“The Eóganachts welcomed Rhiannon, though privately they remained wary of the heathen. Soon she showed her true grain, stirring untold trouble within the tribe. Then, when some of the cattle mysteriously died and unseasonable storms descended on Clonmel, some even feared she and her devil-man practiced the dark arts. While Comyn did not know Rhiannon in her younger days, he says she is now a hard and bitter woman with frightful scars and a twistedness in her mind. A twistedness, he believes, rooted in the deep hatred she carries in her heart.”
Lia paused to quench the dryness of her throat with a swallow of wine, then continued.
“When Rhiannon learned of my recent visit to Clonmel, she began to question the others intently. When she discovered Ailinn had also survived her captivity and lives in Normandy, it obsessed her mind till she could speak of naught else. The women who attended Rhiannon overheard her boast to Varya of how she would have Ailinn seized and brought to Ireland so she might take her revenge on her.
“Meanwhile, Mór died. Some say Rhiannon hastened him to his grave. Scarce had he been laid to his rest when Rhiannon and the barbarian disappeared, taking with them Mór’s personal treasure that he had long kept hidden in an ancient underground souterrain of which she knew. The tribesmen who tracked them say Rhiannon and Varya traveled to an abandoned hill-fort named Cahercommaun, on the southwest coast of Ireland. Comyn confesses the men did not confront them. The tribe preferred to leave Rhiannon and her barbarian to themselves, wishing nothing more to do with them.”
Comyn stood up, speaking animatedly, appealing in his Gaelic tongue directly to Lyting and Rurik.
“He says Rhiannon is evil, driven by her hatred and her desire for revenge. In Clonmel, Comyn and the others began to worry. With such wealth as she now commands, Rhiannon may be capable of almost anything. They especially worry over the threat concerning Ailinn and felt an urgency to warn us.”
Silence fell upon the group as they considered Comyn’s disturbing words. At last, Ailinn spoke, her voice trembling, tears in her eyes.
“We have been searching Francia in vain. Ailénor must have been taken in my stead, by mistake.”
“We do not know that for certain,” Lyting said gently.
“Mayhap we do.” Rurik rubbed a thumb along his jaw in thought. “Mayhap like a piece of broken pottery, we have been holding all the pieces but not fitting them together correctly. What do we know thus far? Ailénor was seen near the kitchens just before dawn and seized soon after in the garden. Her cloak and brooch confirm that. About the same time, two servants disappeared from their duties, and later a cart of rushes was found abandoned outside the west gate.”
“Assuming the men were Rhiannon’s hirelings, and that they believed ‘twas Ailinn they had seized,” Lyting reasoned aloud, “their quickest escape would have been by ship, downriver, toward the coast and open waters.”
“Only one ship left that morn in the direction of La Manche,” Rurik rejoined. “Aside from the boatswain, ‘twas reported two men sailed with Garreth of Tamworth. Do we have their description?”
“Nei, but I know who claimed to have seen them.” Lyting departed the chamber long enough to send for the man, then returned to comfort Ailinn while they waited. When he entered the room, the others were discussing the two missing manservants.
“They were said to be coarse-looking,” Brienne was saying. “But do we know something more specific than that? Some detail that might help identify them as the men in the ship?”
“One had monstrously large eyes,” Lyting offered. “The other’s face was scarred as if he once suffered the pox.”
Stunned, Ailinn swiveled in her chair to look up at Lyting. “You did not tell me this before now. I saw them. We all did. In the alcove by the stairs. I remember, they seemed menacing somehow, and for a moment I thought . . . but I believed my mind played me a trick.”
“Thought what, elskan mín?” Concern filled Lyting’s eyes.
“I thought they meant me harm. I was alone with them for a moment. Brienne cleaned her dress above stairs, and I went down ahead of her. The men were in the alcove, and when they saw me they started to move toward me as though cornering quarry. But then you and Rurik appeared.” Ailinn reached for her husband’s hands and gripped them tightly. “Oh, Lyting, I heard one of them speak Gaelic!”
Rurik stood to his feet. “I remember them as well, though I didn’t see their features clearly. I thought it odd that they should stack trestles behind the stairs.”
Lyting, too, remembered the men in the alcove. “My God, Ailinn, they came very near to seizing you.”
“Now they have our Ailénor instead.” She looked at him with doleful eyes.
Lyting comforted Ailinn while Rurik and Brienne spoke further with Comyn and Lia. At last one of the guards ushered in a man called Gervase.
Gervase doffed his hat, turning it nervously in his hands as he sketched a bow, obviously unsure why he had been summoned to the ducal palace. Lyting quickly put him at ease, then asked several pointed questions about the men who had sailed from Rouen the fateful morn Ailénor had disappeared.
“They came to the docks just as the skies were breaking,” Gervase recalled. “Wanted to cross La Manche, they said. I was sailing for Paris myself, so I sent them to speak with Turold the Saxon, two ships over. He was about to make that run.”
“Do you recall anything in particular about the two men? What they looked like?”
Gervase scratched his ragged beard. “They both were hooded. Couldn’t see their features well in the lingering dark. There was something strange about one of them, though. Something not quite right about his face. ‘Twas his eyes, actually. They looked . . .”
“Large?” Lyting supplied.
“That’s it! Huge, like a bug’s eyes.”
The others exchanged glances.
“Did you see what the men loaded onto the ship?”
Gervase shook his head. “No trunks or other goods, if that is what you mean. Nothing but a grain sack.”
“Think carefully. Could it have contained a person?”
All expression drained from Gervase’s face as he recognized what they truly asked. “Indeed, Lord. It could have been a maid.”
Ailinn’s hands flew to cover her mouth, and she squeezed her eyes together in quiet anguish. Brienne quickly slipped an arm around her.
“Faith, Ailinn. We must not forget Garreth was aboard. Mayhap he was able to aid her.”
“There were reports of a wicked storm that kicked up that night on La Manche,” Gervase warned. “At least two ships are known to have been lost. ‘Tis impossible to know if their ship reached land or even where they might have been when the storm struck. The storm likely drove them off course as well.”
Rurik caught Lyting’s gaze. “‘Twill take too long to check the individual ports along the coast. It might be best to sail directly for Lundenburh. One of Valsemé’s ships is there now. We could pick up news from the crew and others along the wharf. ‘Tis a starting point. We can put in elsewhere if need be.”
“It might also be helpful to know from Comyn exactly where they would have been headed,” Lyting added, then turned to Ailinn.
Ailinn’s heart clutched as she rose from her chair, knowing that he was about to leave her. She shook her head against his unspoken words.
“1 will not be left behind, Lyting. I am sailing with you.”
Startled, he tried to object, but she grasped his arms.
“Many years ago, you promised to take me back to Ireland whenever I wished. I pray we need not journey so far as that, but I refuse to remain here waiting for word. I am the one Rhiannon seeks, and what led to this sorrow. Please, my love. I cannot remain here.”
She could see Lyting debate the matter in his mind. Knowing him, he held no wish to put her at any risk.
“For our Ailénor,” she pleaded softly, placing a hand over his heart.
Lyting slipped his hand over hers and nodded his agreement.
Brienne started to say something to Rurik, but he stayed her. “I will need you at Valsemé, astin mín. Take the children there, all of them, and Felise, too. I will send word to you there. Meanwhile, we three will take the ship and crew with which we sailed to Rouen. I will go now and advise William of what passes and ask that he provide you and the children an escort to the barony.”
Giving Brienne a swift kiss, Rurik looked to his brother. “Lyting, I shall need a hand readying the ship.”
Lyting looked to Ailinn. “Are you sure you wish to make this journey, elskan mín?”
Ailinn’s thoughts went to Ireland, and she sensed deep within her, even should they find their daughter, the matter would not see its end until she confronted Rhiannon directly.
“Elskan mín?” Lyting asked again when she did not respond. “Are you certain you wish to do this?”
Ailinn took a deep breath. “I must.”
»«
Cahercommaun, Ireland
Rhiannon’s eyes glazed as Varya brought her to the brink of release, then held her there, sustaining the moment on a fine edge as he sucked gently, then drew his tongue away from the swollen fruit of her womanhood to caress a less sensitive area.
Reaching up, he gave a small tug to the fine golden chain draped across her belly, each end affixed to gold rings fastened through her nipples. She felt the burning, embraced it. Pain and ecstasy, the two must become one to attain the most intense and explosive of sensual experiences.
Varya drew his hand downward, cupping the soft mound of her femininity and kneading it with his palm. At the same time, he slid his tongue up again to her sensitive core, and with a gentle nip signaled he was taking her. His tongue danced over the silken flesh with precise, rapid movements as he brought her to the pinnacle of pleasure and sent her hurtling beyond. Rhiannon fragmented, exploding with fierce convulsions, fire shooting through her veins.
She panted as she descended from the orgiastic heights, aware of Varya shifting to his knees and drawing up her parted legs. He placed her feet on his shoulders, then entered her with a swift, solid thrust. He still wore the ivory cock-ring that was part of their earlier play. It encircled the base of his manhood and now, as he pressed against her, its large inset pearl kissed her nerve-rich nub.
Varya moved against her with brisk, powerful thrusts. The pearl grazed Rhiannon’s sensitive flesh, but again she welcomed and relished the pain. That, too, was an art.
A growl rumbled from Varya’s chest, building to a full-throated roar as he threw back his head and, grinding against her, purchased his own climax.
Rhiannon watched his features constrict with pain, pleasure, ecstasy. Finishing, his black eyes sought hers. She smiled and nodded. He pleased her, and he need know that. Varya, too, had his pride.
As her Avar lover left the bed, Rhiannon stretched out, catlike, her gaze flowing over his naked, iron-hard body. She watched as he worked the ivory ring from his male member. Her lips curved upward. Varya had a devil’s tool to match his devil’s face. In him she had found not only a formidable protector, but also a worthy mate. Best of all, he would do anything she asked of him. Anything at all.
Rhiannon rose from the bed and crossed the room to her clothes chest, with a slow, confident stride that set the slim golden chain swaying from her breasts to gently buffet her taut stomach. Varya’s dark gaze followed her. Rhiannon took further pleasure in that and allowed him his fill. Her face might be scarred, but her body was that of a young woman, faultless in its shape.
She drew on a loose gown and took up a comb, setting it to her disheveled hair. Behind, she heard Varya move about the room as he collected his clothes.
How far they had come, she thought to herself. How much they had endured. And survived. Now they were free. With her sharpness of mind, Varya’s barbaric power, and her father’s treasure, life was at her command. Indeed, they had come far.
Her thoughts drifted back to a day, eighteen years past, when a fierce Petcheneg bore her across the golden expanse of the Steppe. The Petchenegs were a vile, loathsome people. A woman of lesser spirit would have broken under their domination. But her own will was indomitable. It proved her greatest strength, and her salvation.
Many a time she had tried to escape. Many a time she had been punished. Only to try again. Why they did not kill her, she was unsure. Mayhap they liked her too well in their beds. Whatever their reason, they tired of her in time, and at one of the crossroads on the Baltic, they traded her to a group of Avars. ‘Twas then she met Varya.
Varya was born of an Avar warrior and a slave woman. As a healthy male child, his father could have freed him from slavery and raised him up as a warrior as well. But because of the blight that covered half his face, Varya was not given the honor. Instead he lived reviled by all, even the lowest of slaves.
Heathens, Rhiannon had found, were as superstitious and fearful as Christians when it came to a man with the devil’s mark. Thus Varya grew from childhood, knowing naught but beatings and hard labor and no tenderness in his life, except perhaps once a mother, who had died or been sold long ago.
Rhiannon first saw Varya from a distance, alone and crouched before a fire, his unblemished side toward her. She thought him to be a favorable-looking man, ruggedly hewn with muscles that looked to be of rock. In him Rhiannon saw great potential. She looked closer and guessed him to have seen about twenty years at the time. She had seen thirty.
Rhiannon found it odd that he sat isolated from the others. By the wide paths they made around him, she guessed they feared him. He looked toward her then, and she discovered their reason — a purplish-red stain that cursed him and sealed his fate. Rhiannon did not flinch, but held his gaze steadily with hers. If she could gain his loyalty, he would make an excellent protector in captivity.
First she strove to gain his trust. She treated him fairly, not with softness or kindness, which would be viewed as weakness amidst the harsh life of the Steppe. Instead, she was humane where others were not. Also, she neither avoided looking on his mark nor reminded him of it with open stares. She trained herself to look beyond it and treat him as any other. In time, she truly no longer saw the stigma when she gazed on him.
Once one of the older slave women caused him to trip and spill an armload of wood, sending the logs rolling into the cookfire and upsetting a bubbling pot of broth. The woman clouted Varya about the head with the hot ladle, but Rhiannon stopped the wrathful slave and told her to see to the vessel herself. The woman spit at her, but Rhiannon held no care. Varya looked at Rhiannon strangely, as though uncomprehending why anyone should come to his aid. Whatever his thoughts, he did not communicate them, but remained behind his mental wall.
Time passed, and Rhiannon saw little progress. One day she angered one of the Avars, and he set a knife to her throat, intending to kill her. Varya, who had never spoken to her knowledge, roared a frightening sound as he came forward at the man, seemingly out of nowhere. The pressure of the Avar’s hand slackened, and though he did not stop the path of his knife, it did not cut as deeply as he intended. Dropping Rhiannon in a heap, the Avar quickly retreated, fearful of the crazed devil-man.
Varya tended to her wounds and fostered her back to health. Somehow he stanched the bleeding, though he knew nothing of the stitching of such wounds. He did, however, know of herbs and poultices and was able to keep the wound free of infection. The scar that formed was grotesque, but Rhiannon owed him her life and made no complaint. From that time forth, their bond grew. The others left them alone, fearing Varya more than ever, wholly unsure of his capacities when roused.
During that time Rhiannon took him as her lover, something no woman had ever done. And Varya was extremely grateful.
Over time, Rhiannon learned the rudiments of his language and taught him some of hers. For five years they plotted their escape. Then fate intervened. While at another of the market crossroads, a traveling missionary discovered them.
They were free now, and the world was theirs. But first, above
all, she would right the wrongs done her, beginning with her wretched stepcousin Ailinn.
A rap at the door jolted Rhiannon from her thoughts. At her bidding, a nervous bent stick of a maidservant entered and announced a visitor — a man named Wimund.
“At last.” Rhiannon’s pulse quickened.
Tossing a mantle about her shoulders, she preceded Varya from the room, her expectations rising as they entered the adjoining chamber that served as the hall. Inside, Wimund waited alone.
Rhiannon cast her glance about the room, then spun on Wimund who had the audacity to smile at her.
“Where is she?” Her temper flared, and she advanced on him. “Why have you returned empty-handed?”
Wimund’s smile fell. “I — I came to report . . .”
“I do not want a report. I want Ailinn here, now.”
“Princess, we seized Lady Ailinn in Rouen and crossed the Channel, but there was a fierce storm, and there has been a delay.”
“What?” Rhiannon screeched. “Where is she? And where is Grimbold?”
“They are in England. Grimbold follows her from Winchester to a place named Andover.”
“Follows her? You mean she slipped your grasp?” Her fury multiplied, and she closed the space with a menacing step.
“There was a Saxon noble aboard, and he — ”
“Give me no excuses,” she shrieked as she clawed her fingers and raked them across Wimund’s face, drawing blood.
Varya moved behind him, clamped him on the shoulders, and hauled him up on his toes. Rhiannon plucked the dagger from the sheath at Wimund’s hip and held it to his throat.
“Listen to me, you miserable little insect of a man. I do not wish to see your face unless Ailinn is in your possession. Now, go back to England and bring her to me.”
She withdrew the blade and motioned for Varya to release him.
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 22
