Erin would be so pleased, Olaf thought, his heartbeat quickening. Aye, of course she would be pleased and perhaps understand that he offered her much by ordering that the insignia of her family be included. He had kept his own council, eagerly awaiting her delight when the project was completed. But when Rig had come to him and he had sought her out, she had been nowhere to be found.
It wasn’t particularly strange, he thought dryly, that he was unable to find her. He avoided her during the day. At night he slept beside her and held her with a feeling of tenderness that was almost overwhelming, and he was content, even when his flesh cried out that he needed more than comfort. He was willing to bide his time. She was like a fine mead one had sipped and found to be superior; he could settle for no less. And the child within her was his; he could cool his ardor on behalf of his son or daughter, as Erin would be apt to correct him.
But though these days had meant a strange peace and truce between them, it was not without a certain tension, for much lay between them. He still could not allow himself to believe her innocent, for she had been apprehended in the act. A man could not allow himself to be lulled to trust by the pretty tears or even the stalwart pride of a woman. So they didn’t try to talk. They passed politely in the halls, they spoke fleetingly of the weather when they joined for the evening meal. And they carefully skirted clear of one another. Except in the night, and in the darkness he could hold her close, savoring the soft little sighs of comfort that told him that she too was glad of the peace and the sweet contentment so fleetingly shared.
“Have you seen the queen?” Olaf demanded of Rig.
Rig shook his head, his heart swimming with the pleasure of Olaf’s compliment. “She might be in the kitchen, my lord,” Rig said almost absently, imagining the babe that would, within another moon, sleep in his cradle. “Or perhaps in the sun room, conversing with the ladies and sewing.”
“Hmmm,” Olaf muttered impatiently. He walked to the chamber door and turned briefly to Rig before exiting. “Take the cradle to our chamber, Rig, and leave it before the hearth where she may see it immediately. I am going to find her and bring her up to see it.”
“Aye, my lord!” Rig bobbed happily and set about to do as he was told.
Olaf walked swiftly through his great hall and to the kitchens, where he learned from Freyda that Erin had come and gone. He checked the sun room, but Moira, sitting happily with her babe, told him the same, and suggested that he check with Freyda. Annoyed, he stomped his way back down to the great hall, where his ever amused brother watched him from the corner of his eye as he sharpened his sword before the hearth.
“Have you misplaced something, brother?” Eric inquired innocently.
“Aye, my wife,” Olaf replied sourly. He turned his attention more fully upon the smugly smirking Eric. “You haven’t, by any rare chance, brother, any indication of where she might be?”
“Oh, aye,” Eric replied, his eyes nonchalantly upon the great blade he honed. “Those who care for her concerns are conscious of her habits. If I were you, Wolf, I would seek her by the sea.”
“By the sea!” Olaf thundered. “The cliffs are too far. I gave her strict instructions not to ride—”
Eric finally looked up from his task. “She does not ride. She walks.”
Olaf muttered a number of curses and headed for the main door, heedless of Eric’s muffled laughter following him. In moments he had saddled his powerful black and was quickly galloping down the trail that led to the cliffs. He did not slow his gait until he saw her, and then he paused, watching her.
The billow of her mantle hid her advanced stage of pregnancy. She appeared much as she had more than two seasons ago when he had come to find her, to touch her, to bring her home, proud and beautiful against the land, sky and sea; one in spirit with both the tempest of the sea and the endless beauty of the heavens. It had rained that day so long ago, and they had tarried long in the caves, perhaps there creating the seed that now flowered.
He dismounted from the black and walked slowly toward her, aware by the stiffening of her spine that she heard him coming. He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and dipped his head low to whisper against the tangle of her hair. “You have come too far, my lady. You risk our child.”
Erin bit her lip, hesitating before answering. “I would not risk our child, my lord. I am young and in fine health, and the matrons within our hall tell me that the exercise is good.”
Olaf frowned behind her, wondering at the marked depression within her voice. He turned her toward him, and his frown deepened to a scowl as he saw the strange defeat in her features.
“Why do you look so?” he demanded sharply. “You have naught for which to appear so distraught with misery.”
She smiled with no light to the troubled darkness of her eyes. “Have I not, my lord? I have been thinking of the days, the months, the years to come, and it has weighed on me heavily. We are young yet, Wolf of Norway. The years stretch ahead of us with this emptiness. I tire of it, my lord. Truly I grow weary of treading so lightly about you, of knowing that you still brand me traitor.”
Olaf stiffened. “I never desired to brand you traitor, Erin. I was forced to do so when I stared into a pair of emerald eyes beneath a golden visor. I would gladly hear proof that you did not intend to draw a sword against my men or me.”
Erin lowered her head and suppressed the sobs that threatened to engulf her voice. “Alas, my lord, there is no proof except that within my heart, and yet my cousin Gregory believes me, as does my brother Brice.”
“Perhaps,” Olaf said huskily, “that is because neither ever heard his life threatened so vehemently from your lips.”
“No, my lord, it is perhaps because they offer me their love and trust.”
Olaf hesitated, his forefinger reaching for her chin. “Do you ask me to give you my love and trust, Erin?”
He didn’t receive his answer because she suddenly gasped and stumbled against him, buckling over. A worried frown brought his brows together as he sought to right her, clutching her shoulders once more. “Erin! What is it?”
“I-I think it is the babe,” Erin gasped, still stunned by the intensity of the pain that had riddled her. She had been experiencing little cramps all morning, but she had dismissed them as it was still too early for the babe to be born.
“Nay, Irish, it can’t be—”
“Ohh!” she cried out, startled as a flood of warm liquid soaked her skirt and sent her shivering. Her teeth began chattering terribly as the winter wind whipped her.
“Erin?”
“Olaf … it—it is the babe!”
Vanity gnawed at her as he stooped to sweep her into his arms. “Nay, Olaf,” she protested foolishly. “I am … wet.”
He didn’t bother with a reply but strode firmly for the horse.
Still shivering uncontrollably, she again protested. “You said I was not to go near a horse—”
“Erin!” he breathed with exasperation. “You are, in truth, a woman with the full capacity for a ridiculous tongue!” He set her on the black before leaping up to hold her. “You can no longer cause the babe to come too soon since he comes now no matter what you do! And I do not wish our child born in frosted grass.”
She made no more attempt to speak as he held her against him, urging the black to a fluid, unjarring canter. Instead she huddled close, savoring his warmth and yet still unable to stop her teeth from chattering viciously.
It was but minutes, and still it seemed an eternity before they reached the city walls and the courtyard before their residence. Olaf dismounted in a bound and reached for her, taking her in his arms once again.
“I can walk,” she objected in a whisper.
His only reply was an exasperated groan. Then he was shouting as he carried her through the great hall.
By the time he kicked open the door to their chamber, Moira was racing behind him, surprised at the timing but calm and efficient. “Set her on the bed, Olaf, and help me
get these wet things from her,” Moira commanded briskly. The feat was quickly accomplished with Erin still trembling and moving weakly to their will. A fresh warm gown was slipped over her head and Moira issued further orders. “Send Rig for extra bedding, and tell Mageen Erin’s time has come. She will know what to do.”
“And then?” Olaf queried.
“And then, my lord, go drink yourself a horn of ale, for there will be naught else for you to do but wait.”
As commanded, he waited, and as the morning passed to noon, and noon to night, he still waited calmly, helped along by the jovial company of Sigurd and Eric. Then as the meal hour came and went and the moon rode high and midnight approached, he slammed his fist against the stone of the hearth and issued a stream of oaths, clearly alerting Sigurd and Eric to the fact that the Wolf grew worried, as they did.
“It is a first child, Olaf,” Eric told his brother, masking his own concern. “Such things oft take long.…”
Olaf said nothing but stared into the fire. Aye, the process of bearing new life could take long, but this babe was entering the world early, and Erin had so long ago lost the birthing waters. Her pains had surely been steady and wracking all that time. She was strong, but how much could she endure?
He realized suddenly that he could stand to lose the child. There could be others, but if he were to lose her now … He groaned aloud, wishing fervently that he could lend his strength to her. Rather a blade should pierce his ribs than she suffer more.
He turned abruptly as he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He saw that Moira headed for the kitchen, and that she appeared distressed. She had hoped to avoid him, but he called her name firmly and she looked nervously to Sigurd as if for help before facing Olaf.
“Moira,” Olaf demanded quietly. “What is wrong?”
Moira wrung her hands nervously. “She did so well, Olaf, nary a whimper for so long, but now the child must appear, and she is so weakened she has lost the power to aid us and we need her help.” The thunder and anguish within his rugged features made her tremble and she hurried to assure him. “My lord Olaf, we do all that we can.”
He nodded at her and returned his gaze to the fire. Moira disappeared down the hall to the kitchen, then seconds later started up the stairs again with more steaming water. Olaf stared after her broodingly, his face drawn and haggard.
“There is naught that you can do, brother,” Eric told him.
“Aye, but there is,” Olaf said suddenly, his voice steely with determination.
Sigurd and Eric could do nothing but stare after him incredulously as his firm gait took him to the staircase, where he bounded up its length in long strides.
He did not knock, but entered the chamber directly, pausing only momentarily to ignore the startled glances of the ladies and to focus his blazing eyes on Erin. She appeared so pale and fragile, her face as pale as the snow, her beautiful black mane of hair a damp tangle about her. Her eyes kept fluttering closed, and although Moira entreated her to catch her breath and push, the air that rustled in spurts from her parted lips was shallow and slow.
Mageen, busy keeping dry linen beneath Erin, said nothing to Olaf, but watched him without protest, efficiently going about her duty. Moira opened her mouth, as if to send him from the chamber, but Olaf lifted a hand, moving across the room and indicating that Moira give him her position by Erin’s side.
Moira moved away uncertainly and Olaf took her place. He clasped Erin’s hand within his and lowered his head to her face, his Nordic eyes willing her to open her eyes. “You’re giving up, Irish. I have never known you to do so in a fight.”
Her murky lashes raised, the emerald eyes beneath them dazed with pain. “You … mustn’t be here,” she gasped out. “Please, Olaf, not like this.…”
He controlled his hands from quivering to grip hers tightly. The spark of life was gone from her eyes. He had to bring it back, at whatever cost. “You are right, Irish. You are a sight. But I’ll stay as I am until my Norse son is born.”
“Daughter,” she grated irritably. “And Irish.”
He smiled at her; her emerald eyes were blazing more clearly. Her features suddenly became pinched and drawn and the hand he held dug into his with painful force. “Again …” she breathed. Tears filled her eyes and she cried out weakly. “Olaf, I can take no more.…”
It was Moira’s voice he heard next, the sound desperate to his ears. “She must bear down, my lord.”
“Women are weak!” Olaf exclaimed mockingly, at the same time slipping an arm about her and lifting her shoulders against him. “You will fight, Irish! You will fight now. I will help you. Grit your teeth, my love, and push as Moira asks. Must she do it all for you?”
Supported by Olaf and stimulated to draw upon her last reserves of energy, Erin did as he commanded, feeling somewhat numbed as she strained with her body, then gasped out her breath and sagged against him, almost blacking out.
“We’ve the head!” Moira called out joyfully. “Just once more … once more. Olaf, you must make her try once more.”
“Again, Erin!” he commanded harshly. “Again … and then you may sleep.” He pushed her shoulders forward, forcing her to obey. Barely coherent, Erin caught her breath again and strained. She felt the reward of relief as her body emptied and she heard the cries of joy, and her husband’s whisper that came with his tender embrace. “I knew you could do it, Irish. Always the fighter.”
The world swam and she lay back exhausted. Olaf gently lowered her head to the pillow. A lusty cry filled the room, and then Olaf was whispering to her once more. “A boy, Erin. Sound and fine.” He chuckled softly. “and though his fine locks look a bit mussed right now, it appears that they are going to be a pale shade of gold.”
She smiled and opened her eyes once to see the infant, protesting as Mageen cleaned him in tepid water. He was barely swaddled in linens before Olaf took him and knelt beside Erin. “A very fine son, my lady, and I thank you with the fullness of my heart.”
She could scarce see her babe, and yet she knew that he was sound and beautiful, even if he did appear somewhat wizened. Olaf’s words touched her like a caress, and she allowed her eyes to shut once more. She felt the touch of his lips on her forehead, and then he and the babe were gone.
Moira had a bit of trouble extracting the young heir from his sire, but she was firm. “My lord,” she whispered, her gratitude and relief gentle within her voice, “you have done nobly, but now you must leave us. We need to bathe Erin and freshen her linen, and at that we will work best alone. She dearly needs her rest, as the babe now needs his mother.”
Olaf nodded slowly, returning his son to Moira. He glanced at Erin once more, but her eyes were closed again. A healthier color was replacing the paleness in her face, and although the strain still marred her features, her lips were parted in the slightest smile of peace.
He strode down the stairway tiredly, his thoughts churning, until he saw the anxious faces of Sigurd and Eric.
A broad grin broke out across the golden nest of his beard. “A son,” he informed them. “Mother and child faring well.”
Eric emitted a bloodcurdling cry of Viking victory. A horn of ale was pressed into Olaf’s hands. He drank long and heartily, and hours after Eric and Sigurd had sought what sleep they could, he stared into the fire.
He had never known love such as he had this night. Love for the wee creature with the tiny hands that had clenched around his tightly, love for the woman with the delicate form but stalwart heart who had carried his seed and given him the child.
Nay, more than that. From the beginning, she had given him life again. She was the soul that he had sought.
It was afternoon again when Erin awoke. Instantly she was reaching for her child, and Moira handed her the babe, smiling radiantly at the experience she had so recently savored herself.
With her son beside her, Erin removed the swaddling linen and checked him eagerly from head to toe. He was perfect. So tiny and yet so perfect. Ti
ny fingers, tiny toes, tiny, wizened face. His eyes opened as she stared at him, and she was stunned to see that they already resembled the shade of green of her eyes.
“Moira! His eyes!”
“Yes, Erin.” Moira chuckled. “His eyes are yours. But that tuft upon his head is definitely his fathers! How Olaf knew last night that it would be so pale I will never understand.”
Erin smiled and adjusted her gown to allow the whimpering infant to nestle against her breast and greedily take hold. The thrill at his touch as he first floundered, then instinctively suckled with heedless demand riddled her with loving pleasure and she laughed. “Oh, Moira! He was born a golden-haired boy because Olaf decreed it so!”
Moira grimaced and laughed along with her. “Well, my little mother, the Lord of the Wolves is now demanding that he be allowed entrance once more, so when that little one is filled—”
“A comb, Moira! And a basin! I must wash and fix my hair quickly. He mustn’t see me looking so terrible again.”
“Shhh.…” Moira soothed, secretly smiling. “I will not allow him to enter, until you wish it.” She toughened her voice to scold. “And, Erin, you must take great care with yourself as well as the babe. You were sadly weakened last night. It will take time for you to heal. I will comb your hair until it shines, but you will also eat!”
Erin was aware that she had little strength, and yet already the agony of the previous night was dim in her mind, for whatever she had endured, the price had been well met. She stared at the tiny head pressed so hungrily to her breast and her tenderness was overwhelming. He was so warm and so beautifully, sweetly alive. He was hers, and he was the golden son of the Wolf.
She insisted the babe stay beside her as she obediently ate and as she carefully and anxiously primped. When Olaf entered, she was curled around the child, watching his sleeping form with a sweet and dreamy expression that again touched all the chords of love and tenderness within his heart. She turned to him, offering him the most dazzling of smiles, with her emerald eyes shining like the lushest hills in summer. He returned her smile and came to the bed, leaning his length opposite hers so that the sleeping child lay between them.
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