MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves

by Graham, Heather

  Circular motions brought them higher and higher. The fabric bunched to her waist. His eyes were upon hers.

  The palm of his hand caressed the ebony curls between her thighs.

  She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. “No …”

  Again, “Lie still” was his only response.

  She started to speak, then inhaled sharply, for his touch was suddenly searingly intimate, parting tender, intimate places, delving within them, discovering the most sensitive and erotic feminine spots of her sex, playing upon them.

  She stiffened wildly, straining against him, a gasp escaping her.

  He silenced that gasp with his kiss, stroking her with his touch and with his tongue. Harder, deeper, more and more demandingly. He knew how to stroke, how to tease, caress, arouse.

  She trembled massively and was so filled with the burning sensation of need he had aroused within her that she was startled when he rose. She realized two things then.

  That each time he touched her now, she was more attuned to his touch, her body more eager for it, her flesh more traitorously willing to be kissed, caressed, and aroused.

  And that her husband could strip more quickly than she thought humanly possible.

  Strip and return to her, impatiently pulling upon the clothing that was all knotted around her now.

  “You want to help!” he whispered.

  She shook her head, violet eyes dazed as they touched him.

  “I am not expected to help in a ravishment,” she informed him.

  “In a seduction,” he corrected.

  “You commanded me to lie still.”

  “So I did,” he agreed. He no longer attempted to maneuver her clothing from her body, but tore upon it with his powerful hands. The fabric ripped and shredded to his will, and the vital, muscled heat of his naked body lay flush with hers, the hard pulsing thrust of his sex against her as intimate and arousing as all else had been. His weight thrust her thighs apart. Within seconds he was sinking deeply into her, and her fingers were curling into his shoulders.

  And her lips were parting to accept his kiss.

  Once again she was filled with that searing liquid heat as the steel of him thrust into her body. He stroked her tongue and lips as he began to move. He rose from her, his breath having grown ragged. A groan escaped his lips even as they closed around her breast, suckling hard, moving still, harder, faster, with an ever more erotic rhythm, more and more demanding, more and more a tempest. The wind swept her, lightning filled her.

  Hours later she lay exhausted, frustrated, and dismayed that she could have given in to him so completely.

  How could she be so weak?

  And yet as she lay there, she became aware of the way he lay beside her, body curled to her back in a protective shell, leg draped over hers, an arm about her. His great golden head was above hers, chin resting upon it. His hand moved suddenly, fingers moving tenderly, curling around hers, and he shifted behind her. His scent was rich, his breathing deep, the masculine feel of him still warm and pleasant. Perhaps in all of her life she had never felt quite so well

  … used. Yet neither had she ever felt so strangely protected or secure or …

  comfortable.

  Perhaps surrender had not been so awful a thing after all.

  Not in the darkness, perhaps.

  But daylight would come again. Daylight, with Brenna and his other mistresses and his autocratic tone of command.

  He didn"t sleep, either, she realized, for his lips were suddenly upon her back. Fingers brushed away her hair, damp seduction stroked along the length of her spine from her nape to her buttocks. His hand traveled at that same slow, sensual, mesmerizing speed, sliding under her arm, cupping the curve of her breast, caressing the rise of her hip. She caught her breath as she was turned in his arms, as her flesh knew his caress again, her lips the ardent, hungry fever of his kiss, so intimate, liquid fire against her, determined, no matter what protest left her lips.

  No matter what soft moan, what sensual cry, no matter how she writhed, arched.

  Exploded, like the burst of a log within a fire, beneath his expert manipulations.

  Again he rose over her, demand written in the hard lines of his features, in the blue blaze of his eyes.

  Daylight could wait.

  Yet daylight came quickly, and with it, the change Melisande had expected.

  She had just begun to sleep deeply, comfortably, in her warm cocoon when she was startled by the stinging strike that fell upon her posterior flesh and the sharp command that issued firmly from his lips, right against her ear.

  “Up, milady, now! We sail within the hour!”

  What was the matter with him? She was exhausted. And all because of his doing. He might, at the least, let her have some sleep when he had had everything his way.

  She groaned, rolling away from him. “Leave me be!”

  But he dragged her back, and she cried out in a wild and earnest protest.

  “If you strike me again, I swear I shall see the day that you are drawn and quartered!”

  “Swear it, milady, but get up! It is time that we are about! We are sailing for the coast of France, and I will not lose the tide!” He was gone quickly, already up and moving. She heard the sound of wash water sluicing over him.

  She bounded up, suddenly very awake herself. His words didn"t matter, nothing mattered.

  She was going home.

  At long last, home.

  She was so eager, even if it did mean she had sold herself to a devil to return to France.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Leaving people she had come to care about had been difficult, but the sheer joy of coming home definitely made up for the pain of parting.

  Conar"s ships remained a distance from the beach, but she could wait no longer. She started to leap out, then felt his grip upon her arm.

  “Lady, we are nearly there! Don"t ruin your gown!”

  She lifted her chin. “You can tear one, but I must not wet one?” He let out an angry oath, but suddenly swept her into his arms, leaping from the vessel himself and carrying her through the seawater to the shore of her home at last.

  They had been seen arriving from the fortress, and a group met them upon the shore. The second Conar set her down upon the sandy beach, she was flying in a hard run to reach Marie de Tresse, who stood waiting, her arms outstretched.

  “Melisande, Melisande, milady, all grown up, now!”

  “Ah, Marie, how I have missed you!”

  But she couldn"t linger with Marie long, for Philippe was there, and Gaston, and all her father"s fine men. Swen was there, too, and she greeted him cordially, but with a reserve, wondering just what he had been doing with her property in her absence. She didn"t dwell on that long, even as she refused to dwell on the fact that even now, Brenna was stepping upon the sand, having sailed with them, as well.

  “Where is Ragwald?” she demanded of Philippe anxiously. Philippe grinned and stepped aside, and there was her old mentor, tears in his eyes as he crushed her to him.

  “The fortress has been empty without you, child,” he assured her, crushing her to him again.

  She smiled. “And I have been empty without you all!” she assured him.

  “Come, let"s return there,” Ragwald urged, shivering, for despite the season, there was dampness in the air, and the beach was cold. “We have brought another old friend for you to bridge the distance,” Ragwald told her happily. He turned back, and one of the servant boys, clad in rough wool, came forward eagerly, leading Warrior.

  She cried out softly, hurrying forward to stroke the stallion"s nose. He whinnied once, backing away, then seemed to recognize her. He pranced closer to her then, nearly knocking her over. She cried out again with delight. “Ah, Warrior, you have not forgotten me!”

  “Indeed, it seems that he has not,” she heard.

  Conar. He was at her back again. Always. She grit her teeth, remembering his words at Rhiannon"s banquet table that night, that she woul
d have no need of a war-horse.

  Tears stung her eyes suddenly. She was not up to a mighty battle with him at the moment. She had just come home. She wanted peace. After everything, he had no right to deny her a horse!

  Her lashes lowered themselves over her eyes. But she was startled to hear his words again. “Come, milady, I"ll give you a boost.” She gazed at him, grateful. “Thank you,” she murmured awkwardly.

  A moment later she was upon Warrior. She waited impatiently for the last of Conar"s ships to arrive behind them, the ships he had had especially built to carry his trained mounts, for as he didn"t travel without Brenna, it seemed, he did not travel without Thor. Perhaps that was one of the differences that had come with his father"s landing upon Irish shores, for the offspring of Olaf, the Wolf of Norway, plucked their sailing, fighting, and living customs from whatever society they chose. And Conar had chosen to fight his battles upon Thor; it did not matter how difficult the transport from shore to shore.

  But his crews, composed of so many peoples, were well trained and efficient, and the ships were quickly beached and unloaded. In a very short time they were riding hard for the fortress.

  So little had changed!

  The stone walls, her father"s stone walls, still guarded the castle and keep.

  The fields outside the walls were growing richly, and all manner of inhabitants from within the walls themselves, the laundresses, the smiths, the artisans, were eagerly waiting at the open gates, waving their welcome. She greeted those she could, dismounting from Warrior with the help of Father Matthew as they rode into the courtyard. There was such a bustle of activity! Dear God! It seemed forever since she had been home. Almost six long years.

  Then at last she was climbing the stairs to reach the great hall of her own castle, and she was soon seated before the fire, Ragwald insisting she must warm her feet, though he seemed more determined to warm his own!

  It didn"t matter, it was so good to see his old, worn face! Marie quickly brought her a chalice of sweet warm wine, yet there was little conversation between them because the men were soon entering the hall and more servants were called, and everyone was speaking while the wine and ale flowed freely.

  She stared about and noted the absence of the little touches that had so graced Rhiannon"s hall. The rushes strewn upon the floor were not so fresh as they should be, several windows were left without tapestries to keep out the chill of the nights. She was home now and determined that she would bring her father"s creation to full glory.

  But then, she mused, the inner workings of the fortress were not as important as the outer defenses. First things first. She wanted to circle the walls, speak to the carls, or guards, assure herself that they were strongly defended from within.

  She looked up. Conar was staring at her. It was almost as if he read her mind, and his gaze upon her warned her that there might be harsh battles ahead.

  She looked away from him. “You must tell me everything that has happened in my absence,” she told Marie and Ragwald, extending her gaze to Philippe and Gaston beyond them. “Do the tenants fare well? Who have we lost? What have we gained?”

  “William from the south fields passed on to greater glory just last planting,” Gaston said, crossing himself. “He was a good farmer, and a fine man, but his son, another William, swore his fealty to you and Count Conar through yonder Swen, for you were in Eire, and Count Conar about with Count Odo.” She nodded, lowering her eyes. Swen! Her husband"s man. Yet she bore Swen no great hostility, other than that he was her husband"s man.

  There was still so much to say and so much to be done. The day passed swiftly. Soon after their arrival the tenants and serfs began to arrive, to greet her, to renew their homage. It occurred to her again that the very Viking menace the Christian world feared had created their feudal society—these people served her, or Conar, for the strength of the fortress. They owed her homage, their work for three days a week, their loyalty and service. They lived upon her land. She granted them their livelihood, they gave her themselves. In turn they were owed protection.

  By nightfall the tenant farmers, artisans, smiths and other servants had all paid their homage. The hall was filled only with those who lived within it, and the banquet table in the great hall was laid out with a feast to rival any she had enjoyed elsewhere. She was pleased to view the fortress with new eyes—

  Dubhlain was a great city, huge, walled, wondrous. Perhaps her fortress did not quite compare with it. But, though it lacked some of the finer points of Rhiannon"s hall, she thought its structure to be stronger and saw the wonderful strength of its defenses with great pride.

  The fire had burned low and the hour grown very late when Melisande realized that she was very weary. “Perhaps, Marie, you will assist your lady to bed now,” Conar said suddenly, and she looked to him quickly, startled again that he had been watching her without her knowledge.

  “I am not so tired—” she began, aware that he was seated amid Swen, Gaston, and Philippe, and that the men intended to talk far longer on the affairs of the fortress. But she broke off. He had not argued with her over Warrior. She would begin to assert her own authority tomorrow, when she was not so weary, when she would have greater strength to do so.

  “Perhaps I am,” she said, her lashes sweeping low, and Marie was quickly up with her. She was so glad to be home. She once again bid good night to the men who had served her father and her so faithfully, hugged Ragwald, and started to leave the hall for the stairway.

  “Melisande!”

  She heard his soft call and turned back, biting her lower lip. She had purposely ignored him. Stiffening her spine, she came back into the room and managed to set a light kiss upon the top of his golden head. His eyes rose to meet hers. “I will not be long, my love.”

  “Please, milord, take all the time you wish! Take the night, if need be!”

  “Ah, lady! I could not bear it. I shall be along shortly.” She clenched her teeth, smiled, and fled.

  She came to her father"s room. It remained as huge as she had remembered it, as warm, too. A warm bath awaited her by the fire, and a soft gown lay ready on the bed. She sank into the water with Marie"s assistance and found that she was telling her all about the distant places and foreign lands where she had lived, avoiding any mention of Conar.

  But she could not avoid thinking about him herself. Her things had all been brought here.

  As had his.

  She rose from the tub at last. Marie offered her a soft linen towel and she wrapped herself in it, then donned the exquisitely soft gown that had been left for her. She"d never seen it before. “Where did it come from?” she asked Marie.

  “Count Conar acquired it in his travels, Melisande,” Marie said.

  “Ah,” Melisande murmured and stood still as Marie helped her don the garment.

  Marie kissed her cheeks and hugged her, Melisande promised that they would be together from then on, and then Marie left her. Alone in her father"s room, she stared at the fire and wondered when Conar had acquired the gown, and if he had really intended it for her.

  Or for Brenna, or some other woman. She almost wrenched it over her head, but then she heard his footsteps outside the door and dived beneath the covers of the bed instead, closing her eyes to feign sleep.

  But he soon stood over her. He was silent and still for long minutes. Then she heard him moving about, discarding his clothing.

  The sheets were pulled back. Naked, he was at her side. “Look at me, Melisande.”

  She didn"t move.

  “I know that you are awake.”

  He crawled atop her and she felt his warmth suffuse her. Her eyes rose to his, flashing. She tried not to view his hard, muscled body.

  Or the other hardness that seemed to rise all too easily the moment they were alone.

  His eyes tonight were not mocking but dark and brooding as he stared into hers.

  “Why do you do this? Turn away from me? Fight me in your wearying way so endlessly?”
/>   “I don"t fight you—”

  “You do. And I don"t understand it, for I know I don"t hurt you. I have been pleased, aye, astounded by the beauty with which you respond.” The ease with which she responded, she thought.

  She swallowed hard, returning his stare. “I fight you,” she said softly,

  “because you have taken everything that is mine.”

  He shook his head. “I have taken what you cannot hold!”

  “You are a Viking!” she taunted. “Accustomed to taking!”

  “Alas, then I must take you again, willing or no!”

  She did struggle against him that night, twist and fight him and yet to no avail. He never really forced her. He just held her.

  And touched her and stroked her.

  Kissed her.

  Until her fingers ceased to knot against him, until her arms wrapped around him.

  Until he won, once again.

  * * *

  Being home was wonderful. Hearing her own language spoken daily, watching the fields grow, spending time with Ragwald and Marie, Philippe and Gaston and the others, all delighted her. It was easy enough to avoid Conar by day—he seemed to be occupied continually with the fortress, worrying about weakened positions, one in particular that, he assured her curtly one evening, was about to crumble. She staunchly defended her father"s wall. He informed her impatiently that her father had never been at fault, time itself had done the damage, and that they would need to begin work shoring it up as soon as they returned from Rouen.

  He hadn"t informed her as yet when they were going. In fact, he never informed her about anything.

  If he ever felt the need to simply speak with a woman, it was Brenna with whom he chose to speak.

  On their fourth night home Melisande left the hall early. Hours passed, and he did not retire.

  She came halfway down the stairs, curious as to what was going on below that would keep him awake so late.

  Then she knew. Brenna. He sat before the fire with her, talking. The firelight played on both golden heads. She thought about striding in on them and sweetly stating the need for a cup of wine or ale, but withdrew instead, hating them both.