Golden Surrender
Page 38
“Tell me that again, my lord.”
“I was afraid to believe, to trust in a woman’s beguiling words—”
“Nay, my lord!” Erin protested, pulling away from him yet holding him still. “The other! Tell me the other.”
He smiled, and the radiance of the sun was within the gentle curve of his lips. “I love you, Irish. I have for some time. But it was very hard to love a vixen with claws sharpened against a Viking she loathed.”
“Oh, Olaf!” Erin murmured, drawing near once more to rest her cheek against his chest. The mail was cold and stiff beneath her soft flesh, but she could feel the deeper warmth and the pounding of his heart. “I was so afraid … and it is true, I did not want to love a Viking, but I did, my lord, and to love the Wolf of all men.…”
Again Erin lifted her eyes to his, holding them with the ghosts of pain that remained. She parted her lips to speak, but he knew her heart, and his words quieted hers.
“Erin, there will always be a love within my heart for Grenilde, but like that love you gave your brother, it is something locked within memory. It takes nothing from what I offer you, for this tie that binds my body and soul is stronger than any I have ever known. You have made my life as full as my heart, my emerald-eyed beauty. You have bewitched me from the beginning, and long before I knew you held my heart in those deceptively fragile hands, I was beguiled and bonded by your sweet perfection, unable to touch another. But you despised me so much, and you made it so clearly evident.”
“So clearly evident!” Erin protested, smiling slightly through the tears that still clouded her eyes. “Hardly, my lord! I was shamefully like molten steel, so easily shaped and willful to your artistry.…” She paused for a moment, her lips trembling, and her voice was a quiver, a soft rasp of silk from her throat. “You were walking away, Olaf.…”
“Irish—never, never until the moment when you called my name, did I dare believe that you had found you could love a Viking, and of all Vikings, the Norwegian Wolf.” He grimaced. “Vikings are proud, my love, as are Irish princesses.”
A soft ripple of laughter touched melodiously upon the air, a lilt that was the song of the land in all its emerald beauty. The warmth of that song filled Olaf, and he gazed on his princess with the greatest tenderness, seeing the pain at last fade from the eyes that were deeper and greener than even Ireland herself.
The healing had at long last begun; the past was purged, the bitterness buried. It was winter, and yet the spring was foretold, and all the blossoming springs that would follow in their lives.
Olaf kissed her forehead. “Come, my love. Your father will be frantic to see you. And Gregory and Brice—”
“And Leith!” Erin interrupted. “Oh, Olaf! I have missed him so. I crave to see him, to hold him.…”
“Our son fares well in the kindest of hands,” Olaf said quietly. “But yes, it is a long ride home, and so we must begin.”
He lifted her in his arms and set her high on the great black stallion before leaping with smooth agility behind her. As they rode to rejoin the troops, they were contentedly silent. Erin smiled softly to herself as she nestled against the great strength and warmth of his broad chest and powerful arms, thinking of the dreams she had spun.
He had not fallen to his knees to beg her forgiveness. Yet it mattered not, for he had offered her a declaration of love far more eloquent than any she could have envisioned. He was the Wolf of Norway, and of Du-bhlain, she thought proudly. The Wolf did not kneel to the past; he rose to the future.
They paused before the remains of the Danish defenses. Erin twisted to see that Olaf stared pensively before him.
“What is it, my lord?” she queried softly.
She felt his arms embrace her more tightly. “I was just thinking of the words of an old Druid, my love. A very wise man. My soul is mine own again, and not because the Dane is dead, but because I have been given life.”
He stood before the hearth, surveying the scene that unfolded within his great hall, a subtle smile enhancing his ruggedly handsome features.
The Christ Mass was being celebrated in Dubhlain this year by the entire family of the Ard-Righ because Aed had decreed that Erin was to travel no more since she had endured so much in the two full moons that had waned since she had borne his grandson.
So the royal residence of stone and mortar knew a warmth and gaiety unlike any seen before. The Irish lords and ladies within the hall were doing their best to explain the holiness of the day to the Norse, who occasionally lifted prayers to Odin to spare them the conversion, but were, for the most part, more than willing to sit back and enjoy.
The Ard-Righ himself argued cantankerously with Sigurd, who laughed heartily with vast amusement, for he had already shrugged and at least outwardly donned the cloak of Christianity for Moira’s sake.
Maeve was ignoring all revelry in the hall and clucking over Leith as she held him for Erin, who was busy playing hostess. Brice and Eric were, as usual, talking horses, and Bede, the peaceful nun, was appearing quite harried as she chased after Gwynn’s toddler Padraic so that Gwynn might sit with her husband for a moment’s respite.
It is a home, Olaf thought, truly a home.
“You are pensive, Lord Olaf.”
He twisted with a cocked brow to see the man who addressed him. “Nay, not pensive, Mergwin,” he said. “I am but counting the gifts of the gods.”
Mergwin smiled secretively but his weathered face betrayed him, crinkling into myriad little folds. “I have read your runes again, Lord Olaf.”
“Have you?” Olaf queried, smiling also and yet warily. He had learned not to doubt the prowess of the old Druid.
“Aye, that I have. Your days of conquest are over, Lord of the Wolves.”
Olaf’s smile became a deep slashed grin across the strong contour of his jaw. “That, old man, is not a great feat of fortune-telling. I hold that which I crave; I seek to go no further.”
Mergwin lowered his eyes, and when he once more raised them to Olaf, they were grave. “You will stem the flow of invasion, Lord of the Wolves. But it is not for you to end the waves of those seeking conquest who will come to these shores.”
Olaf swallowed, a feeling of heartsickness sweeping over him. “Do you tell me, Druid, that men will come and I will be able to do naught? That I will have no effect upon the land?”
“Nay, Lord of the Wolves,” Mergwin said softly. “I tell you only that you cannot change that which is destined for another century. You will remain strong, and you will live long and healthy, and your children will grow strong behind you. The cycle has come full for you, Lord of the Wolves. It is a time for reaping, for growing, for fertility. You will fight your wars, but you will also find peace. As long as you see truly what you seek.”
Olaf’s eyes were staring beyond the Druid. They rested with brilliant Nordic blue on his wife as she swept gracefully into the hall from the kitchens. She was in green today. Beautiful, deep green. The color was a highlight to her eyes, a backdrop for the rich, midnight beauty of her hair, a flowing cascade of ebony silk bedecked with emeralds. But the gems were no match for the eyes she turned to him, as if knowing that he watched her.
Mergwin saw the smile she offered Olaf. The tenderness, the love. The blazing tempest of passion that would always arise between the two who were by nature so strong, so proud, so demanding, and yet so giving.
“Your pardon, Druid,” Olaf murmured, and Mergwin knew no protest as Olaf swept by him.
Mergwin sank to sit by the hearth, his smile returning as he watched the magnificent king approach his Irish princess. An aura was about them both, Mergwin thought. An aura of gold, of the sun, of energy and power.
He laughed suddenly. But peace? Not exactly peace. They would have their share of arguments in the years to come, for their tempers were as stormy as their passions! But beneath it would always be the love, as sure and strong as the earth and hills.
The weathered lines within his gaunt face increased as he con
tinued to survey the royal pair. The golden Viking in his crimson mantle lowered his head to whisper to the green-eyed beauty who glanced at him with an emerald gaze that was nothing less than dazzlingly, wickedly sultry. She whispered in return, and then the two gazed about the hall where all appeared jovial and content to while away the winter eve. They caught one another’s eyes again, bold, brilliant blue and deepest, sensual emerald, and then, like errant lovers, they joined hands and slipped away from their preoccupied guests, heading for the staircase. At the landing the Wolf swept his princess into his arms and carried her up the steps. Mergwin still watched as Olaf’s booted foot slammed the heavy wooden door closed in their wake.
“Ah, Norwegian Wolf!” The Druid chuckled to himself. “You have truly become Irish! And you will make your impression deeply felt, in all the time to come.”
“What are you muttering about, old fool?”
Mergwin smiled at his old friend, Aed Finnlaith. “Are you in a wagering mood, Ard-Righ? I’ll lay you odds that before Christ Mass next, you will hold in your arms a second Norse grandchild.”
The Ard-Righ followed Mergwin’s eyes to the stairs. “I’ll take you on, friend Druid.”
Aed paused for a minute, his gaze still on the stairway before he caught the Druid’s stare and held it with a twinkle. “Before Christ Mass next, I will hold in my arms another Irish grandchild!”
Mergwin chuckled. He lifted a cup of ale to Aed. “As you say, Ard-Righ. As you say.”
Author’s Note
Fierce invaders, ravaging barbarians, strong, and swift, artists in the field of rapine and slaughter can all be said of the Viking. But it is also true that they were often builders, settlers, and dreamers, giving more to their adopted lands than they took. Their dynasties would follow long behind them.
Olaf the White held Dubhlain throughout his lifetime, and, as predicted, five decades of comparative peace came to the island, although scattered raids did take place over the years. Ireland would not be free from the Viking yoke until over a century and a half past the Norwegian Wolf’s marriage to the daughter of Aed Finnlaith, when Brian Boru would rise high to glory and bring about the defeat of Sigtrygg the Silkbeard in April 1014, at the battle of Clontarf.
But not even Brian’s victory, which he did not live to enjoy, could rid the land of Viking influence, for after the battle, Sigtrygg ruled on in Dubhlain. Too many invaders, such as Olaf, had become one with the land, leaving their mark upon Eire. Olaf’s descendants live today throughout the land. His Irish name, Amhlaobh, became MacAuliffe.
And so he did, perhaps, fulfill all his dreams.
For my mother, Violet J. Graham; she was born in
Dublin, and gave me the fascination. For my cousins Katie
DeVuono and Peggy Lassila;
they helped give me the past. For Granny and Aunt
Amy;
they are gone now, but they let me believe in
banshees
and leprechauns.
They gave me both truth—and magic.
For Cindy Kay with deep gratitude; she always cared.
And for Lydia E. Paglio, my editor, guide,
mentor, and friend.
Without her, this book could have never been.
My deepest thanks.
Books by Heather Graham from Dell
SWEET SAVAGE EDEN
A PIRATE’S PLEASURE
LOVE NOT A REBEL
DEVIL’S MISTRESS
EVERY TIME I LOVE YOU
GOLDEN SURRENDER
THE VIKING’S WOMAN
ONE WORE BLUE
AND ONE WORE GREY
AND ONE ROAD WEST
LORD OF THE WOLVES
RUNAWAY
SPIRIT OF THE SEASON