by Phoebe Conn
Celiese smiled politely as the introductions continued, but before she had time respond, Aldred took her arm and led her down a long corridor and left her in front of a wooden door.
“Do not bother to knock. Simply enter; my son is expecting you and will be ready.”
Feeling abandoned, Celiese drew on the courage that had brought her this far. While a ruse, marriage offered the prospect of hope and an escape from near endless numbing fear. Her choice was an easy one, and she pushed open the heavy door. At first she thought the chamber was empty.
“Mylan?” she called in a whisper, afraid she might offend her future husband. But what if he were truly as hideously disfigured as Olgrethe had feared? He had not come to his father’s dock to meet herâwas he unable to ride? Did he spend all his time hiding in darkened chambers? If so, would she be able to conceal her revulsion for even one minute, let alone a lifetime? She would have to.
“I am here, Olgrethe.” When he turned toward the window only his silhouette was clearly visible, the bright outline of a tall man, powerfully built but lean, his broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist and narrow hips. He was leaning against the back of a sturdy chair, favoring his right leg slightly as he stood gazing out toward the sea.
“What they have done to us is unpardonable. Our fathers have sealed their bargain with our lives, but I am a grown man, not a child who must do his father’s bidding. You need not marry me today, nor ever. I will release you from whatever promise you have made.”
She approached him slowly, her lingering apprehension lessened by a curious fascination, for the rich timber of his deep voice was mellow and very pleasing, even though his words held a bitter sting. “Mylan.”
“No! Listen to meâif you will not refuse this match, then I will refuse you! I want no bride who has been forced to take me sight unseen. I want no part of our fathers’ wretched pact!”
Certain how horrid her fate would surely be should she have to return to Raktor’s home, she gathered her resolve and reached out to touch his sleeve lightly, but she felt him flinch before he drew away. “Mylan, please, will you not look at me while we speak?” She held her breath, terrified of what she would see as he turned slowly toward her, but as the light of the sun illuminated his face she gasped sharply, for she had never expected Mylan Vandahl’s appearance to provide such a startling shock.
His thick tangle of bright curls shone with copper highlights, yet his finely drawn brows and long eyelashes were dark. His eyes, which widened in surprise as he looked down at her, were the same sparkling light brown as his mother’s, topaz in hue, with a compelling shine she could not resist, and she exclaimed with genuine delight, “Why Mylan, you are so very handsome, why would any woman refuse to marry you?”
Mylan frowned as he reached out to touch her silken curls. “You are very young, little more than a child, but how can you think me handsome?”
She moved closer, turning so the light fell fully across his face. The scar crossing his left cheek was a slight flaw in her view, but she was no stranger to the pain filling his level gaze. She reached up to touch his cheek lightly, her fingertips tracing the thin scar with a delicate caress. “Your features are perfect, as finely carved as the most proficient sculptor could fashion, your coloring so unusual and attractive, why would this small scar disturb you so greatly?”
Mylan stepped back into the shadows as he drew his tunic over his head. He tossed it aside as he moved back into the light so she could see him clearly. The skin of his broad chest was horribly scarred, as if he had been flayed alive by some vicious giant who had lost interest in mid-task and pressed his victim’s flesh back into place with no effort to make the pieces fit properly.
Celiese swallowed the painful lump filling her throat. “You must be very brave to have survived such a painful ordeal, and surely courage and spirit are far more important qualities in a man than mere physical beauty.”
“This is not the worst of it.” Mylan brushed her sweet comments aside rudely as he gestured impatiently to the grotesque ridges that crisscrossed his torso. “My right leg looks no better, the short distance I can walk I cannot traverse without limping badly, and I still tire much too easily.”
She stepped into his arms and lifted her fingertips to his lips to silence his confessions. “Scars matter so little to me, and you will recover your strength in time. If you do not want me, please speak the truth now, but do not wait for me to refuse you, for I will not do so.”
He stepped back, confused by the ready acceptance of the lovely creature before him. Her hair shimmered in the sunlight with a sparkle that nearly blinded him, but her large green eyes were cool, her open appraisal of him as curious as a child’s. There was not the slightest trace of fear in her sweet expression, only a quiet anticipation, not the revulsion he had come to expect from a woman. Why was she so different, her perceptions so acute?
“How old are you, Olgrethe?”
Celiese smiled shyly. “I am seventeen. I hope you will not think it too advanced an age to be your bride.”
Mylan’s troubled expression broke into an easy grin as he laughed at her teasing. Her unexpected humor amused him greatly, and his spirits rose to match hers; “The only daughter of a sworn enemy, I thought you would be spoiled. I expected you to be eager for an excuse to avoid our marriage, for I was certain you would hate me, if not for who I am, then for what I have become.”
“And what is that, Mylan? You will have to explain what you mean, for I see only a man, and a most handsome and brave one.” She was amazed by how simple a matter it was to converse with him. She had hoped only to find a place in which to live as a free woman, a refuge from the lusts of Raktor and his brutish sons, a home she had been willing to share with any man. But the one who stood so proudly before her was not only attractive, but also pleasant and bright. That she was deliberately fooling such a fine man filled her with shame.
She looked up at him, her head tilted at a saucy angle in Olgrethe’s favorite pose. “Well, will you not respond? Have you decided to send me home or make me your wife?”
He frowned thoughtfully, then leaned back against the chair he had used for support and folded his well muscled arms over his bare chest. “I am still considering the matter. Turn around so I might have a better look at you.” He regarded her critically, looking her up and down slowly, assessing her fair beauty with a practiced eye as she turned, then taking her small hand in his he sat in the oversized chair and pulled her down across his lap.
“Mylan!” She struggled to rise, but his arms encircled her waist with the force of steel bonds. “Is this your answer?” Her lips were a few scant inches from his as she spoke, and, although she tried to lift her gaze to his, she found the curve of his enchanting grin irresistible. When he raised his hand to the nape of her neck to draw her near she made no effort to fight him but relaxed in his arms, a willing prisoner in his strong embrace as his mouth brushed hers with the lightest of touches before lingering in a far more demanding kiss. She had not expected such tenderness from a Viking and drew back, her cheeks flooding with color.
Mylan chuckled as her pretty blush deepened. “I think your beauty surpasses even Raktor’s boasts, for your face and figure are perfection. You seem to possess wisdom far beyond your years, but has no one taught you how a man likes to be kissed?”
She looked away. She hoped he was teasing her, but Raktor had never permitted any man to be alone with Olgrethe, nor had the young woman ever longed to be kissed, and, taking that knowledge as her cue, she replied softly, “Raktor is very strict, he would not allow such a thing.”
He wound his fingers in her silken curls to force her gaze up to his. “You call your sire by his name, is he so formidable a man you dare not call him father?”
Too late she realized her mistake, but she could not bring herself to call the hateful villain her father. “I call him by many names, but he is a most worthy adversary, and I do not take his commands lightly.”
“Is that meant as a warning?” Mylan’s golden eyes narrowed. “If you find me to be less than you had hoped as a husband, can I expect Raktor to punish me for my faults? Must I live only to please you or suffer the consequences at his hands?”
Raktor was last person in whom she would ever confide, no matter what sort of husband he proved to be. “No, you are mistaken, I issued no threat. I have left my home and will make my life with you, and you need never fear you will suffer any pain for accepting me as your wife.”
She spoke those words although she could not honestly give such a promise. Her very presence in his home was a lie, and she had scant hope she could win his love if he ever discovered the truth. She feared she had failed to please him, and as tears filled her eyes she tried unsuccessfully to hide them. “If you do not want me, Mylan, please say so now, it would be far better for both of us if you did not hide your doubts behind excuses.”
Mylan’s gaze grew puzzled. The young woman who sat perched so calmly upon his left knee was the most perplexing creature he had ever met. He stroked her soft silver tresses lightly as he tried to consider which was the wisest course, but he found her stunning beauty a serious distraction to any coherent contemplation. She had the sweet, trusting heart of a child, and he had hurt her. She had been willing to accept him, in spite of the grotesque horror his badly torn body presented, and he had been most ungracious. He had no fear of Raktor, surely the man’s bellow was no more than the howl of the north wind, annoying but doing no real damage. He chuckled to himself then. What punishment could Raktor inflict to equal what he had already suffered? He lifted his hand to tilt the lovely girl’s chin and spoke softly as he leaned forward.
“Kiss me like this, Olgrethe, open your lips.”
She obeyed hesitantly, not knowing what to expect as he drew her near. The expanse of his chest was warm to her cool breast and she rested her hands lightly upon his broad shoulders. His kiss was light, as gentle as before, but as his tongue passed between her lips she grew frightened and drew away.
“Please, please don’t.” Her heart pounded so wildly in her ears she could scarcely think, and although she saw his lips move she could not make out his words. He appeared to have nothing in common with the Torgvalds, but as his arms tightened around her she was terrified, desperately afraid of the affection he appeared determined to give. When the door flew open Mylan relaxed his hold for a moment as he turned to look over his shoulder, and she seized the opportunity to leap to her feet and back away.
Aldred Vandahl laughed heartily at the intimate scene before him. “I do not have to ask what you have decided, Mylan. It has been far too long since I’ve seen a beautiful woman in your arms, but can you not wait until Olgrethe is your wife?” He crossed the small chamber swiftly, and taking the young woman’s trembling hand firmly in his turned toward the door. “Come, child, you must dress. Raktor will accept no excuse for postponing the ceremony beyond the agreed upon hour, as indeed, neither will I.”
Celiese glanced back at Mylan and was shocked by his furious stare, but whether his anger was directed at her or his father she could not tell. She clung tightly to Aldred’s hand as she was swept through the door and out into the hall where Thulyn stood ready to assist her.
Chapter 3
“Come, Olgrethe, your bath is waiting, and I fear it will grow cold.” The friendly woman led Celiese up a short flight of stairs into a small, well-lit chamber. “Here is your trunk. The silk and wool of your gowns and tunics are exquisite, but then, Raktor is very rich, is he not?”
Celiese nodded as she began to remove the jewelry the man had provided that morning. “Is Aldred not also? The fabric of your gown is as sheer as any of mine.”
Thulyn smiled, pleased by the young woman who would become her son’s bride. “You are bright, Olgrethe. I did not expect such a daughter from Raktor, yet you possess both grace and spirit. I pray you will give Mylan many sons.”
Celiese paled noticeably at that remark and turned toward the steaming tub prepared for her use. “Thank you. I am happy to have pleased you.”
Seeing the pretty young woman’s discomfort, Thulyn feared she had offended her, but she misunderstood the cause. “I know your mother is long dead, but you do understand the love between a man and a woman? If you lack all such knowledge, I will explain as best as I can.”
While she considered how best to answer, Celiese pinned up her hair so as not to dampen her long curls. Thulyn seemed so sincere in her inquiry, so eager to offer advice, and she turned slowly, a demure expression gracing her lovely features. “My aunt Helga described the act when I first became a woman, but not how to accomplish it. I am most dreadfully ignorant in the ways to give a man the greatest of pleasures. Is there something you could teach me so I may please your son?”
Thulyn smiled graciously, happy to have won her future daughter-in-law’s confidence. “I am certain Mylan is pleased with you already. Your beauty would delight any man, and he will be a far better teacher than I could ever be. Now step into your bath before the water loses its warmth.”
Celiese smiled shyly and tossed her new green gown aside with the carelessness Olgrethe had always shown and sank into the waiting tub. The heated water enveloped her in a luscious warmth, and she had no desire to hurry. The longer she remained soaking contentedly, the more time Raktor would have to fill Mylan with mead so he would joyfully welcome her to his bed.
Despite her fear of other Viking men, she had liked the golden-eyed Mylan from the moment they had met. She could not only accept him, but surely in time come to love him. She would have to fool him though, not merely for a few days and nights, but for the rest of their lives.
“Why, Olgrethe, you’ve no need to weep.” Thulyn stepped closer, her voice filled with sympathetic concern.
“No, I am not crying.” Celiese splashed her face with the warm water until her tears were lost from the perceptive woman’s gaze.
Unconvinced by her denial, Thulyn persisted in her efforts to reassure her, “Please, Mylan is such a fine man, he will never mistreat you. Do not be afraid of him, nor of what your life will be here, for it will be as pleasant as the one you’ve known.”
Thulyn’s promise had been meant as encouragement rather than a threat, and Celiese knew the considerate woman had no idea how terrifying a prospect it truly was. “Yes, your son seems most kind.”
Thulyn sighed wistfully. “If only you had known him before the tragedy. His smile was as bright as the rising sun and his laughter never ceased. He can be that man again with your love, and that is why my husband pressed him so strongly to accept this marriage.” Hesitating, Thulyn realized she had revealed too much, “I mean….”
“I understand. Mylan told me himself he was not eager to wed, but I will do my very best to make him happy.” Celiese was overcome with longing, for Thulyn reminded her of her own dear mother. She wanted so desperately to be loved and protected once again, to be surrounded with the joy she had once known rather than the endless peril that had forced her to use all her cunning merely to survive.
She wished she were marrying a man she truly loved in a ceremony attended by her own family and friends, but the beloved world of her parents was gone, ground to dust beneath the Vikings’ bloody tread. The bride she should have been would never have come to Mylan Vandahl, and the danger in her present path closed in upon her with a dread so deep she could not hide a shudder.
Pretending she had grown chilled, she stood up, letting the warm water drip from her slender figure before stepping out of the tub to take the towel Thulyn offered. She dried off carefully before selecting the gown Raktor had given her for the wedding. The glistening ivory silk was shot through with golden thread, and the garment shimmered with the seductive glow of moonlight as she turned. With her hair freshly brushed and styled she had never been more stunning, her beauty soft and appealing, like that of the pretty child she once had been. She scarcely needed heavy gold jewelry, but she slipped it on again and was ready.
“My husband has looked forward to this day so eagerly. We must stop this senseless fighting amongst ourselves and learn to live in peace in our own land.”
Celiese spoke the truth of her thoughts before she could silence them. “To better make war on those dwelling across the sea?”
Thulyn shrank back in astonishment. “Why, Olgrethe, you sound so bitter! But your father’s warlike ways are not ours. The Vandahls are responsible for no deaths on our shores or those far away. Did your father not explain that our men are traders who barter the finest goods of one people for those of another?”
Frightened she had said too much, Celiese reached out to touch the older woman’s arm lightly. “It is only that I long for peace more than your husband ever has. It is no mere dream to me, but a memory of all I hold dear.” She relaxed when Thulyn smiled, placated by her more moderate tone. Helga had called the Vandahls adventurers, but she had forgotten their interest was in trade, rather than barbaric murder and plunder.
Thulyn gestured graciously. “Everyone is waiting. Let us go.” She followed Celiese down the stairs, and escorted her to the main hall where all were gathered to celebrate the coming marriage. The large chamber was crowded, the merriment already underway when they entered, and they stood unnoticed at the doorway for a long while. Thulyn scanned the faces of those present looking for her husband and Mylan.
Celiese searched for Raktor and his sons. They were scattered about the room, all drinking and talking in loud, raucous voices to Aldred’s far more reserved kin. As a hush spread over the room, she was surprised to discover she was the cause. She felt little like a bride, but she followed Thulyn hesitantly across the wide expanse to Mylan’s side. She expected someone to shout, to scream out her true name and end her ruse before she became the bride of a man who believed her to be another. Yet all were silent as she passed by with a graceful step that brought a look of envy to every eye.
