, had suggested he accompany her and Robbie here. They had carried bread and cheese and skins of goat"s milk and wine to enjoy beneath the trees.

  But now those two had gone, and she was alone, able to stare up at the branches, to cool her feet, to doze, to dream beneath the glorious blaze of colors.