MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves

by Graham, Heather

  She clenched her teeth tightly together, then spoke. “Aye, milord Viking, I am aware that there can be no annulment now.”

  She hoped that he was satisfied with that. Perhaps he was. But his fingers remained splayed upon her hip, and though her back was to him, she was keenly aware of the incredible muscle structure of his shoulders and chest, and the soft feel of the golden hair where his sex nestled. She was also very aware of that now. It seemed to live a life of its own, imposing even at rest, so quick to grow and bulge and pulse and demand.

  Just the touch at her spine made her remember, made her burn, made her feel again. She"d never been prepared for this, never. Never these feelings, never this longing, this aching. This needing.

  And hating every minute that he saw all he so easily achieved.

  He was silent, though she was certain he didn"t sleep. She felt his touch, the slick length of him. She closed her eyes again. She could not sleep with him so.

  She could not dislodge him.

  In time her exhaustion overrode all else, and she did close her eyes and sleep deeply.

  When she awoke again, late in the morning, she was alone. Her eyes opened very slowly, and she didn"t think that she"d ever awakened before to feel so exhausted. Nor so torn by such a tempest of emotions. His scent lingered with her, his down pillow retained an indentation from his head.

  Ah, yes, his mark lay all upon her, she could feel it still, from head to toe.

  She was incredibly sore, yet it was exquisite. She still trembled to remember how he had made her feel. He was good, he compelled, he seduced, he demanded. She had thought to endure the night with fortitude, she had never imagined just what the darkness might bring.

  Ah, but now daylight was with them! She had never been so sore, so torn, and so alarmed, she thought, tugging the sheets up around her breasts. It was a very strange tangle of emotions. Over time she had struggled with two possibilities, one being that she would come of age, manage to get an annulment, return home, and perhaps acquire a husband of her own choosing.

  Then, of course, there had always been the possibility that Conar would actually come for her and take her as his wife. She had always been wary of him, impressed by him, and infuriated by him. Perhaps the attraction had always been there, perhaps that had bred some of her hostility. She had even realized at times that her fury was compounded by his lifestyle—Conar did know what he wanted and with whom. She was supposed to be chaste and pristine, while he went about his life. There was the woman in Dubhlain and probably one in France. And there was Brenna, with him so frequently, quick to dip her blond head and laugh at his words, quicker still to touch his arm, softly advise him. Bede, of course, had been amused with her fury against the injustices of life and had reminded her that a woman"s lot was different since she was meant to bear her husband"s heir. Naturally it was necessary that she therefore cling to a husband, even if the husband was unaware that she did.

  Yet Conar had received his great inheritance through her. Therefore, nothing seemed fair at all.

  Of course, Bede had also warned her that she could not expect the world to be fair.

  But she had long deplored her situation with Conar, and yet it had been bearable. He hadn"t been with her enough to wield his power.

  Until now.

  He had managed to wield a new power over her. One she had never expected.

  She groaned softly and buried her head back into her pillow. She wanted desperately to forget it all, to pretend that none of it had ever happened. To pretend that she remained untouched, with no idea of what could be.

  “No!” she whispered softly into her pillow. She slammed a fist against it.

  Her covers fell, and she reached to retrieve them. Her eyes fell upon the little specks of blood that dappled them, and her temper suddenly left. She sat up, throwing the down pillow upon the lower section of the bed and inching away from those spots. “I hate you!” she whispered fiercely, and both her palms landed on the pillow again. “I hate you!”

  She was stunned when she suddenly heard his voice.

  “I"m truly sorry, my love,” he said. She turned to see that he had come into the room, having entered through the door behind the tapestry once again. His words had a true Norse chill to them, and even hearing them, Melisande felt a shiver streak along her spine. With no effort at all she had offended him. Had there been any warmth within his Norse heart, she might have even hurt him.

  No, she hadn"t the power to hurt him. She had managed to inadvertently anger him again and that was all.

  She felt ever more keenly her great disadvantage with him, for he was fully dressed in chausses, as was his custom, linen shirt and over-tunic, his mantle broached at his shoulder. His men wore many types of pants, loose-fitting with hose beneath, some long, some short. She had noticed his preference for these hugging garments each time she had seen him, for they made his movements effortless, unencumbered.

  He wore his scabbard about his waist, and his unusual sword with the Celtic design and Viking style within it. His knife was sheathed at his ankle. He seemed indomitable, yet she suddenly felt another chill about her heart, and she didn"t know why. Any man could be caught with an arrow in his heart. Every man was flesh and blood. She knew that. She had seen her father die.

  She suddenly knew, with a startling, frightening clarity, that she didn"t want Conar to die. She had thought him a thorn in her side, someone to escape, indeed, someone to hate. Yet she didn"t ever want him to fall.

  He would never believe that now, she thought wearily, and it mattered little, for she had no intention of ever telling him. His eyes were a pure blue ice-fire upon her, and she felt their cold seeping through her. She realized that she sat up, the sheets barely covering her lap, her hair a wild tangle curling over her back—and her breasts bare. She closed her eyes briefly, her fingers curling into the sheets, wrenching them upward and clutching them to her breast. She was careful to survey him then with the same cool regard and scramble about for what shreds of dignity she might muster. “Does it ever enter your mind, milord, to knock upon a door and enter a room the customary way?” His eyes swept over her. She couldn"t begin to fathom their emotion.

  “When I left you, milady, you were sleeping as soundly as the dead. If you still slept, I didn"t intend to waken you. I assure you,” he murmured, and a mocking tone was back in his voice, “I didn"t intrude upon your display of temper with any malicious intention!”

  “So why did you intrude?”

  “It"s too late to sail with the tides today,” he told her. “I want you to be prepared to go at dawn tomorrow. I"m quite certain you pack quickly and efficiently—you managed to come here swiftly enough.”

  “I pack quickly and efficiently when I seek to go somewhere. But as you haven"t seen it necessary to tell me any of your plans …” She broke off, shrugging. “Then I see no benefit to packing quickly at your slightest whim.” He was silent a moment, his gaze upon her. He strode across the room and stood by her side, seeming to tower over her with his height and presence.

  “Then don"t pack, milady. Come without your belongings. Come naked as you lie now. But you will come!”

  “I am the countess, the heiress,” she reminded him, eyes rising hotly to clash with his. “You are mistaken if you think that you can still command me as if I were one of your household servants.”

  “I would never command you as I do my household servants, lady, for I have never had a servant so willful or stubborn. You should know me by now. I have said that you will come with me. You will.”

  How did she fight him? How did she change this?

  How long would he be with her before he disappeared, seeking the company of his golden Brenna or one of the others?

  She lowered her lashes quickly, determined that he would never know her true thoughts.

  “You never ask, Viking!” she hissed softly. “You cast out your commands as if you cracked a whip. Perhaps you would find yourself more readily obeyed if you learned
to listen to others.”

  She inched back upon the bed, her sheet against her breasts, as he sat beside her suddenly, leaning toward her. “I"ve listened to you, Melisande. I"ve listened to you command and demand, and I even wrote and carefully sent a message, warning you that I was coming for you. My mistake. I should have written to my father. You received my letter, smiled to my unwary little brother, and escaped here as quickly as you could. Then you immediately began to plot with that poor young fool, Gregory. Thank God, lady, that we discovered the proof of your innocence that so angered you this morning, else I might have been tempted to slit his young throat despite his tender age!” She flushed furiously, drawing her knees up beneath the sheets, trying to hug them to her. She lifted her chin. “Next time, milord, I will be careful to see that my travels take me far from your family"s domain! What did I do that was so terrible? My mistake! I came here!”

  “And what did you gain?” he demanded in a roar that caused her to stiffen quickly so that she would not flinch.

  “I thought,” she said softly, coolly, “that you might just go away.”

  “And leave you here. To young Gregory.”

  Her lashes lowered despite herself. “As I said, milord,” she whispered, her eyes rising to meet his again, “next time I will take care to sail far away.”

  “There will be no next time, Melisande.”

  He rose, and started for the door. “I sail for the coast of France at dawn tomorrow.”

  “Home?” she gasped. He was still walking. She was so stunned that she forgot her lack of apparel and leapt to her feet, racing naked after him. She caught his arm, pulling upon it, causing him to turn. “You"re taking me home?” she demanded again.

  She paused, swallowing hard, for he did not answer her right away. She felt the blue fire of his gaze burn over the length of her, and where it touched her she was warmed. She dropped his arm, backing away from him. She awkwardly attempted to cross her arms over her breasts, then realized just what that effort didn"t cover.

  “Home,” she repeated again. “You"re taking me home?” He walked back toward her. She kept moving away from him, seeking out his eyes, but losing them, for they had fallen upon some other spot on her body.

  “Conar!” she exclaimed. She stood by the bed, then leapt back into it, swiftly drawing the covers over the length of her body to her chin.

  They were just as swiftly ripped away. She cried out softly as she realized she couldn"t possibly have positioned herself any better for his advantage. She started to leap back up, but gasped as his weight pinned her to the bed. There was a glitter of amusement in his eyes now, but it was a fevered one, a determined one, and she was coming to know it all too well. Her hands fell against his chest, and he leaned upon an elbow, his long limbs cast over hers with the easy strength of fallen oaks. His right hand was free to torment her.

  “Are you eager to go home, Melisande?” he asked her softly. “Does that make the difference? Will you live happily with a hated Viking if you are just able to go home?”

  His gaze was on her now, holding her with a strength as great as that of his limbs. She tried to form her lips so that an answer could fall from them. But his hand was upon her, his palm moving slowly along the curve of her side, rounding her hip, rising to her breast, and stroking its fullness.

  Her fingers wound upon his, halting them.

  “You ordered me to pack.”

  He arched a brow, eyes still alive with laughter. “You"re suddenly going to obey me?”

  She flushed, trying to pluck his hand from her flesh. “Surely it"s late. And it"s broad daylight—”

  “Perhaps it"s the daylight that fascinates me so.”

  She could not halt his touch. His hand moved again, the roughened palm rubbing erotically over the tip of her nipple. Despite herself she felt a fierce jolt of fire raging through her, awaking that sweet center of need deep within her.

  She grit her teeth, fighting it, fighting the sting of tears that threatened. She didn"t hate so much that he had the strength to hold her here, to do this to her.

  She hated that he touched her and that she wanted him.

  She grabbed hold of his straying palm once again, pushing it firmly aside.

  She managed to wriggle out from beneath the weight of his legs and leap to her feet, crying out furiously, “You cannot think to neglect someone for years and then demand—”

  “Alas!” he mocked. “I am trying so very hard not to neglect you now!”

  “Milord, you are dressed!”

  “Ah, lady, but it is not a permanent state! If it distresses you, I will remedy it.”

  And he, too, was on his feet. She turned to flee. He caught her arm, spinning her fiercely into his arms. His mouth descended upon hers, hot, hard, demanding, sweeping her breath away. More of his sizzling warmth seemed to sear and sweep into her. She couldn"t breathe. Her heart pounded fiercely.

  His lips rose from hers, his gaze meeting hers with a reckless challenge.

  She brought a fist up, slamming it against his chest. He laughed, and lifted her, tossing her down upon the expanse of the bed.

  Gasping for breath, she stared at him. His scabbard was unbuckled and on the floor. His tunic and shirt were over his head. She started to rise again, but before she could move far he was with her again. His lips found hers. Suddenly gentle, teasing, licking, seductive …

  She ceased to fight him, the wealth of fire within her rising as if touched by the same wild wind.

  “Home,” he whispered softly to her. “Remember, milady, I am the price of your homeward passage!”

  It didn"t matter, not in the least, but she would not have told him so. His hands were upon her, his mouth upon her throat, her breast. The world began to spiral and spin, and she began to fly.

  Later he lay at her side, his fingers gentle as they idly stroked her arm while the fever that had seized them slowly, sweetly eased away. He sighed, as if he were truly unhappy to leave her, and rose to his side of the bed.

  “It"s very late.” He was silent for a moment, then she felt his hand on her hip. “Do I understand this correctly, my love? Since I am taking you home, you are willing to be ready to sail with me?”

  He was amused again, she thought, and that irritated her unbelievably. She didn"t reply at first.

  “Melisande, I am speaking to you.”

  “Yes!”

  “You"re willing to spend your nights with me, sleep with a Viking?” She spun around, suddenly furious. “I would sleep with the Devil himself,” she hissed, meeting his eyes.

  “Isn"t a Viking one and the same?”

  “Yes!” she cried in agreement.

  “Ah, poor Melisande!” he murmured, his fingers curling around one of her ebony tresses. “I cannot seem to make you happy. I stay away, and I neglect you. I come to retrieve you, and I force you to sleep with a demon. Yet you do not seem to suffer too greatly.”

  She clenched her teeth, tugging upon her hair to try to wrench it from his grasp. He held tight, smiling. He leaned close, his eyes amused and challenging once again. “Melisande, I have told you, I will never let you go. But at least you will not be neglected further.”

  She emitted an oath of frustration, closing her eyes against him. She felt him untangle her hair from his hold, and she quickly turned her back on him. “Pack what you wish,” he commanded her. “I will be down with my brother, that other wretched Viking devil.” He was silent a moment, then added softly, “And yet you seem to get on so very well with Bryce and Bryan! Don"t be deceived by my mother"s dark hair and green eyes upon them! They, too, are surely Viking demons at heart!”

  “Go away!” she told him, groaning. He laughed and rose. She heard him dress. She was outraged to feel the sting and hear the sharp slap as his hand landed upon the smooth flesh of her buttocks.

  “You"re sleeping the entire day away, Melisande. It"s time to rise.” He left by the hidden doorway, laughing again as she threw a pillow after him.

  When h
e had left her at last, she leapt up. Shaking, she poured water from her pitcher into her wash bowl and grabbed a cloth, determined to scrub herself from head to toe. She wanted a bath, but did not want to wait for tub or water.

  When she finished, she started over. And when she was done this time, she paused, eyes closed, teeth biting lightly into her lower lip.

  She could still feel him. Feel his touch.

  She realized then that she always would.

  She dropped the wet cloth and strode across the room for her clothing. There was little that she had to do, as she had come with her things packed in the trunk at the foot of the bed, and had taken out only a few pieces of her clothing, her perfumes, oils, and the mint she chewed for her teeth.

  She dressed quickly, then started down the stairs. She might have been angry with Mergwin for so quickly seeming to turn from her on Conar"s behalf, but he had been a good friend. Perhaps he had reminded her a great deal of Ragwald, though the two men were so different in their pursuit of their “sciences.” Mergwin didn"t begin to deny that there was magic in the world, that there might be spirits, that the ancient Druid ways might be evoked when needed, that the Norse stones were equally telling when they were read.

  Ragwald studied the stars in the heavens, and his readings on life were therefore not superstition, but complete science.

  Still the men were very alike, for when challenged and cornered, they were both quick to remind her indignantly that they were Christian men, serving Christian rulers—even if she did have her doubts about Olaf, the king of Dubhlain—and that in the end, it was all God"s will.

  She started out of the room and then realized that her heart was beating swiftly, painfully. Home. Perhaps Conar had never realized how cruel he had been to make her leave. Maybe he had never intended that cruelty, for no matter what she might say to him, she had been treated like one of their own by Olaf and Erin, and she had never wanted for anything among any of Conar"s family.

  All that she had missed was her home. Ragwald, Philippe, Gaston, even Father Matthew. They had been all that had been left of her family.