The Viking's Woman (31 page)

But now …

A Viking was lord of these people. Eric had entered the hall and demanded that all within it be at his beck and call. He had dared carry her up a stairway before all assembled, and just as arrogantly he had led her back down to dine within it. Yet all through the meal she had been conscious that it had been postponed until the master had first enjoyed the fulfillment of another basic hunger. And each time she had reached for the chalice of mead that they had shared, she had brushed his fingers, had met his eyes, and had known that he laughed at her embarrassment.

Yet others seemed to find him civilized, and not merely for brief moments, as she herself did. Adela thought him striking—and charming. Charming! The servants found no difficulty in answering his every command. Alfred’s men joked easily with him. Even
Rowan—damn Rowan!—seemed to honor him deeply and like him.

Men, she thought with avid disgust. So he went to battle and slayed others with ease; so he was a hero. He had been reared to dole out death, and that was all.

To dole out death—and the power of his will.

She had escaped him after dinner the first night to see to sleeping arrangements for all the men who had accompanied him home. Some would be within the hall; some would need quarters within the cottages before the walls; some would take over property outside of the walls; and so forth. Then, too, there was extra grain and hay to be acquired for all the horses, and so much else to be done. And so she had escaped him until very late, and when he had found her at last, she had been in the kitchen, ordering the meals for the day to come. She could still see him in the doorway, his hands upon his hips, his eyes crystal blue and very hard upon her. He lifted a hand and bid her simply, “Come!”

She had swirled about with all the noble defiance she could muster. “My lord, I am busy,” she had said, her tone one to dismiss the staunchest warrior.

But not this lord of the wolves. She had barely turned her back upon him before his hand was upon her shoulder. He didn’t argue or even speak again but once more swept her into his arms and kept her there in a viselike grip. Their eyes met, and neither of them had a word to say. He carried her past drunken, drowsing men in the hall, up the stairs, and to their room, and his eyes never left hers once. And when he placed her upon the bed, she told him that she hated
him, yet even as she watched him shed his clothing in the candlelight, she wondered if she spoke the truth. She repeated the words as he crawled over her, his magnificent chest bronze and richly matted with platinum hair, and knew she whispered lies. “You are my wife,” he reminded her. “And I will have my way.” His throaty laughter filled the air, taunting her, but then his touch became a sweet caress, and her furious protests died within the sweet, demanding hunger of his lips. Her words were swept away as cleanly as her will. The candles burned low, and in time it was her soft cries of desire and fulfillment that he took from her with the fervor of his kiss.

Seated upon the bank, Rhiannon exhaled sharply and came suddenly to her feet. The next day he had gone riding until the wee hours, and she had pretended sleep when he returned. He hadn’t touched her, and so she had played the game again the third night. But he had been the victor, laughing, rolling her about to tell her she was a sorry little deceiver and that she could welcome her lord home.

She had done so but now regretted it.

But last night … last night she had wrested a victory. No matter how exciting his touch, she had resisted. She had not given him battle; she had simply lain as cold as stone, tears filling her eyes in the darkness as she fought not him but herself.

And then she lay awake in the darkness as long as he.

And now this morning …

She could still feel him upon her, breathe in the scent of him, remember the rich tenor of his laughter, the fierce ardor of the man as his body impaled her
own. She could feel the rock-hardness of his muscle, the shudder within him, within her, the sensation as he filled her with himself, with his seed. She could never be free of him. Never, never forget the memory. And she hated herself more vehemently than she hated him, because she couldn’t deny that he did appear something of a god, that his naked chest—and hips and thighs … and manhood—were indeed awesome. That his eyes were commanding—and not just his eyes but his whole personality. That he was, in truth, the new lord here.

No, never.

The leaves of the tree rustled and whispered above her. She was all alone here and at peace. She cast aside her mantle and quickly took off her shoes and stripped away her hose and hurried to the water. It was icy cold but delicious and cleansing. She glanced about again, then shed her tunic and shift and walked into the thigh-high water and shuddered furiously as the cold struck her. Then she sank down so that the rushing water covered her to her shoulders, soaking her hair. She dived within it quickly and felt the full force of the cold, rose, and shivered delightedly. She felt free. Free of his touch, of his command.

“Rhiannon!”

She gasped, swinging about then sinking low, as she heard her name called with a sharp, worried tension. She gritted her teeth, praying that Eric had not discovered her even here, then relaxing at nearly the same moment as she recognized Rowan’s voice.

“Rhiannon!”

“I’m—I’m here!” she called out.

She saw him then, mounted, coming around the
bend of the oak. How young he looked! she thought briefly. She felt as if she were his senior by many years. Rowan was still a lad, she reflected, and she no longer a girl but a woman. He dismounted quickly and came rushing toward her. He paused as he realized that her clothing lay strewn upon the bank. He choked out an expletive, then swept up her mantle and walked to the water’s edge with the garment uplifted for her.

She rose and walked toward him, remembering the ill-fated morning when she had come to him so. Dreams had been alive then. But now … now she hurried for the shelter of the garment, and he averted his eyes.

“What is it?” she asked softly, sweeping the cloak about her.

“You were gone,” he said harshly. “You were gone and the guards had seen you leave, but no one knew where you were, and I—I feared for your safety.”

“My safety?” Puzzled, she stared up at him. Then she smiled slowly and ruefully, squaring her shoulders. “I see. You thought that I might contemplate casting myself over the cliff to the sea?”

Rowan’s color darkened. “I—I don’t know.” She was startled when he suddenly fell to his knees before her. “I beg your pardon, Rhiannon, for last night I realized that my presence added to your wretchedness. Please understand. I—”

She pulled her hand free from his touch. “You have determined to serve a Viking, Rowan. I have not. That is all.”

“You should see him in battle—”

“I have seen him in battle, I saw him attack my
home, and I am not in awe of a man for his ability to kill other men.”

“You don’t know him—”

“It is I who beg your pardon, Rowan. I am coming to know him very well.”

He stood very close to her. “Rhiannon, for the love of God, please try to understand. He saved my life, not once but twice. By all that is holy, I am honor-bound to serve him.”

He seemed so desperate, so very wretched himself, that her heart was torn. She slipped her arms around him, knowing that she would always love him, though not in the way she had once. She loved him as she might love a brother. There was nothing in her gesture except for that love.

Yet even as her arms entwined about his neck and she whispered his name with tenderness and sorrow, she felt a chill slowly seize her. She stared past his head, and the chill became icy shafts that raced along her spine.

Eric was watching her.

Seated upon his white stallion, he stared at them from the shadows beneath the tree. She could not see his eyes, nor read his features, but she could see the golden glitter of his hair and the easy, powerful way he sat his horse.

Then he nudged the great white stallion and came toward them, dressed that day as an Irish prince, his scarlet mantle held over his shoulder with a large emerald brooch, inscribed with the sign of the wolf.

“Oh, God!” she breathed.

Rowan quickly moved away, spinning around to see the danger. He released her and stepped forward,
ready to meet this wolf, no matter what his fear, ready to come between her and the danger.

“My Lord,” Rowan began. “I swear to you—”

“No!” Rhiannon cried, rushing around him. Rowan reached for her arm, trying to stop her.

“Rhiannon!”

She pulled free. Her mantle flew in the breeze. Even as she swept it about herself it became evident that she wore nothing beneath it. Silently she swore. But she was determined not to let Rowan suffer for his concern for her life. “There was nothing wrong here!” she declared hotly. “Do you understand me? There was nothing wrong here at all.”

Cold blue eyes, as chilling as an icy winter wind, swept over her. Not a muscle moved in the hard planes of his face.

“My Lord—” Rowan said.

“Rowan, go on. I’ll speak with you later,” Eric interrupted him curtly.

“But, my lord—”

“Damn you, man, go!”

Rhiannon froze. Her eyes locked with Eric’s, and they listened as Rowan hurried to his mount.

And then rode away.

Eric’s eyes remained hard upon hers. Despite the cold of the water that still dripped from her and the glacial quality of his stare, she felt a prickling of sweat break out upon her forehead. She would not let him do this to her. She would not! she swore.

She stamped a foot furiously upon the ground. “This was innocent, I tell you. And you’ve no right, no right at all, to look at me so.”

“How am I looking at you?” he inquired.

From a great height, she nearly said, and so it seemed. Upon the stallion he was ruthlessly tall, and yet she preferred him there, upon the mount, rather than on the ground and near to her.

She did not answer him. Instead she said, “I tell you that we are both entirely innocent. And if you were at all civilized—”

“Ah, but we’ve agreed! I’m not one bit civilized. I am entirely pagan. Viking. I slay my enemies. Death is the very creed by which I live!”

He began to dismount. Her breath was lost to her as her heart hammered wildly. She took a step back, but he had paused to gaze at the scattered array of her clothing upon the ground.

He took another step toward her. She swallowed her fear—and her pride. She must clear Rowan’s honor, which she had compromised. She fell gracefully to one knee, her head bowed. “I beg of you, listen to me—”

“Get off the ground. False humility does not become you.”

Her eyes flashing furiously, she rose. She pulled the mantle more tightly about her and saw his grim smile as he met the fury in her gaze. “That’s more like it, my love.”

“I am not your love. And I never shall be, so you claim.”

“So you’re not,” he said smoothly. He started to walk around her, stroking his chin. “Not my love—but indeed my wife. My wife! Bound within the sanctity of holy matrimony to honor and obey. And yet I shall be damned, madam, if I am not always finding you in various stages of undress.”

“One would think it your favorite way of discovering a woman, my lord,” she snapped back, “since when I am fully clad, you seem to make great haste to strip away what I wear.”

“It’s not your nudity that disturbs me,” he said, and again she felt a horrible chill, for he was at her back and paused there. She could not see his face; she could only hear the tremor in his voice that betrayed his anger, despite the lightness of his tone. “It is your repeated nudity before other men. Before Rowan.”

She swung around, unable to bear him behind her anymore. She was trembling and had to moisten her lips to speak. She suddenly regretted her victory of the night before. Perhaps he would not be so furious if she had not been so cold. He could not know what it had cost her. “My Lord, I do swear to you that Rowan is innocent—”

“There are so many ways to die, are there not? One can hang a man by the neck with rope until he is dead. It is not a pretty way to die. If the rope is too short, he slowly strangles. If it is too long, the head could be wrenched entirely from the body. But then, a man might simply be beheaded with the swing of a battle-ax or the slice of a sword.”

“Eric—”

“But then, of course, a woman’s neck slices far more easily than a man’s. Your neck, dear wife, is so very slender ….”

She backed away, facing him. “Then have done with it!” she started to cry, but her words broke off because he touched her at last, his fingers threading into her hair at the nape of her neck as he wrenched her to his chest. His fingers tugged hard upon her
dampened hair, forcing her eyes to meet his. “I would never slay you so, my dear. I would never deny myself the pleasure of wrapping my fingers about your throat and squeezing the very life from you!” Even as he spoke, his free hand found the opening of her mantle, and his fingers spread over the beating of her heart beneath her breast. “To stop this treacherous pulse!” he hissed.

And then suddenly he released her, thrusting her from him. He walked toward his horse, his back to her. “Gather your things and come. Now.”

Rhiannon desperately inhaled and exhaled, staring after him. He hadn’t hurt her yet, but she still didn’t know his intent. Was he dragging her back to have done with both her and Rowan in her very own hall?

“Wait!” she cried.

He went utterly still and turned around slowly. Again she lost her breath. She fought for several seconds to regain it. “Wait, you haven’t listened to me. If you dare to hurt Rowan—”

They were the wrong words. His long stride brought him before her in a matter of seconds, and she was soon back in his powerful grip. His eyes commanded hers as he stared down upon her. “I dare anything, madam—that you should well know by now! But as far as young Rowan goes, I intend him no harm. I trust
him
implicitly.”

“Wha-what?” Rhiannon stuttered.

“I’d not punish the lad because
your
behavior is that of the careless whore.”