Golden Surrender

by Heather Graham

  She didn’t hear him, hadn’t even sensed his movement, but suddenly his fingers closed over her arm. She was spun into his arms, pressed against the length of him. Her body was spared none of the secrets of his steel-hard strength as he crushed her there and she struggled against him, horrified to find that her struggles only made her more aware of the sex that rubbed against her belly, of the crisp golden body hair that tickled and seared her breasts.

  He grasped her shoulders then entwined his fingers into her soft curls, jerking her head back cruelly so that she was forced to meet his now blazing eyes. “So you do have some fear for your conqueror, Irish bitch,” he hissed quietly, so quietly that her body, limp with terror, convulsively shuddered. “It is well that you have that fear, wife, for I promise you that all my shafts are strong and sure and merciless.”

  She was suddenly flung away from him, so hard that she sprawled, stunned, against the bed.

  “But rape, dear lady wife,” he spat, towering over her with his frame rigid and shaking itself with the depth of an emotion she didn’t yet understand, “is one fear you needn’t harbor tonight. Did you think I would be crazy with desire for your precious virgin flesh? No, wife, I find nothing desirable about a cold, murderous person. You offer me nothing!”

  He turned from her suddenly. Stunned and reprieved, Erin could do nothing but stare at his broad back for several seconds, feeling her head reel, as if she had been struck. He stared at the fire for several seconds. Erin finally gathered herself together enough to crawl warily back into the far side of the bed, drawing the covers around her.

  When he turned back to her, he stroked his beard, his lips traced with a partially grim, partially distant smile. “But then, my lady, you must hold more than the simple fear of rape. Surely you must wonder if I don’t intend retaliation. What was it you threatened that day?”

  He moved stealthily to her side, wrenching the covers from her so that she could not hide her shivering although she managed to sit still. His dry smile was so close to her lips that she could see the pulse beat of his throat.

  She had to give her full concentration to the prayer that she did not scream out in terror as he touched her—lightly, and with just one finger, tracing a line that nevertheless burned from her throat, between the valley of her breasts, down over her belly. She clenched her teeth as that bronze finger wavered over the tender white flesh high on her thigh. “I believe you mentioned something about roasting my manhood in front of my eyes?”

  His tone was almost politely inquisitive. That it was deadly did not escape Erin’s mind. She had to fight hard to keep her eyes on his, to keep from clenching her knees to her chest in an effort to elude the burning brand of his finger upon her flesh. “Well, my wife,” he said almost distractedly, “that is hardly something I could do to you—had I the inclination.”

  With one of his incredibly agile movements he stepped back from her, contemptuously throwing the covers back around her. He walked a few feet away and stood in silence as she watched him, still in shock and shivering madly, her mind in a dark whirl. But when he turned to her again, the emotion was gone. He appeared tired, barely aware of her presence.

  “I harbor you no malice,” he said wearily, pushing a handful of straying gold hair back over his temple with an offhand gesture. “I seek no revenge for your treatment by the stream. Offer me no trouble, wife, and you will find your life tolerable. But I tell you now, I am the lord of my castle—a Viking, if you will—and if you defy me, you will be dealt with harshly. I brook no petty opposition. Do you understand?”

  She stared at him long and hard, then nodded slowly. It seemed the only course open to her at the moment. You will never be my lord, Viking, she thought, but it didn’t bother her to momentarily pretend submission.

  He turned from her again as if totally disinterested in—no, oblivious now to—her presence. He snuffed out the oil lamps, then came to the bed and crawled in, his back to her.

  Amazed at the turn of events, Erin remained curled in her corner away from him. He wasn’t dead; he didn’t intend to rape her. If she didn’t hate him so, she would be insulted; then she realized that she was insulted, that he had compared her to his Viking mistress and found her lacking. Good! Thank God! She would not be the recipient of his barbaric desires. It was strange, though, that his words had the power to hurt and humiliate her. They festered inside of her along with her hate.

  She remained sitting in the darkness that was barely alleviated by the low flames of the fire for what seemed like forever.

  Then she heard the even breaths of his sleep. Her mind geared into bitter action once more as she thought of how he had wrenched her from the bed, stripped her mockingly, tossed her aside with punishing strength as if she were nothing.

  She ground her teeth together to fight off the tears of mortification that were threatening to spill from her eyes. She couldn’t bear this, she simply couldn’t bear it. He expected her to fall asleep beside him, to do his bidding, to be his vassal like a groveling dog. How could her father have done this to her?

  She glanced at the man beside her. He slept easily, while she endured torture. Biting then into her lip to keep the tears from flowing, she turned from him. Her eyes lit upon the pearl handle of her scissors, glinting in the pale glow of firelight.

  Erin covered her face with her hands. She could not murder even the Viking in cold blood with a stab in the back. But she wanted the scissors near her. If he moved to touch her again, humiliate her with his greater strength, she would strike. She would not falter a second time.

  She glanced back at the broad and bronzed shoulders of the despised man beside her. They rose and fell rhythmically. Very carefully she moved, easing her weight from the bed, tiptoeing across the cold stone floor until she could bend to retrieve the scissors.

  His voice cracked like a deep whip over her shoulder and his fingers dug into her hair. “May all the gods be damned, woman but you are a fool.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes as she was wrenched to her feet by her hair. The pain was so excruciating that she longed to plead for mercy, but she could not. She gasped and swallowed, and struck out blindly for his face. He caught her arm and twisted it behind her back and the cry that she tried to suppress escaped her. Once more she felt herself pushed back to the bed, and she fell across it.

  “One more thing, Irish bitch,” he warned, the blue of his eyes glittering in the darkness, “and you will find yourself learning that Vikings are not averse to beating their wives—even on their wedding nights.”

  Rubbing her scalp where she was sure she had lost half her hair, Erin righted her sprawled position and backed in a crouch toward the headboard, watching him warily. She had tempted him sorely; he believed that she had meant to stab him in the back.

  But for some reason, his insulting disdain of her resulted in a strange temperance. As she nervously became aware that they were still naked and tried to draw the furs about herself, she prayed that he would take her silence as submission and come back into bed.

  She saw his silhouette as he moved about the room, then heard him as he rummaged through his chest. A moment later he returned to her side.

  “Give me your wrists,” he demanded.

  She realized then that he was going to tie her up and she panicked.

  “No!” She hadn’t meant it to be a shout, but it was. With impatience he reached for her, and instinct rose over intelligence to make her fight. She kicked out at him, her arms flailing, her nails curved in hopes of gouging an eye.

  He cursed her soundly, but subduing her came as little effort. He cast his weight over her torso and legs, then ably pinned her wrists with one hand. The effort had, however, left them both panting. For a moment he just lay there above her, his body pressing hers into the down of the bed. Erin twisted her head, crunching her teeth hard into her lips. His beard tickled her neck and ear, she felt the moistness of his breath. To her horror, she could feel her nipples hardening against the crush of his har
d but warm chest and the touch of the crisply curled hair. His thighs were atop hers and she was painfully aware of him resting against the soft tender flesh of her upper thighs.

  He shifted suddenly. “You should definitely stay still and fight no more, Irish wife. I just might decide that my physical needs outweigh my abhorrence for cold virgins. I now know no woman I care for, but I have been known to appreciate the talents of a good field whore. I just might be tempted to consider you in such a light. After all, there will be many waiting in hopes that this match will create an heir to combine the forces of the land.”

  Erin closed her eyes against the sight of him, but she couldn’t close her eyes against the surging feel of his strength. She swallowed convulsively, shivering as she realized the pulse against her thighs was growing stronger. She could feel him so thoroughly that it was shocking. She was aware of the vital feel of his every inch of flesh against hers—

  Her wrists, tensed against his hold, went limp. She went perfectly still and was treated to another spurt of his dry, humorless laughter.

  He straddled her hips, still totally unselfconscious of the nudity that distressed her as he pulled her wrists to him and carefully bound them together with a belt. Pulling her binding tight, he leaned above her as he drew her arms high, then secured her to the headboard of the feather and rope bed. His belly and hips rose before her face as he tied her and she swallowed hard, wanting to close her eyes, but discovering they stayed open with the tumult of her mind. The soft golden hair that was below his navel teased her nose as he worked to secure her bonds, and she found that she quivered with her fury and humiliation despite her best efforts not to. She felt faint with the heat that rose with her anger and the indignity of his forced intimacy.

  He shifted once more, grunting as he secured the knot. The shaft of his maleness nudged between the hollow of her breasts and a rush of blood came to her face. She felt as if she had become raging, molten steel with the world whirling like a black tunnel around her. I’m going to faint, she thought desperately. She was burning so with anger, with humiliation, yet still fighting fear. Her head was reeling. She couldn’t breathe. She had to keep trying to swallow.

  He finished his task without a glance at her, then turned his back on her once more and lay to sleep.

  She could no longer hold her tears as she shivered with her weak, miserable feelings and utter humiliation. They slipped silently down her cheeks. It didn’t matter; he had disposed of her as an annoyance and now found his rest.

  But he wasn’t sleeping. She started at the surprisingly gentle tone of his voice.

  “I’m sorry you forced me to do that to you. Perhaps it is a justice, but I didn’t intend it to be so. I’m afraid I simply can’t worry all night about your stabbing me in the back.”

  Erin thought about pleading, about telling him she hadn’t intended to stab him in the back, only arm herself should he attack her.

  But if she opened her mouth, he would hear the tears in her voice. After the heavy toll of subjugation he had already extracted from her, she could bear no more. Besides, she could plead herself hoarse and probably receive no mercy. He had warned her.…

  There was an air of expectancy hanging over them as if he waited for a reply. But she gave him none.

  She heard a barely perceptible grunt of impatience, then he resettled himself. In time she heard that rise and fall of breath that indicated he once more slept.

  But she lay awake a long, long time, the silent tears still falling. She was the bride of the Wolf, most powerful of Viking kings, and absurdly she was still a virgin, shackled to her marriage bed. The strange encounter had left her knowing that her husband considered himself undisputed lord and master. She was a virgin still by his whim only, his vassal by his command. And she was vowed to him as wife. Her most hated enemy.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Erin awoke slowly and miserably, her arms cramped and sore. Unable to move, she had slept restlessly during the night, ready to cry out many times. Somehow she had made it through to morning.

  She didn’t need a second’s thought to know exactly where she was, and under what circumstances. It was still difficult to comprehend that all that had happened was truth and reality, but she had been thrust into her position so swiftly that even comprehension bred confusion. What did she do now, where did she go from here?

  She closed her eyes and then opened them, suddenly aware that she was uncomfortable for a reason beyond her bound arms.

  Olaf the Wolf still slept disgustingly comfortably. The tip of his golden head edged her rib cage; his arm was haphazardly cast low over her abdomen.

  She studied his pose, wondering if there weren’t a way she could twist to escape his touch. She gazed at his long-fingered, broad hand, dangling over her hip bone. Perhaps she could shift…

  Little tingles suddenly pricked her nape as she shifted her gaze quickly to the golden-blond head. A flush of horror filled her face. He was no longer sleeping, but watching her, and his blue eyes denoted a clear knowledge of and amusement with her perplexity. She averted her eyes quickly from him as he chuckled, and stared upon the beautiful linen draperies that framed the carved wood cabinet bed.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured with mockery lacing his apology. “Does my position distress you? Then surely I shall change it.”

  His hand instantly moved from her hip so that he could trail the calloused tips of his fingers lightly and slowly low upon her belly in circles. Erin sucked in her breath and held it, determined to show him none of the trembling that ran rampant within her at his touch. She stared at his hand, willing herself not to falter or flinch as his fingers continued their hypnotic encroachment to her navel, up her rib cage, and to her left breast. He cupped the mound within his hand, and grazed the nipple with the coarse texture of his thumb. Sensations unlike any she had ever experienced before suddenly made her warm, the trembling within her making her feel as if hot liquid poured from some invisible inner location deep in her belly to her limbs, rendering them weak and useless. To her horror she saw her nipple harden and peak beneath his thumb. She could no longer control the trembling, and the hot liquid feeling was becoming terrifying and overwhelming. It was making her head spin in a whirling vortex that threatened to rob her of conscious thought as well as strength of limb. Before she could stop herself, she closed her eyes and exhaled an anguished beseechment, all the more pathetic because it was a broken whisper.

  “Please …”

  To her vast surprise and relief, he ceased his torment immediately. She slowly opened her eyes to find him propped on an elbow, his lips still curled by a small twisted grin of dry amusement, but his eyes strangely probing.

  “So, wife,” he murmured, “you are capable of entreaty. That is good. Perhaps there is a chance we may live in peace.”

  Erin closed her eyes again, ignoring him. She felt that he continued to stare at her, and without opening her eyes she quietly asked, “Could you untie me now?”

  He raised himself to release her and she still kept her eyes tightly closed. She didn’t want to see his body, the lean belly with its down of gold, brushing her face. She held her breath against the clean and very male scent of him.

  Her arms fell to her sides as he unbound her wrists. He moved away, and she finally opened her eyes. The Nordic blue of his seemed to impale her and she quickly looked at her wrists as she rubbed them.

  “Why do you hate me so much?” he demanded sharply.

  “You’re a Viking,” she said briefly, suddenly remembering her nudity and attempting to casually draw a fur over her. From his low chuckle she knew that her movement hadn’t been at all casual, but he did nothing to stop her.

  “There’s more to it than that,” he said flatly.

  Erin shrugged, still refusing to look his way. “We met once, Lord of the Wolves, and it was not an amicable meeting. My feelings should make perfect sense to you.”

  “No,” he said. “You were going to assist one of y
our hated Vikings at that stream until you discovered who I was. I repeat, why do you hate me?”

  “Because you killed my aunt!” Erin exploded, facing him with rage.

  She was startled by the surprise that filled his usually fathomless ice stare. “I have never killed a woman,” he said flatly.

  Erin knew that she was close to tears and she had no intention of letting him see her cry. “Clonntairth,” she said, her tone harsh and bitter. “The king of Clonntairth was my uncle. Bridget was his queen.”

  He rose from the bed suddenly, cold again. “I did not kill your aunt. I have never killed a woman, nor have I allowed my men to do so.”

  “No,” Erin countered in a biting voice, “your men don’t slit their necks. They merely attack them in mass until they are so misused they wish to be dead.”

  “You really are a misinformed little bitch,” he told her with little emotion.

  “Misinformed!” In the turmoil of despair and rage that boiled within her, she forgot her circumstances and sprang up to stare at him across the expanse of the bed. “I saw what you did, Olaf the do—”

  With shocking speed and agility he leaped across the bed and pinioned her wrists to drag her back down on the bed before she could finish her word. Held beneath his weight with the steel of his features and the ice of his eyes challenging her hotly, she could only stare back and pray to Bede’s God that He not allow her to let her tears flow.

  “Please,” he ordered, “continue.”

  She closed her eyes and swallowed, wishing desperately that he would move his weight from hers, the hips that crushed her, the manhood that burned the softness of her inner thighs.

  “I was there,” she whispered. “I was at Clonntairth.”

  His voice seemed to soften a shade. “I didn’t kill your aunt,” he repeated.

  Erin found that she had to swallow again. “She—she stabbed herself because you were coming … and, and I saw—”