With Dragons She Walks

by Darby, Brit

Edwin’s smile faded and he stepped closer to Thorvald. “First, you will show me proper respect. I am no longer a mere priest, but an ordained bishop now. I will send you to hell, or wherever it is heathens go, but first I have further use for you, old friend.”

  Thorvald chuckled. “Still plotting to claim Tynemoor, Edwin?” he scoffed. “How is it you have failed to marry or kill Moira in all these years?”

  Edwin glared at him. “I am a sanctified holy vessel of the Church and cannot take a wife, as you well know. As for murder …” a shadow crossed his face, “… the thought is not without its enticement, but the Celt bitch made provision with her kin. If she is not faithfully heard from on a regular basis, the MacGregors will revenge themselves upon any suspects.”

  “She always was clever.” Admiration tinged Thorvald’s words.

  Edwin smiled again. “Not clever enough, methinks. I have found recourse at last.”

  “Ja?”

  “Aye. Bloodthirsty Vikings shall plunder Tynemoor again, but this time, none shall be left alive.”

  Thorvald sensed where this was headed and scowled. “I am no vikingar any longer.”

  “You are what I say you are,” Edwin shouted, turning to pace feverishly, his bishop’s robes swirling around his feet. “We struck bargain before, Norseman, when you agreed to stop plundering the towns and abbeys on my watch to convince the people I had the power to protect them from heathens. Might I remind you, you even took a hefty commission to steal the holy bones of St. Fergus Cruithneach from Glamis, then dared not to deliver them to my hand.”

  “Ja, in exchange for my son. The son that turned out to be a girl,” Thorvald snarled. “You did not deliver on your end, so did I withhold your heart’s desire. How my pagan curs enjoyed gnawing on your precious martyr’s bones.”

  Edwin stopped pacing and there was a long silence. He seemed immune to Thorvald’s glare. He pressed a plump beringed hand to his lips and made a sound curiously like a giggle. The high-pitched snigger raised the hairs on Thorvald’s neck. Something was twisted in this man, he knew.

  “She never told you,” Edwin said. It was his turn to sound admiring.

  “Told me what?”

  “You’re right, heathen. Moira is clever. More clever than even I gave her credit for.” The bishop gasped with laughter, fondling the enormous crucifix around his neck. “I do not think I will tell you yet. No — no, I am savoring this moment far too much.”

  STARING AT THE VIKING, Edwin thought of the years he’d been banned from his rightful home. It should have been his birthright, his inheritance. Not snatched from under his nose by the bastard son of this pagan devil.

  The old bitterness raged inside Edwin, twisting and turning into a gnarled, vengeful wrath. Years ago, he found out about the Viking raid and guessed Moira’s shame. His suspicion was only confirmed years later when Moira’s personal priest lay on his deathbed, begging for Edwin to perform Viaticum, the last rites. Father Benedict was too weak to take the Eucharist on his own, so Edwin quite enjoyed holding communion barely an inch above the dying man’s lips, teasingly out of reach.

  “Tell me what Lady Fetherstone confessed,” Edwin said, again and again, for Father Benedict was a stubborn old goat.

  Benedict shook his head, gasping, “The seal of the confessional is absolute, absolute!”

  “Maybe in God’s world,” Edwin mused. “But this is my world.” He brushed the bit of bread across the old man’s mouth, delighted by the way he groaned and lipped at it, desperate for absolution. “Tell me,” Edwin hissed into the dying priest’s ear, “or be forever denied the glory of eternal life.”

  Benedict finally broke. Sobbing, he told Edwin that Moira had confessed her sins, acting the whore to this savage. A moral woman would have killed herself rather than submit to such shame, Edwin decided. Gleefully, he went and told John, smugly certain his brother would toss the slut and her Viking spawn to the streets.

  But John was so bewitched by Moira, he chose to forgive her sins and claim the bastard twins as his own throw. He even threatened to tell Rome about Edwin’s perversities if he whispered so much as one word of ugly scandal about his children. Aye, witchcraft it was, and Edwin itched to prove it to the Church, especially after John died. He was eager to expose Moira for the cunning harlot she was.

  It was wrong, an abomination against God for Lachlan to claim pure Anglo-Saxon blood when in fact the bastard was a mongrel, a mixture of a lowly Scots whore and a pagan savage.

  Aye, wrong! He did not count on Moira’s resourcefulness. By bringing her powerful kin to bear on Lachlan’s behalf, she effectively castrated Edwin’s plot for years. But, at long last, he had the power to declare his brother’s marriage null and void by virtue of his position and connections in Rome. Yet, even that was not satisfaction enough.

  Remembering how the villagers stood by their lady, choosing her rule over his own, he was determined to make them pay. Tynemoor must burn, purged in the holy cleansing fires of righteous revenge. If Thorvald would not cooperate, he would find others who would for pay or plunder.

  Edwin paced feverishly, so deep in thought he was startled when Thorvald spoke.

  “You forget my men. Gunnar’s actions will not keep my loyal crew from searching for me.”

  Edwin enjoyed smashing Thorvald’s last hope. He waved a hand dismissingly. “Oh, it seems your faithful men are none too bright. They were easily convinced to accept your sad fate. A body was shown to them as proof of your death. You see, part of the bargain I made with your captain was to kill you. Gunnar never suspected I might not.

  “Of course, by the time your body was discovered, murdered and discarded along the shores by some unknown assassin, you were quite disfigured. It seems a few creatures had dined upon your carcass and face, but enough personal effects remained to identify the body as yours. So you see, Jarl Thorvald … no one will come looking for you.”

  Thorvald’s guttural snarl made the hair rise on the back of Edwin’s neck, and he was glad the savage was sufficiently restrained.

  “How much danegeld did Gunnar get for his betrayal?” Thorvald growled.

  Edwin laughed, the sound echoing in the dismal stone chamber. “None. That’s the beauty of it, Norseman. He wanted your daughter. Nothing more. It hasn’t cost me a quid, just her virginity.”

  It appeared Thorvald was about to choke on his rage. Edwin saw murder in his old adversary’s eyes and exulted. The savage warrior was still there. Good. Now all he need do was shift the pagan’s fury from himself to the unsuspecting folk of Tynemoor. The resulting bloodbath would be quite satisfactory.

  It was perfect. Finally, he would be rid of that scheming bitch Moira and her puling halfwit son. And it had cost him nothing. Fortune was truly with him when he spied Thorvald in Constantinople. He would have to thank Hadley for insisting he go along on the tiresome journey.

  Hadley. He was an amusing distraction, a handsome young man with an adventurous and greedy nature. But, as with most of the men who paraded in and out of his life, Edwin was getting bored with the boy’s looks and mincing ways. If he had learned one thing in all his years and many lovers, there was always another waiting in the wings. Or the confessional.

  Already fresh prospects came to mind. Ripe, virginal, and fearful, a combination ready to please. Once he claimed the earldom for Mother Rome and was appointed archbishop of Northumbria, none would dare gainsay his yearnings.

  Without another word, Edwin left Thorvald to contemplate his demise, while he went to contemplate his own depravities. Just conjuring them in his mind made him seek Hadley out.

  Chapter Eight

  THORVALD STILLED. HE WATCHED Bishop Fetherstone leave his cell, the feeling of helplessness unfamiliar. He didn’t even blink. He feared if he did, he might lose his mind to Loki, to the pure hate and rage that swelled and filled his entire being. Gunnar’s betrayal hurt him, but now he felt as if his heart were being torn into pieces, pierced by despair.

  Over and over during thes
e long days, he pondered why. Why would Gunnar turn on him? He was more generous with his crew than most merchants, and especially so with Gunnar, treating him like one of the blood sons he no longer had, favoring him by placing him captain above all others.

  Never had he imagined Gunnar’s desperate act was driven by lust for Cailin. Never had he dreamed Gunnar’s desire for her was so great it would seduce him into treason and murder. He knew the man loved her, and he would have blessed their union if Cailin returned the sentiment, but she did not.

  Cailin. All these years Thorvald knew he had taken her for granted. He did not beat her and she was given every comfort his wealth provided. Yet, he failed to give her what he knew she wanted more than anything in this world: a show of faith. She had needed him to value her as he would have a son. When Cailin asked to be made captain, he had laughed. He told her women did not captain ships and gave the position to Gunnar instead. He remembered the pain in her eyes, the disappointment and hurt.

  Now it was too late. This realization weighed heavily on him. And, if his ignorance hadn’t been enough, his stubborn, pigheaded ways now put her life in jeopardy. Gunnar would return to Hedeby, bent on claiming Cailin, either by charm or harm. He feared the latter, for he knew her disinterest in the man. There was no one to protect her, no one to keep her safe. Hulda was elderly now, and if Gunnar’s lust had driven him to murder, he would hardly fear an old woman’s curses.

  Why? Why did he see this now? Now … when he could not help Cailin?

  Had he known all this, he would have given his best ship to Gunnar if he would leave her in peace and go far away.

  “Odhinn,” Thorvald lifted his head to Asgard, the heaven he saw in his mind’s eye. “I am the greatest of fools. Punish me, I care not. I deserve your anger and dismay. Allfather Odhinn, Rune-Master, deny me a valiant warrior’s death, deny me the Valkyries and entrance into Valhalla. I ask only that you protect my daughter, watch over Cailin; be to her the father I failed to be.”

  HER TREMBLING HAND TOUCHED the flame to the candle. It flared to life, moving, dancing to the ancient rhythm of love.

  “As this candle flame grows bright and ever grows much higher, Freyr, Lord of Love, please bring me Love’s ever-burning fire.”

  Cailin turned to see the Dragon before her, twisting, turning, its dark, golden eyes hypnotizing her. Its tail wrapped around her and drew her close, its flames scorching, burning … her body felt set afire.

  “Then as the flame does flicker low finally to depart, Freyr, Lord of Love, please give to me a true love, heart to heart.”

  The Dragon’s blaze consumed her, leaving only a pile of ashes to mark where she had stood. Yet the candle still burned brightly.

  Startled, Cailin woke to darkness, except for the glowing coals in the fire pit. It took a moment before she was fully alert and absorbed her surroundings. She sat up in the sand, putting the strange dream aside in her mind.

  At the movement a soft moan escaped her lips, as the aches reminded her of their long, difficult journey at sea. Looking around, she saw Leo sleeping nearby, curled up on his side with arms wrapped around himself for warmth. She glanced around for Drake.

  Nothing. He must have already gone his own way. She pushed the disappointment away, along with the dream and the emotions it stirred.

  “Are you hungry?”

  A soft, deep voice startled her. Cailin looked at the ring of rocks that sheltered them. She saw the shadow of a man, reclined against one of the larger boulders, legs outstretched and arms crossed over his chest.

  “Yes,” she said, then crawled over the soft sand to a closer spot until Drake’s features came into view. “I see you found the food.”

  “Aye. We saved you a crumb or two.”

  “Sorry I collapsed. I’ve never felt so tired.” Cailin felt embarrassed at having fallen into such a deep sleep. Drake handed her the portion of bread they had saved for her. She bit into it hungrily, glad for the excuse to focus on something instead of the brooding man beside her.

  When she looked again at Drake, she saw his shadowy profile, staring out over the dark night, as if studying some unseen object. “You were exhausted. You held your own, lass. No need for apology when none is expected.”

  “I …” Cailin cleared her throat of the dry bread, “I expected you to be long gone.”

  Silence was her reply.

  She tried again. “You said you’d not help me.”

  “What makes you think I am?”

  “You’re still here.”

  “Aye.” He sounded disgruntled. With himself or her?

  Cailin felt frustrated. He was not making it easy. Still, she plunged on. “What is it you want of me, Drake Talorcan?”

  The shadow turned back to her. The meager light from the red-hot coals cast a glow over his face, and she saw his golden-amber gaze studied her, judged her. “Perhaps I want more than you are willing to give.”

  “I gave you your freedom — your life. What else can I offer?”

  His sharp intake of breath warned Cailin she touched upon a sensitive subject.

  “You gave me my life? My life has never belonged to anyone, save myself. Despite the shackles that bound me, despite the slaver who bartered me, I belong to no one.”

  “I-I did not mean t—” Drake grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her closer, stilling Cailin’s words, his breath hot upon her cheek.

  “No, you did mean to … your intentions are clear, milady. You intend to make me feel a false obligation for your generosity and kindness. You force me to give aid when I want no part of it. That is exactly what you mean to do.”

  Drake saw a flash of fear in Cailin’s eyes but he was beyond anger, beyond reason. Just the nearness of her made him tense. Since she had appeared in his life she lingered firmly in his mind, planted deep and stubborn as a weed. She haunted him with her beauty, her soft sensuous voice – her odd lavender eyes. Why had this woman come to cast him into hell?

  Had it been so long since he held a woman in his arms that he would put all reason aside just to be near one? Despite the drenching rain and briny seawater they endured, he still smelled the scent of her; alluring, subtle. The scent of home. Our-lady’s-tears.

  Damn her. Drake closed his eyes; even touching Cailin in anger was torture. He told himself she was but a woman like any other, one he should not trust. Despite his agony and frustration, he pulled her closer, into the iron circle of his arms. Cailin leaned against his chest, so close he felt the heat of her, and her trembling. His anger melted away. Gods, he suddenly wanted this woman, hungered for her more than life itself. When he spoke, his voice was raspy.

  “You asked what more you can give, Cailin. Are you sure you want to know?”

  She said nothing, staring up at him with apprehension.

  Drake caressed her cheek with his finger, the feel of her silken flesh acting as aphrodisiac to his already spinning senses. “I want you,” he whispered hoarsely, his need so great he thought he might die from the sudden ache in his loins.

  CAILIN’S WORDS REMAINED FIRMLY lodged in her throat, and she was unable to speak. The pulse at her temples beat at a fierce pace; Drake’s touch created both searing pleasure and equal pain inside her.

  When she did not bolt from his arms, Drake’s lips sought hers, at first lightly skimming flesh to flesh. Then his mouth descended upon hers, taking her silent offering, his tongue seeking hers. As the moments fled, she felt his kiss deepen, pulling from her the response he demanded.

  This was not like the cruel kiss Gunnar forced on her. This was different; there was desire.

  She leaned closer, molding against his hard, muscular frame. His hand wrapped about the curve of her neck, massaging, causing sensations she never experienced before. His sensuous touch melted her into him. Yet, as the flame inside her grew in intensity, she wanted more … needed more.

  Her own hands hesitantly caressed, then fondled him in a brazen way. Drake’s body felt chiseled from rock. The ridges moved whe
n he moved, his muscles flexed involuntarily beneath her exploration. Cailin’s hand slid up beneath his tunic and she felt the ripples of his flat stomach. Hard satin. Even the scars she felt breaking through his flesh like lightning bolts intrigued her. He was a beautiful man. A man she desired with every ounce of her being.

  Boldly, Cailin moved and kissed Drake back, an unknown desperation waking within her. His callused fingers found their way beneath her wool tunic and discovered the soft roundness of her breasts, teasing, taunting the nipples to hardness with his thumbs. Losing patience with the confines of her clothing, Drake pulled her tunic from her.

  The night’s coolness chilled her, goosebumps kissed away as Drake’s mouth found a nipple. He suckled on her like a babe, and a languid warmth quickly dispelled the cold, pooling at the center of her being, drawing at her womanhood, rousing an ache deep inside till Cailin felt in agony. A demanding need made her help him as Drake tugged off her trousers.

  He shucked his own clothing so quickly Cailin didn’t even have time to miss his touch. His hands demanded she respond in every way a woman could, his lips created a blazing path of fire as he moved down over every inch of her body. Slowly, he both taught and tortured her in the exquisite ways of love and lovers.

  Yet, it wasn’t enough. Cailin no longer reasoned; her mind was cast into a spinning realm of desire. She wrapped her legs about his waist, urging he come to her, join with her as one, and satisfy her longings. She instinctively understood her need would not lessen until he was deep inside her.

  The dream came back to brush Cailin’s mind with its meaning. The golden eyes of the Dragon watched her, his fire consumed her. She belonged to the Dragon. Now and evermore.

  Drake plunged into her softness, the pain it caused unheeded as the pure need carried her with him. She felt his hardness fill her void, his passions driving him deeper, deeper, her own responded and demanded even more. Lost to the sensation that lifted her, spiraling into oblivion, on and on, round and round, till she shattered, then drifted to earth once again.