The joy in Moira’s face was a ray of brilliance to her heart. Erin discovered it was even possible to be happy as she assured Moira that her wedding would take place that very night.
When Moira left, she was in tears again, but they were tears of joy.
Still riding high on the power that was more dizzying than the feeling of drinking too much ale, Erin wandered to the window and stared down unseeingly upon the courtyard. Her blood was racing, and she felt wonderful and laughed aloud, then quickly sobered as she thought of the night of misery that had preceded her moment of triumph. Olaf had granted her a boon—probably because he regretted his loss of cold control and because of the heated violence he had shown her. But still, she could not, would not, live with another woman ruling her household. She was a princess of Tara.
Erin touched her cheek and remembered the blow that had sent her sprawling. So much for my feeling of power, she thought dryly. But he had not struck her because of Mageen. He had done so because of Grenilde, the blond beauty he loved past death.
She doubted seriously that Olaf bore Mageen any great feeling. She was certain that any emotion resembling love that Olaf had ever experienced belonged only to his lost Grenilde.
Erin knew that Olaf enjoyed taunting her to a point. It was another game of strategy to him, a battle he didn’t intend to lose. He had cornered her over Fennen, and in the privacy of their bedchamber he held no qualms about reminding her who ruled his kingdom. But in the great hall, in public, he always granted her a certain deference. He had promised her father she would be respected, and even if he was a Viking, he had his sense of honor.
Would he do something about Mageen? It would be interesting to see. She chuckled suddenly, thinking that the Lord of the Wolves must be in an uncomfortable position, cast between wife and mistress. Her chuckle died away as she wondered if Olaf particularly cared about her feelings and demands one way or another, but he had made promises to her father.
He had involved himself with Mageen and this miserable façade of a marriage with her. He did, indeed, have a problem. And he was going to have to get out of it himself, just as he had gotten into it.
Erin paled suddenly, as she realized that he might continue to ignore the situation, taunting her, sleeping with the mistress who attempted to rule over his wife.
What do I care? Erin asked herself hollowly. But she did care. Her pride demanded that she care. I will thwart him again and again, she promised herself, and I will not allow his whore to make my life a misery.
Later, as she reached the great hall and set about her duties for the evening, her brooding anger continued to grow despite the coming wedding, which was a victory Olaf had granted her. He had made a concession; in turn, she would feign a certain outward obedience. But he would know. She would make sure that he knew that within her heart she would never, never, accept him, a Viking, as her liege lord.
“Olaf!” Mageen closed her eyes for a second with the gratitude of seeing him before her. “I have missed you heartily, my lord.” She slipped her arms around his neck, having no foreboding of something wrong until he forcefully unwound himself from her grip.
“You have overplayed your position, Mageen. I have come here only to tell you that I will not see you again and that you must leave the city of Dubhlain.”
Shocked, her face turned white and she slid to the floor at his feet. “No!”
Olaf sighed with impatience and with a regret that touched him unexpectedly. He picked Mageen up and eyed her narrowly as he sat on a bench by the one planked table in the room, extending his long legs tiredly. He watched her as she stood before him, and he saw a feverish quality to her eyes that was disturbing. She was frightened. He had never imagined this gutsy woman could know fear. She was quite a picture at the moment, her eyes wide, her breast heaving. She reminded Olaf that his marriage had curtailed his activities.
Mageen had offered him her voluptuous comforts on many a night. Damn Erin for creating this problem! But then Mageen had been just as guilty, for if she hadn’t set out to taunt his queen she could have remained quietly where she was.
“You cannot mean it,” Mageen said huskily. “You cannot mean to send me away.…”
“I’m afraid that I do, Mageen. You have heartily offended my wife.” He spoke softly, and yet she knew the sound of steel in his voice that meant his decision was irrevocable.
“No!” she said desperately, stamping her foot. “I cannot believe it! The Lord of the Wolves, ruled by a haughty little Irish bitch? What of us, my lord? What of the pleasure I can bring you? She cannot love you as I do.”
“She is my queen, Mageen,” Olaf stated quietly, rising.
Mageen watched him desperately, realizing that he dismissed her with regret but dismissed her still. He was the king, a man, and yet the king first. Strong, sometimes compassionate, but cold, able to walk away and never look back.
“I will see that you find a home with a suitable household,” he told her, still quiet, still firm. “Until then, I’m afraid you are not to appear in the great hall.”
Mageen still could not accept what he was saying, not until he turned to leave. Hopelessness welled within her and she lashed out at him, throwing her body against him. “You are a fool! You need not throw me over for that skinny bitch who would slay you in an instant! She will run, Olaf, I warn you, she will make a fool of you with any man and flaunt her infidelities because she despises you so!” Mageen pressed closer to him, smelling the fine masculine scent of his flesh beneath his tunic, feeling the sinewed arms she couldn’t begin to circle with her fingers. She could not let him go; no other could fill her, make her whole. She could not imagine not being able to anticipate his visits even though it had been a long time since they had lain together. “I tell you, Olaf, she despises you, and she cannot please you! But watch those green eyes of hers, Olaf, for surely they wander. It is said that she would have wed Fennen mac Cormac, who still hovers in Dubhlain. It is probably he whom she wraps her legs around with pleasure—”
Olaf’s fingers clenched cruelly into her shoulders and then eased slowly. He was more affected by her words than he cared to admit. “I will see that you are cared for, Mageen. I warn you now, until I have found a suitable household for you to join, stay away from my wife, for whatever you wish to believe, she is the queen of Dubhlain.”
She fell to the floor again, sobbing brokenly.
Olaf stooped beside her and lifted her into his arms and carried her to her bed to place her on it. He kissed her forehead gently, straightened, and strode from the cottage.
He thought of Mageen with sorrow as he walked toward his own residence. He had come to her for the basic needs that compelled any man, for Mageen was all woman. And their relationship had never been anything more than openly sexual, or so he had thought. He had informed her he wanted no attachments and yet, he knew, emotions could not be controlled. Grenilde was dead; he knew that and still he pained. He could not control that feeling. Nor could he control the fascination that lured him to his Irish wife, the beauty who was proving herself to be pure trouble.
Suddenly he found himself reflecting upon Mageen’s words. Fennen mac Cormac. The Irish king with whom Erin had whispered in the hall. A young and handsome king; the man who had stared at her with such pain and tenderness, who often followed her about the hall with his eyes.
He had ordered her to talk with mac Cormac no more, and she had attempted to defy his order before assuring him she would obey merely because she wished no harm to befall the Irishman.
An unbidden rage suddenly shook through Olaf’s body. Was there any truth to the accusations? Surely not. Aed would not have offered him his daughter if she had known mac Cormac. But fathers did not know everything.…
Was his wife in love with the Irishman? Did she harbor dreams of escaping with him? Had she lain with the man, her emerald eyes ablaze with the heat of passion rather than anger, her supple form enwrapped with his, her ebony hair a web of soft clouds entangling their love?
/> His anger mounted steadily with the vision, and with the memory of how she lay beside him night after night, jerking away with horror each time she unwittingly touched him or curled against him.
He slowly forced himself to relax, wondering at his fury. He was absurdly jealous over a woman who had never meant anything to him other than trouble. Then he shrugged. It was simple. He was a warrior, and a king. A Viking. A very possessive man. He did not believe in the Brehon laws. His wife was his property, and he guarded his property fiercely. If he ever discovered he had been betrayed, he would kill the mac Cormac first and then wring the beautiful ivory column of Erin’s neck.
Olaf smiled suddenly. Mac Cormac definitely needed to leave the city. Perhaps his departure could be hastened.
The king of Dubhlain chuckled aloud softly. You may make a move, Princess, he thought, but there will always be a countermove.
Olaf sobered and began to wonder about the night ahead. Would his Irish queen appreciate what he had done for her today? He laughed. He would probably never know; he sincerely doubted that she would be waiting to kiss his hand in gratitude.
CHAPTER
14
Olaf entered the great hall to discover that it was already filling for the evening meal. He glanced sharply to see if Erin was present, attending to the duties of the queen. But of course she would be there, creating no problems that night. She had arranged for a wedding.
She spoke before the fire with her brother Leith but she turned to Olaf with her exquisite emerald eyes as if sensing his on her. She approached him, seeming to float across the floor with dignity. “Lord Olaf,” she murmured demurely, her eyes downcast for a moment. “Sigurd and Moira will be wed before the food is brought in so that all assembled may witness the ceremony, if that is to your liking.”
She looked up at him and he saw in her eyes a glitter that belied her respectful words. She would follow out his every order, never disobeying a command, but always she would defy him within. She would maintain that unshakable cool with patience.
“That is fine. Let the ceremony begin.”
Moira and Sigurd were married by a Christian monk, and the night became a festival, with everyone drinking heavily and turning it into a roisterous affair. Olaf noticed that his great red-headed general flushed like a boy and that the Irish woman was radiantly happy to the point of tears.
He was drinking too much himself, he realized, and it irritated him, just like his occasional glances toward his wife, sitting beautifully, regally, and demurely beside him, irritated him. Because when she caught his glance, he saw again that supremacy in her eyes, and despite his intention to keep his vows of peace, he wanted to shake that supremacy out of her eyes, to see her humble before him.
He smiled at her suddenly, his own eyes frosted while the curve of his lips was wicked. He lifted his goblet. “Drink with me, wife, to your victory. A happy union between Norse and Irish.”
As he had expected she obeyed, raising her goblet in response, smiling that smile with beautifully shaped red lips that wasn’t a smile at all.
Then suddenly he was thinking again of Mageen’s spiteful words. “Fennen mac Cormac hovers near … it is he whom she probably wraps her legs around with pleasure … she wishes to slay you … watch those green eyes of hers …”
Sigurd distracted him with a great drunken bear hug. He laughed and heaved the man from him, wishing him a fruitful union with a wink. Then he turned to stare at his wife again speculatively but she was gone.
He mused awhile longer at the table, then rose. He could feel the pain pounding at his temple. He had slept so poorly, spent the day not only drilling but handling these petty disputes. He felt the grit of the earth about him and longed for a bath.
Fatigued and irritated with his thoughts of Erin, he left the hall. Finding Rig, he ordered a bath be brought to his chamber.
He entered the room. She was not in bed yet, but securing the drawstring of her gown over her breasts. He smiled as she could not quite cover a tiny jump at his entry as the door slammed. She scampered across the room and far onto her side of the bed, but not before he saw the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the flimsy linen gown or the flush that increased the rose of her cheeks.
He said nothing, but carelessly began shedding his clothes. Rig appeared at the door, ordering his tub be brought in. Water followed. Olaf wondered for a moment what was the matter with Rig, who seemed so very uncomfortable in the room.
Olaf climbed into the tub. Rig stood above him with the last container of water. Half closing his eyes, Olaf stared up at him with a scowl. “The water, Rig. Are you going daft, man?”
Rig dumped the water over him, right on his chest. It was steaming hot and Olaf howled in amazed protest. “What ails you, Rig! Get out of here before I decide a good tan—”
Rig, with a curious glance toward the curled and covered figure of Erin’s back, ducked out of the room before Olaf could continue.
For a moment Olaf sat in the steam, thinking of nothing but the tensions the water eased away. But he could not quell either his restlessness or irritation, and he found his eyes turning toward his wife—silent and still, but not sleeping, he was sure—in the bed.
Damn her and her feigned, mocking obedience. Like a fool he had regretted hurting her, and so had ordered his general about and bothered with her petty problems with a whore, and she couldn’t manage a grain of honest appreciation.
He smiled suddenly. “Erin,” he commanded, his eyes lazily half closed, “I wish you to scrub my back.”
She made no reply. Just as she feigned servitude, she feigned sleep.
He spoke again, very quietly. “I know you do not sleep, wife, and I have had a long, tiring day, made more so, I might add, by your demands. I command you to come and scrub my back.”
“My lord Olaf,” she said coolly, her back still toward him. “I will obey you in all matters of household, but as to your person, I owe you nothing. You have promised my father respect, and you continually speak of compromise. But last night you saw fit to strike me, proving yourself the barbaric animal that you are. Today, however, you have made things tolerable for me—but what you did was nothing more than your just due to my father and to those you have conquered and with whom you say you desire to live in peace. Therefore we shall keep the peace you desire. I shall bother you no longer since your affairs shall not affect me, but neither shall I expect to be affronted by you. That shall keep the peace. I will keep my distance from you and not anger you. Then you will have no reason to strike me.”
He rose dripping and walked to the bed so quietly she didn’t hear him until he picked her up bodily in one smooth, fluid motion. He was rewarded for his efforts by a quick look of stunned surprise in her flame-green eyes. Her fingers dug into his chest in her effort to free herself.
“Wife,” he said cuttingly, “you call me a barbaric animal, yet you continually feel safe to taunt me. I suppose I must prove to you that I am not an animal, but a civil man wishing nothing other than your most pleasurable existence. You do not care to scrub my back, therefore I will humble myself and scrub yours.”
Erin could not dislodge herself from him and one glance into the blue fire of his eyes started her shivering with dismay. She had come to know both his rages and his sword-edged pleasantry, and the latter was the far more dangerous of the two. But there was little time for her to do more than issue the single protest “No!” before finding herself dropped into the tub.
She grabbed desperately at the edges to balance herself but the dripping naked and powerful form of her husband halted her. “How remiss of me,” he muttered, catching her wrists with his hand as he hunched down beside the tub, “I can’t scrub your back when there is cloth upon it, can I?”
“Damn you, Viking! I don’t want my back scrubbed!” Erin cried desperately as he held her with one hand while he slid the other down her body to find the hem of her nightgown and ease the soaking linen up and over her head. He released her wri
sts only to pull the gown over them, then clutched them once more. “Sit still, wife,” he said softly, his eyes bright and sardonically guileless. “I wish to perform a service for you.”
She struggled briefly with him, attempting to stand. But that only brought her nude and wet body colliding with his, and she shuddered as if touched by fire as her nipples scraped against the coarse hairs of his chest and her thighs were met by his vital, pulsing masculinity.
She sank back into the tub. He reached between her upthrust knees to burrow for the soap and cloth and she jumped with a gasp.
“Relax, Princess,” he murmured, his voice a low whisper with that ever underlying taunt, “Now that I have struck you, as a good barbaric husband, I must make atonement.”
She felt him move behind her, sweep her hair into one hand as he soaped her shoulders with the other. But more than his touch on her, she felt his presence, the tension radiating from his body. She could sense each little flicker of movement within him, each nuance of muscle play.
She wound her fingers over the rim of the tub, holding on as if she stood at the brink of a great crevice, and should she let go, she would fall.
What is happening? she wondered desperately. He had taunted her many times before, but this was different. She was finding it impossible to fight, to retaliate, to move. She couldn’t think; it was as if her mind were being lulled as well as her senses with the motion and touch and scent of the man she was sworn to despise. Different, but not so different, she struggled to clarify with dismay. She had always been far more terrified of his gentle touch than his anger. The tension had always been between them, lurking, promising an explosion, even as far back as the time at the stream, a tension that held her now in a strange paralysis, causing her to lose more and more coherent thought by the second, making her a prisoner of dangerously erotic sensations.
He did not know if he were goaded by god or demon, if he wished to cherish or punish. It had to do with the drink spinning in his head, but it went further, much further. It went back to the day when she had crippled his manhood with pain and first called him dog, and to his wedding night, when he had discovered he had been granted a rare gem indeed and suffered nightly since in his confusion of grief and need and the fever created within him from the emerald fire of her eyes.