Golden Surrender

by Heather Graham

  Yes, it was a dream, because everything around her was a little hazy. She tried to sit, and she could, but the haze didn’t go away. Bede was in her dream. She was standing before her. “I have brought you some breakfast, Erin. You must eat.” Erin obeyed. It was a dream, and whatever was said, she responded to. It was really a nice dream. She didn’t feel weak, but like air. “Drink the mead, Erin, you must drink the mead,” Bede said, and she drank the mead.

  Then there were other women around her besides Bede. She smiled, because they were all so nice. One woman began to comb her hair and the touch was very gentle and nice. She really didn’t have to do much of anything except enjoy the delicious, cloudy feeling. They helped her wash, they covered her in silk that felt wonderful as it caressed her skin.

  Her father walked into the tent and for a minute she frowned. She was angry with her father. He shouldn’t be in her beautiful dream. Then her frown dissipated. She loved her father, so she couldn’t be really angry with him, and he was looking at her so anxiously.…

  She smiled and extended a hand to him. He took it and they walked together. “Can she ride?” Aed seemed to whisper.

  “Yes, we’ll stay right next to her.”

  Strange that they should doubt her ability to ride, Erin thought as she heard her father and sister exchange the hushed whispers. “Of course I can ride,” she assured them with a smile. How funny her voice sounded, and she could barely feel her horse beneath her. This sensation was even more like floating.

  Then she discovered that her dream became even more and more intriguing. She was in a beautiful hall of stone with the most beautiful of carvings, and there were people, so many people. They kept smiling at her, and she smiled back. It was a party, a wonderful, wonderful party. Everyone was so very happy.

  She walked as they led her to the head of the hall. Her father’s hand slipped away but that didn’t disturb her because another hand, firm and guiding, reached out for hers. And Bebe was still with her. A funny little man who looked like a monk was saying things, and Bede was whispering that she must repeat them. Erin had to try very hard not to laugh because it seemed so funny that Bede of all people should be playing jokes on a priest.

  But Erin must have said the right words, because all of a sudden, the people were cheering. She smiled happily, having pleased them all. She glanced at the hand that held hers and thought with detachment what a beautiful hand it was, so strong and yet neat, the fingers long with clean clipped nails, and soft with little tufts of hair that looked like golden threads. She looked up, and her smile faded.

  Olaf the White was in her dream. Tall and golden and awesome and beautifully bedecked, his mantle of deepest royal purple was held across his broad shoulders by a golden brooch. He stared at her with the greatest surprise, and then with a dark anger that sizzled his eyes to dangerous gemstones. Suddenly he laughed, and he wore a hard grin, and his eyes were very much like a blue fire. Fire? They were ice, an ice fire. He appeared as a wolf who had downed a rival in combat and now waited, savoring the capture.

  Erin froze in terror, but then she laughed. It was so funny. The wolf thought he would have revenge. He did not know that it was only a dream.…

  He lowered his head and his lips touched hers. They brushed them merely, but the touch was warm and firm and it made her feel even more as if she were deliriously floating on clouds. Then the feasting began. There was delicious food and there were jugglers and dancers and fine imported wines from the continent.…

  Olaf had been stunned. Then he had itched to throttle the girl. But then the ironic justice of the situation had struck him and he had laughed with the greatest pleasure. It was incredible that he had been handed this of all Irish maidens. Maybe not. In the woods she had ranted on about turning him over to “her father.” Who else would she have been but an Irish princess? And he was glad of the anger she invoked in him, glad of the interest. It drew him from the brooding thoughts that so often filled his mind even when he worked with his generals and builders. Seeing her seemed to make his blood heat and race through his veins as he remembered how she had doubled him over in pain with a well-aimed kick that day long ago. The little bitch had been placed directly into his hands.…

  There would be a reckoning. By all the gods, yes, there would be a reckoning. But it would be quick; merely to clear the air. He wanted no more war with the Irish, not even with the bitch he had been given as wife who so despised him. It was a relief to feel again, to forget the pain of loss for a while, but the indifference that had become so much a part of him took hold again. He would do what was necessary to turn her into the hostess he required for his home, but no more. She would be left alone, granted all that he had promised her father. She was welcome to her hate if she learned it must be personal, kept to herself, as he made himself accept his grief. She would be his wife, but once he had made her realize that he hadn’t forgotten all that she had put him through, she should be happy.

  He had little interest in her. Yet her father, he thought analytically, had not lied. She surely had to be one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She was dark whereas the woman he had loved had been blond, but the dark sheen of her hair was an ebony so rich it hinted of blue. Her eyes with their fringe of equally lustrous lashes were bedazzling. Her face was finely, delicately molded as if carved to specific royal specifications. The pale violet of her silk robe molded to her young form like a glove, and he knew truly that Aed intended to keep peace when he had offered this perfectly lithe and sweetly curved beauty.

  He felt a smile tingeing his mouth as he watched her beside him. He might be the Wolf of Norway, but surely Aed was the Fox of Ireland. The girl despised him—that Olaf knew well. At his first incredulous sight of her Olaf had wondered how the Irish king had forced her to marry him. It was unlikely that Aed Finnlaith knew that the Wolf had met his daughter; yet surely the girl must have vehemently refused to agree to the marriage. Apparently she had, and so she was drugged, and the potion had been well designed. She appeared normal. But a knowing look into those emerald eyes clearly told one of her circumstance. Except that the potion was beginning to wear off, which was good. He wanted her fully cognizant when they spoke.

  He pushed back his chair with the emblazoned emblem of the wolf. In a far corner he saw her sister, the nun. A girl with wise, intelligent eyes. He made a motion, and she nodded. A second later she was coming for Erin.

  Erin looked at her sister, then she looked at Olaf, and in that second, Olaf knew that she finally understood what had happened. She was still too far under the influence of the potion to fight, but she was aware.

  She disentangled herself from her sister long enough to stare at him with pure loathing sizzling fire into the emerald of her eyes.

  “Dog of Norway,” she hissed, “I despise you. You are nothing but a barbaric, carnivorous animal.…”

  Olaf clenched his jaw and his own eyes took on a look of pure frost. There would be a time of reckoning soon.

  His bride was led away, lapsing back to docility. He stared after her, feeling the anger burn within him, then picked up his goblet and drank deeply. He wanted to break her, to repay her, to overpower the hatred in her eyes. He was the lord of Dubhlain, he had fought hard for the title, and he would be the master of his home.

  But then his anger faded. The indifference that plagued him was back. Grenilde … her name was a cry in his heart.

  He sighed, as the anger seeped through him again. His Irish wife was a spirited little bitch and had to be dealt with. She would learn that he was not a man to be abused by her sharp tongue. She had once made a damned fool out of him.

  His anger grew, but like his eyes, it was a cold anger. A calculated and controlled anger. He looked about the hall. It was time, and the effects of the potion would have surely disappeared by now.

  CHAPTER

  9

  For a bridal chamber, it had been strangely subdued. They had bathed her with rose water. They had washed her luxurious hai
r until it fell in curls about her like deepest ebony, and then they had adorned her in a gown of filmy silk and left her. Not even Bede had tried to speak. Not one of the Irish ladies allowed her had smiled during the somber proceedings—much less attempted a bawdy joke.

  Erin had been quiet and acquiescent while she was being prepared, her eyes luminous, wide and barely blinking. But now the poppyseed that had brought about her soft-spoken “yes” during the ceremony was wearing off. Bede began to pray that the warrior-king would come to claim his bride before she again came to her full senses

  Bede moved quickly to kiss her sister. “May Saint Bridget help you through this night,” she murmured quickly, and then she stepped back, whirling to leave the chamber. The wide emerald eyes in the haunted pale face of her sister stabbed her deeply. For one painful moment Bede held tight to the gilded door jamb. The Viking was a splendid man, yes, but he was the very Viking Erin despised above all others. Bede winced, hating her part in the trickery. Poor Erin.…

  She is going to want to skin Father and me alive! Bede shivered but then sighed. Her sister’s fate was not an unusual one. It was the lot of a woman, and especially the lot of a princess. Without looking back again, Bede closed the chamber door.

  The quiet click of the door brought Erin fully from her stupor. She suddenly became aware of herself for the first time in hours, and as she glanced down at the white gown, she whispered a ferocious “No!”

  She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. They had done it. They had drugged her, they had tricked her into doing what she had sworn she would not. The Wolf, the animal, was now her husband. Soon he would come to her—no, not her, his—chamber, and she would be expected to receive him.

  I will kill him first! she thought, and then she quailed, remembering that he too would be ready to extract vengeance for that day in the forest. “I should have told Father,” she whispered to herself, the broken sound of her voice for once piteous. Erin closed her eyes, shaking, wondering what he would do to her for all she had wrought against him. He would surely debase her, torture her.…

  “No!” she cried again, springing from her frozen stance to hurtle across the room and search through her trousseau until she found her pearl-handled scissors. It was fitting, she thought, that the instrument so resembled the dagger with which Bridget had taken her own life. Because now she, Erin, would end the conqueror’s life. She was strong, she had spent long hours studying the art of murder with her brothers. He would be expecting a humble and drugged bride, one terrified of his entrance. She would have the advantage of surprise, and she would kill him or die trying because she would not be touched by his filthy wolf’s paws.

  She paled, thinking that all assembled, Viking and Irish, would shortly be whispering in the halls, giggling over the activity of the marriage bed. They would be thinking that the Viking would have her, that he would be sweating and straining like the barbaric animal that he was.

  “Never!” she whispered.

  She drew back the furs and sheets and got into the bed, holding the scissors tight against her chest as she drew the covers around herself. Her heart was thudding painfully, but she knew that her very anticipation made her look like a terrified and innocent maiden.

  The door began to open and the thudding in her chest became so very painful she could barely breathe. She stared at him as he opened the door, but as his brooding indigo eyes met hers, she lowered her eyes.

  “So, Irish,” he murmured mockingly, “we meet again.” She didn’t reply. Her eyes downcast, she felt his eyes on her as he strode about the room, shedding his wedding finery. He sat to remove his boots then placed his girdle upon the wooden chest. He seemed to be fastidiously neat, draping the embroidered mantle over a chair, folding his leggings and tunic and kilt.

  Confusion mingled with her resentment. The Norse were supposed to be pigs, filthy and slovenly. But even as he moved about so meticulously, she noticed again that scent of sandalwood melded with a male aroma that was not at all unpleasant, but earthy and clean. He is the enemy, she thought above her confusion, be he clean or dirty.

  He walked lightly for a man so large, and she was startled into swallowing as she realized the he had come, stripped at last, before her. The pounding of her heart was so strong that she couldn’t believe he didn’t hear it and suspect her. He stared at her still; she knew it, yet she couldn’t bring her eyes to meet his. She could see enough of him through her lowered lashes to know that his chest was massively broad, that his waist tapered trimly to a remarkably narrow but still muscled abdomen. His hips too were solid and trim; the fine golden curls that riddled his chest ended there to begin again lower, creating a fine nest for a sex that was relaxed, but shocking, strong, pulsating.

  He will die, she thought. She would find his heart, his lifeblood, and then all his magnificent muscles and strength would mean nothing as the blood rose up to choke him.

  If she hadn’t the designs in her heart to slay him, she wouldn’t have been able to endure the moment. Surely he intended revenge. He thought her in his power, and he would lord that power over her. He would beat her, mock her, make her pay the humiliating tribute for that time in the woods.

  “Look at me!” he snapped.

  She forced her eyes up. He stared at them for a moment with his countenance hard and unreadable. Then over his features a grim smile split that did not reach the ice in his relentless, brooding eyes.

  It was that look that made her shiver. His eyes were so devoid of emotion. He felt nothing for her. If anything, he found her absently amusing; he seemed able to read her.

  No, she thought, he thinks I cower with fear. He does not know that it is he who shall pay with a vengeance tonight.

  Yet still she shivered because she knew she must wait, and she did not like that strange, contemptuous glitter in his eyes as he came nearer, his weight bearing over her as he crawled atop her, covers and all. She kept her eyes glued to his with defiant hate as he straddled his knees over her hips and placed a hand on either side of her head, holding himself as he stared down at her. Now, my lord Viking, she thought, two inches closer and you shall feel my shaft through your heart.

  He held that twisted smile, his eyes hard, as he moved closer. Now, Erin hissed to herself, but the pounding in her chest was making her shake. She felt the weight of him, the warmth of him. She heard the beat of the heart she meant to strike. But she suddenly became aware of the sleek and bulging bicep that paralleled her head. She lost control. Her fingers cramped, nervous moisture making them slick. The scissors began to slip from her death grip.

  The Wolf pounced. Sitting back on his haunches, he brought his right hand in a mightly blow across her covered hands. She gasped as the covers fell—and the scissors went flying harmlessly across the cold stone floor.

  “If you hadn’t lost your nerve when you did, Irish,” he said coldly, “your marriage bed would have been stained with the blood of your jugular.”

  It wasn’t courage that kept her silent at that moment, for she was too stunned to speak. Her eyes continued to glare into his, the hate shining through now without thought of deception.

  She was spared the fear of what he might do to her as he acted swiftly, once more amazing her that such a powerful man could move so lithely. Stark naked as he pounced from the bed to rake the covers from it, he was even more awesome than when clad in armor. Each ripple of muscle could be clearly seen; the power that radiated from his toned bronze form was all the more chilling because it was purely physical. The naked form of any man would have given her pause; his made the breath catch in her throat, her body go as weak as water.

  “Ahhh …” he murmured, his hands on his hips and his voice deathly quiet as he surveyed her in the bed. “The glitter in the eyes of the murderess turns to a plea of mercy! Sweet innocent—Irish bitch!” His long arm shot out and snaked around her wrist.

  Dear Lord, no, she would plead no mercy, but as he wrenched her from the bed to her feet, she couldn’t sto
p the cry of shock and pain that assailed her.

  “I’ll kill you yet, Viking bastard!” she hissed as she wavered against his hold.

  If he had struck her, she could have borne it far better than his laughter. But before she could speak again, his other hand shot to her neckline and ripped the white gown from her with a single jerk.

  He released her then and stepped back and executed a low, mocking bow. “By your leave, lady,” he said sardonically, “I would see the goods your lord father has offered. I would not be cheated.”

  Erin shook with humiliation, but managed to stand before him, her head lifted, her eyes dry daggers. She bit into her lip as he took a slow, tauntingly slow assessment, his sapphire gaze resting first upon her breasts, then her waist, down to the spot between her thighs, and finally over the length of her legs. His eyes returned to hers. That terrible dry, mocking smile was still on his lips, his eyes cold.

  For a maddening moment she was tempted to ask if he found her pleasing. Then as his mocking silence continued, and a thick arched honey brow lifted with further scorn, she felt impelled to speak. Her voice dripped with scorn. “I hope, lord sea pirate, that you find the bargain fair. The Irish pride themselves in their law and justice. My father would not break a vow.”

  He laughed again, then his laughter was gone, even his mocking smile was gone. She could have sworn a look of pain glazed through his eyes momentarily, but then even that was gone. He appeared hard and merciless and totally ruthless. His teeth locked, almost like the snarl of a wolf.

  No matter what had happened, she had sworn she would show him no fear—nor would she cry out. But when he stepped toward her menacingly, she became aware of only his blatant and tremendous masculinity and panicked.

  At that moment all resolve of courage and pride fled her. She thought only instinctively of survival, and she turned, crying out, to flee she knew not where.