The Viking's Woman

  “Come back here,” he commanded.

  “You are insane!”

  “Rhiannon, we could not stay so encrusted with mud. Come over here. I only wish to rinse out your hair before it is so matted with the stuff that we’ll have to cut it out.”

  “Well, what would be the loss of such a tangled mass of tarnished brass?” she retorted.

  He was silent, and then his laughter suddenly rang out. “Alas, what vanity is this?” he teased. The water rippled as he strode toward her within it. She dived in the moonlight, swimming far beneath the water, surfacing only when her lungs were bursting.

  And still he was not far behind. “Rhiannon …”

  She dived again. This time she chose her direction poorly, and he quickly captured her foot. He pulled her against him, his hands sliding along her naked thigh, hot against the chill of the water. She choked and struggled, but her breasts were taut against his chest, and she was suddenly staring into the very deep blue of his eyes in the moonlight. His knuckles brushed her teeth. The sizzling light of passion came to burn within his blue eyes.

  Breathlessly she demanded, “What would you have with hair so tarnished?”

  His fingers curved over the rise of her buttocks and swept seductively along her spine, then lowered again, pressing her close to him so that she could feel the rise of his sex hard against the apex of her thighs.

  “What would you have had me tell him?” he asked her softly. “Aye, indeed, it is glorious hair. It shines with the light of dawn, and that of the sunset too. It blankets me with softness, with beauty; it caresses my naked flesh with a life and wonder all its own.” His fingers stroked her soaking hair, smoothing it back, then wandered down her cheek and fell slowly over her throat and collarbone. His palm teased her chilled and hardened nipple even as his fingers closed warmly about her breasts. She caught her breath as his touch there started a bonfire within her that burned even between her legs, and she leaned back, resisting him. “My lord, I would not have you insulted by allowing you to dally with a breast that was ever so like a rotten, sagging melon!”

  A smile flickered over his features, and they were shatteringly handsome in the dusky light. “Aye, but if I had told him yes, indeed, they were the lushest, sweetest fruit, hard and firm as apples, alabaster tipped with rosebuds, and glorious in their beauty, alas! He might have determined never to let you go.”

  His stroke was light and magic. His palms moved with a tender, scintillating rhythm over those rosy crests, and she feared that her knees would buckle, even as he held her. Then, without warning, his touch suddenly shifted with bold intimacy to sweep searing heat betwixt her thighs, and she shuddered and held tight, forgetting her protest. Yet he had not forgotten his words, for his denial of them still rang out softly as he whispered against her ear. “Knock-kneed, madam? I dared not tell him that the feel of your flesh was finer than any fabric raided from the masters of the east, that your legs were indeed long and shapely, and that they could wrap around a man to give him ecstasy so great, it was indeed paradise here on earth. I could not tell him that the taste of you was sweeter than any wine, that it was possible to drown in the beauty of your eyes, that the wanting of you could knot a man inside and out, and that I should readily die to retrieve you, for I had tasted your sweetness and would defy any man, any god, to have you once again.”

  He taunted her; surely he taunted her. Yet as she raised her eyes to his there seemed to be no mockery in his gaze. He lifted her from the water to carry her to the shore, and there he set her down again. Again he spoke of the alabaster beauty of her flesh in the glow of the moonlight. And as he spoke of each of her perfections he planted there a tender yet sensual kiss, until it seemed that she was dried from the chill of the water by the heat of his lips and tongue, and then it was his body that warmed her, and the startling, seductive tenderness gave way at last to the searing rise of passion.

  Later, so much later, when the moon at last begin to sink in the blackness of the heavens, when passion had been heavily spent and exhaustion had nearly claimed her, she felt his arms again, lifting her, carrying her beneath the tree and setting her there upon the warmth of his own mantle. She had nearly drifted off to sleep when he nudged her and offered her some of the meat, now well-charred, that he had set upon the fire. She did not think that she could eat, but the food was delicious, and she found that she had acquired a ravenous hunger.

  When they had finished their meal, he came down beside her and held her close against his naked heat. Lost in the warmth and comfort of him, Rhiannon thought that this was almost like being cherished, almost like being loved.

  Yet it had been an illusion of the night, she thought as the first bright rays of dawn awoke her. For when she opened her eyes, he was gone from her side. The mantle was cast down carelessly upon her, and as she wrapped it about herself, shivering as she sat up, she saw that Eric was dressed and stood some distance from her, one roughly booted foot balanced on a stone as he stared out pensively at the water.

  He seemed to sense that she had awakened, for his sharp gaze quickly fell on her as well. “Get up, dress,” he told her curtly. “The men will be here soon.”

  Stunned by his tone, she gritted her teeth and rose regally, his mantle cloaked about her. She walked to the water and knelt down and drank deeply, then cleansed her face. She felt his eyes upon her all the while. When she rose and swung about to face him, he was still watching her with a chilling gaze. Anger and irritation simmered deeply within her. Tenderness was a tactic with him—he waged battles with her according to strategy, as he did his enemies. When the need was gone, he cast tenderness aside as he might an empty dish.

  “What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Just what is it that you want from me now? Aren’t you accustomed to merely taking anything that you desire?”

  “If I could take the truth from you, my love, know it—I surely would.”

  “What truth? What are you talking about now?”

  He was slow to answer, and then he shrugged. “If not you, Rhiannon, who? Who is the traitor within your own home?”

  She stiffened, inhaling sharply. She had risked her life to warn him, and he still suspected that the treachery had come from her! “Bastard!” she hissed at him, and that was all. Swinging about, she collected the pieces of still damp clothing. She was about to stamp around the tree when he caught her arm, her eyes raising furiously to his.

  “I did not accuse you—” he began.

  She wrenched free. Tears were stinging her eyes, and so she swung at him blindly. Her arm was caught and she stood tightly against him. “I asked you who, Rhiannon, that is all! You must have an idea of who or what is behind this!”

  “I don’t!” she flung out. “I don’t know! Let go of me!”

  “Rhiannon!” His voice grew gentle, and he moved to smooth the hair from her forehead. She tossed her head back to elude his touch. “No! Don’t give me your pretenses of gentleness, for the lies are useless by the morning’s light, are they not? There is no sweet emotion lost between us, milord!” She wrenched free from his touch, backing away from him, afraid that the tears that stung her lids would fall and she would betray the fact that many emotions were rising terrifyingly within her. “Accuse me if you would, but do so honestly. I despise the lie of—of tenderness from you!”

  She saw the tightening of his jaw and the lighting flash within his eyes, and still she was not prepared when he came toward her, drawing her close again with a grip that threatened to smash the fragile bones within her wrist. “Despise me, loathe me, spend your every waking hour ruing the day that I was born! But obey me, Rhiannon, in all things. And answer me with a civil tongue when I ask you a question!”

  “Then ask me civil questions!” she tossed back, praying that he would release her. She would break, she would cry, if he did not to do so quickly. Only a fool would love him. Only a fool would succumb to his whispered words in the velvet of the night. Only a fool.

  Dear God, she wa
s slowly but surely becoming a fool, needing him, seeking his approval, yearning for those whispered words ….

  Craving his silken touch in the darkness.

  “Who is doing this?” he repeated.

  “I don’t know!” she answered once again. And then she smiled through clenched teeth and reminded him, “Surely not Egmund nor Thomas—my men, milord!—unless you believe that their ghosts rose from beneath a tree to betray you and Alfred ever further!”

  He was not able to reply, for at that moment there came a thrashing through the trees and a cheerful, if somewhat anxious, cry on the morning breeze.

  “Eric! Are you here?”

  Eric’s eyes remained sharply upon her as he cried back. “Aye, Rollo, we are here!”

  Rhiannon tugged frantically upon her wrist once again, her anger and hurt momentarily forgotten. “My lord, I am not dressed!” she reminded him. But it was too late, for horses were moving into the clearing—Patrick’s and Rollo’s first, Rowan’s close behind. The mantle was about her, but her clothing now lay strewn at her feet.

  Patrick quickly dismounted and hurried before her, catching her free hand, falling to his knees. “Bless our Holy Father and all the saints, my lady! I was so frightened for you.”

  “Patrick, please!” she said softly, wondering what Eric thought of this display. “Please, get up.”

  But he did not. “You saved my life, lady, with that arrow, and risked your own. And though I found Eric quickly enough, we could not charge in upon them, for in danger the things that the Danes sometimes do to captives are best never spoken. But, lady, you are here, and safe, and we are so grateful—”

  “And the Danes?” Eric interrupted dryly.

  “They hadn’t a chance,” Rollo assured Eric from his mount.

  “Not this group,” Rowan added quietly. Rhiannon’s eyes touched his. She felt a soft color rise to her cheeks as she remembered that her clothing lay at her feet.

  “We must ride for Eric,” Rollo said quietly.

  Patrick, who had realized he knelt upon her tunic, rose awkwardly. “We shall ride on past the clearing and await you,” he told Eric.

  Rollo was not so delicate. He burst into laughter. “Alas, but we have spent the night in deep worry, and milord and milady have spent the night as if they played in some paradise. Indeed, excuse us, Eric—we shall wait beyond the trees.”

  Patrick remounted, and the riders were quickly gone. Rhiannon turned her back on Eric and tried to stumble into her clothing with the mantle still about her shoulders. He was silent for a moment, then his voice thundered out with irritation. “What is this, madam? Some new game?” He pulled the mantle from her, and she shivered in the coolness of the morning air, facing him furiously. His eyes raked over her and then met and clashed with her own. “I know every tender inch of your form, Rhiannon, and I would remind you that you are mine, that I am not a man of patience, and that I will not tolerate this foolishness.”

  She stared at him, longing for some power to hurt him. She tossed back her head and set her hands upon her hips, heedless of her own nudity. “Fine!” she tossed back, and reached down for her hose. Ignoring him, she donned them. He watched her in a cold silence all the time that she dressed, and when she had finished and started walking for the clearing, he caught her by the arm and pulled her back. “I warned you, milady—hate me but obey me.”

  “I shall try not to send messages again,” she said sweetly.

  “In all things,” he said sharply.

  “I will see that delightful meals are served at all the proper times.”

  He smiled, the corner of his lip just curving, his eyes wicked with a searing blue taunt. “In all things,” he repeated softly. “I will have what I want at my whim.”

  She inhaled, her heart thundering. “And what of my whim, my lord?”

  “I shall be delighted to serve your every desire.”

  “And what if my desire is not to be so served?”

  He laughed and pulled her very close, and she did not know if he was angry or amused. “I think perhaps you must learn to mesh your desires with mine, Rhiannon, and then we shall both be served.” And then the laughter was gone, and his voice was very low and rang with a hint of steel. “I have warned you to obey me. I will have my way, so do not ever think that it shall not be so.”

  “You will have your way?” she queried, determined to challenge him. “Well, it seems that I have disobeyed you now, great Eric of Dubhlain. Either I betrayed you or I disobeyed in running about the countryside. I’m no better than Alexander, certainly no more valuable a property! What would you do with an errant stallion or with a disobedient serf? Why not hang me, milord, or slice my head from my shoulders and have done with it!”

  “Ah, but that would be too final!” he said lightly. “Trust me, madam, I am seriously considering some wounding punishment to your flesh, but one that I alone shall administer, and in privacy. Now, my lady and wife, shall we go?”

  She flashed him a glance of pure loathing and spun around with all haste. “Some Danish battle-ax shall get you yet, my lord!” she cast back sweetly.

  “Not in time for you, beloved wife,” he replied in every bit as pleasant a tone.

  It seemed a battle lost. With her head held high, Rhiannon was determined on retreat. She didn’t say another word but hurried out of the clearing where Rowan, Patrick, and Rollo awaited them at the head of a contingent of men. Patrick brought her a mare and helped her to mount. She watched as Rollo brought Eric the white stallion. Eric smiled, greeting the animal as a friend, stroking its nose and whispering a word of welcome before leaping gracefully upon its back.

  He was far more pleased with the horse he had acquired than with his wife, she thought bitterly, amazed again at the sharp pain within her. How could she care? He had invaded her land, he had stripped her of everything. Even pride. Her taunts and show of rebellion were an illusion, she thought, her last effort at waging war against him. She could not surrender, ever, or she would be lost.

  They started the ride home, Eric in the lead. Rhiannon held back, riding between Patrick and Rowan. I will not love you! she vowed silently to Eric’s back. And I will not fear you!

  Here, amid them all, none could accuse her of anything improper with Rowan, and so she discovered that she could easily converse with him and Patrick, of whom she was growing very fond. She smiled and talked, and she and Rowan listened while Patrick gave wonderful descriptions of his native land and assured them that St. Patrick, his namesake, had indeed driven all the snakes from Eire many, many years ago.

  “’Tis a pity he cannot come back and take care of the Danes!” Rollo said with a woeful smile, turning back to them. Rhiannon laughed delightedly, her eyes sparkling, her lips curving. But then her smile faded, for she saw that her husband, too, had turned back and studied her curiously. She bowed her head, then tossed it back once again, ignoring him. She asked Patrick to tell her another tale, and he did, assuring her this time that there were little people who lived in the rocks and the crevices and in the caves far beneath the ground.

  The ride was pleasant, and Rhiannon was surprised at the ease with which they returned. Yet even as night approached again and they came upon the last leg of the journey home, she felt a change in the air.

  Clouds had formed over them, bilious and black. She felt a chill wind coming in from the sea.

  As they approached the walls of the town Eric held up a hand, and the entire party came to a stop. Between the men’s shoulders Rhiannon could see that Mergwin stood in the road, awaiting them. He stood alone, and yet it seemed that he commanded all of the road, as well as the sky and even the sea beyond them. The wind caught his white hair and whipped the length of his beard. His eyes seemed as gray and as heavy as the clouds, shrouded in misery.

  “What is it?” Eric demanded sharply, dismounting from his horse. He came to the old man and Mergwin clutched his hands, and Rhiannon suddenly saw the frailty in the old Druid and rune master. Even as she
stared at him she saw past him to the sea.

  The coast was filled with Viking ships again, great ships with intricately carved prows of beasts, dragons, and serpents.

  Her heart began to hammer. What new invasion was this? How often could they battle the Vikings? King Alfred had been doing so forever and forever, so long that he had been forced to use Vikings to battle the Vikings.

  But Eric did not seem alarmed by the ships. His attention was all for the old man who blocked their path.

  “It is the Ard-ri,” Mergwin said.

  “Grandfather,” Eric breathed. He looked steadily at Mergwin. “He is dying.”

  “Your father has sent for you. You mother needs you. If you sail with the morning tide, you will see Aed Finnlaith once again.”

  Eric shouted that Mergwin be brought a horse, then he mounted once again. Silence fell over the party as they rode onward through the gates.

  Eric quickly dismounted before the manor house and entered the hall. Rhiannon started to dismount and discovered that Patrick was there to help her. His eyes were sorrowful. They even gleamed with a hint of tears.

  “He will definitely sail for Ireland?” she asked. Please, God, she thought, let him go. Keep him away from me so that he does not touch me, so that I can learn to hate him again! Don’t let me care, please, don’t let me care ….

  “Aye, indeed, he will go! The Ard-ri is beloved of all men, especially his children and his grandsons. He is a great man; he forged the peace and he kept it, and he gave justice and compassion to all men. You would have loved him too.”

  She nodded, because Patrick seemed to feel the pain of the Ard-ri’s coming loss so keenly. She tried not to show her relief that her husband would be leaving her.

  She hurried into the hall, thinking that she would escape quietly to Adela’s room and stay there, away from the preparations for the journey, out of sight and out of mind. Yet even as she came through the hall she stopped, for Mergwin awaited her in the entry, his eyes gray and brooding and accusing. How had he known she would enter right then? With all else on his mind, how had he thought to find her?