The Viking's Woman

  “You lie, milord. I’m sure that you rode to battle and did not give me a second thought. Perhaps you thought about your newly acquired lands, but—”

  “Aye,” he interrupted gravely, “I did think about the land.” Their eyes touched and he smiled slowly. “I love the land. I love its ruggedness and its beauty and its bounty. I love the laughter of children at play in the meadows. I ache to see the people at peace so that the richness of the earth might increase. You love it too,” he told her.

  He did love the land; she had always sensed that about him. And she had to admit he seemed to have a high regard for human life—for a man who spent so many of his days at battle.

  But Alfred battled too. Alfred, who cherished learning, his family, his home, his hearth, his god. Alfred was a warrior-king. He was still a compassionate man.

  It was not easy to realize that this man, her enemy and yet her lord and husband, could also be a compassionate man. One who knew her perhaps better than she would care to have him know her.

  Her eyes fell. “I love my people, milord.”

  “Aye, but the people are intricately interwoven with the land, are they not? And obviously you deal with this inheritance of yours well. The place has thrived in my absence.”

  Her eyes met his once again, locked in challenge. “But it is no longer my inheritance, is it?”

  He smiled, leaning back comfortably, a smile curling his lips as he closed his eyes. “You are mine and the land is mine. I cherish you both.”

  “As you cherish Alexander.”

  “He is a remarkably fine stallion.”

  She lifted the bath cloth, heedless of repercussions, ready to douse his face with the soapy water. But his relaxed appearance was deceptive. Before she could move, he had opened his eyes and wound his fingers around her wrist. He held her tight, speaking in a deep, husky voice that held her to him with an even greater strength than that of his powerful arms.

  “My wife, I did think of you. Night after night. I thought of the words of your sweet promise. You asked me not to slay your lover and he lives. Let me see if I can recall your exact words. Alas, I cannot, yet I do remember you telling me that you would grant me anything, anything at all.”

  “You tricked me.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll have what I want,” he told her. “And I don’t think that you mind your wifely duties so much as you protest you do. I do remember our wedding night with the greatest pleasure. Those soft, sweet—and not so soft and sweet—sounds that escaped you haunted my dreams when I lay alone in the darkness.”

  Again waves of crimson seemed over rush to her face. “Viking menace—” she began with all the dignity she could muster. But then she emitted a startled gasp as his arm suddenly snaked about her, dragging her, fully clothed, into the tub with him. Water sloshed out upon the wooden floor and she pressed hard against his chest, but he laughed, ignoring her. His fingers threaded into her hair, and he held her still as his mouth descended hungrily upon hers and his tongue began a foray over her lips and mouth that was both savage and seductive. Her heart hammered, and the steam of the water and the hard heat of his body surrounded her. And then his lips broke from hers as his fingers found the laces of her tunic. “You promised to come to me, to seduce and enchant as you did that day in the woods with your lover.”

  She caught his powerful fingers where they lay atop her breast. “You want what you cannot have, what you never earned, what I shall never give you! I was in love with Rowan—”

  “In love!” He snorted derisively. “You toyed with a lad. You need a man.”

  “Ah, so you, sir, are so very old! Alas! Give me the youth! What maid would require such a decrepit lover?”

  “Not so decrepit yet, I think!” He laughed, then caught her hand and slid it slowly down the length of his body, adjusting her weight upon him. She gasped as he brought her fingers low beneath the water, over the steel planes of his belly, to close around his masculine shaft. Life and pulsing heat surged beneath her fingertips, seeming to swell ever larger with an awesome strength and desire. She wanted to wrench her hand away, but his remained over it. She wanted to turn from him, to cry, to protest. Her eyes remained locked with his and she did not cease to touch him.

  He smiled slowly. Impatiently he shoved free the laces of her tunic, baring her breast. He pulled her close, and his lips closed over the fullness of her soft, feminine mound. His tongue bathed the growing hardness of her nipple and he suckled fiercely there, bringing a startling wave of intense pleasure to her. She cried out, and her fingers delved of their own volition into the length of his hair as he availed himself passionately of the sweet fruit of her body. His hand was beneath the sodden length of her garments, sliding along her bare flesh, stroking her upper thigh. His touch teased the very heart of her heat, then swept within her, deep within her, stroking, rotating, bringing her to the edge of abyss where she shuddered fiercely, alive with fire, longing to fight, knowing that she was lost. Stroking, stroking, touching so softly, so deeply … words caught within her throat and she choked and gasped, and then his lips were upon hers, sweeping away her protests and her cries.

  He rose from the tub, cradling her within his arms. Great sheets of water spilled from his naked body, as well as her sodden-clothed one. His eyes remained upon hers for long moments as the water drained from them, and then he set her down before the tub, caught her garment at the bodice, and rent the wet fabric with such strength that the many layers of her shift and once beautiful white gown fell in a heavy heap to the floor. She silently railed against herself for the color that came again to her cheeks and flooded her body, but she did not turn from him; she met his gaze with all the boldness and challenge that she could. And she was even somewhat glad of the slow, admiring smile and the light that touched his eyes as he gazed upon her. Aye, they were enemies, but despite herself, she was gratified that he admired her and was elated by the sight of him, by the sheer masculine beauty of his size and strength, by the raw and exciting power that lay within him. Aye, she was even glad of his arrogance, for perhaps it was that very confidence within him that lit the fires within her.

  “You have utterly destroyed my gown,” she told him dryly.

  “You have others.”

  “Ah, sir, but I am your wife, your property, your chattel! What is mine is yours, and therefore, destroyed, is a loss to you. You will not always best the enemy. There will not always be new riches to conquer!”

  “Alas, no, for my dear wife will now pray to the proper gods to see that I am destroyed!”

  “You will not always win!” she persisted.

  He reached for her, lifting her from the remnants of her clothing, sweeping her high into his arms once again. His eyes caught hers with their endless crystal-blue power, and his smile curved the fullness of his lip. “But, my love, I beg to protest. I do always win, and I promise you I will always do so.”

  She longed to deny him, but he was already moving, striding on long, muscular legs to the bed. This time when he deposited her upon it, he lowered his body along with hers. And she would have spoken, but he again claimed her lips. When his mouth moved from hers at last, it was to travel with tempest and heat to her earlobe, where he whispered that she was damp and delicious. His hand caressed her as his eyes met hers again, and he told her huskily where he would kiss and caress the lingering dewdrops of the bath from her body. His palm touched lightly upon her breast, and then his lips were there, and he laved the tightening sweet bud with his tongue, swept it into his mouth, grazed it with his tongue, and bathed it anew, leaving her gasping, surging against him, and tearing her fingers into his shoulders and hair. Any thoughts of denying that she wanted anything other than all that he offered her slipped away like the last, lingering rays of the setting sun.

  He licked a final drop of water from her navel and traversed down the length of her belly, planting his weight between her thighs. And then he dared her to protest as his strong hands slid beneath her thighs, parting the s
inewy length of her legs still further, and then began a soft, full caress of the pink petals of her deepest longing. His touch was light, sweeping, exploring, so taunting and seductive that rather than protest, she felt herself surge against him. And he obliged the sweet demand of her body, thrusting, sweeping, seducing with the touch of both his fingers and his tongue.

  Deep, dark fantasies she’d never imagined began to burst forth within her. Soft cries tore from her throat once again, and she undulated without inhibition as he brought her higher. Great, shocking waves of ecstasy began to sweep through her. She shuddered violently as the peak began to rise within her like myriad starbursts on a velvet sky. And just when she thought that the pleasure was beginning to fade away, he caressed her deeply, all the way into her womb, and then he rose above her, filling her with the throbbing fullness of himself, and as he drove fiercely into her the waves of rapture began anew.

  She bit into his shoulder, her fingers raking over his back. Shamelessly she clung to him, winding her legs around his waist, moving with him as he commanded her, finding the drive of his rhythm.

  She did not want this, she thought very briefly. She did not want to give to him; she had promised to do so, but he had tricked her and betrayed her ….

  Yet he was what she wanted more than anything in the world. Her kisses fell against his chest; she met the ardor of his mouth with an all-consuming passion. She marveled at the strength of the muscle beneath her fingertips, and she reveled in the strength of him that thrust with such great thirst and power between her thighs. The great, staggering waves of pleasure began to grow and build within her to renewed heights. Then it seemed that a sweetness so good that it was nearly unbearable filled her. The world blazed with light, and she was aware that he entered her even deeper … and deeper ….

  The ecstasy peaked, sweeping through her. The shattering light turned to darkness even as she heard the harsh, guttural cry of her Viking husband, and he found the violence of his own release within the sheath of her body.

  The light returned slowly. She still gasped for breath, and her body was being racked by tiny after-shudders.

  He lay by her side upon an elbow, watching her. A wild tangle of her hair, still partially damp, created binding skeins of fire and gold between them.

  He touched her cheek gently. She knew that he studied her, but she closed her eyes and did not move. She still trembled inwardly, wanting nothing more than to lay her head against him in exhaustion and find peace.

  “I did dream about you, my love.”

  She wondered at first if the whisper was real, but then she knew that it was, for he pulled her gently against him until her head rested upon the great expanse of his chest. He stroked back her hair, smoothing out the tangled mass.

  “I dreamed about this place, about the hues of the rocks and the cliffs. Mauves and purples and the green of spring.”

  “Ireland is green, so I hear,” she murmured against his flesh. She couldn’t see his face, but she could sense his smile.

  “Aye, it is green. Beautiful, bountiful green. Yet Eire, too, has her colors. Her rocks and her cliffs. Her beauty and her peace.”

  “’Tis not so peaceful here at all,” Rhiannon said softly. “Most often the gale winds blow. And the sea is treacherous. Storms are frequent.”

  “Aye, that is so,” he agreed.

  “’Tis part of what you love, definitely your style.”

  He laughed softly. “And yours, too, I believe, milady. Aye, perhaps we are well suited.”

  There was still a tenderness to his voice, but suddenly it was frightening to her, as was the comfort she found at his side. It could not last. He did not love her, he toyed with her. He cared for her as he did the land—and Alexander! She must never allow herself to come too close to him. She must never depend on him.

  Need him.

  His hand moved along her back now. Idly. His fingers gentle and still arousing in their subtle touch. He caressed her shoulder and her arm. His touch teased the flesh on the underside of her breast. And it seemed all too natural that they should do so.

  She bit her lip and raised her head as she tried to tug her hair free from him. His laughter, low and husky, taunted her. He raised himself over her again, his weight balanced upon the hard-muscled length of his arms.

  “Alas, sweet wife, perhaps you might discover that you are in love with me—decrepit old man that I am!”

  The sweetness of the passion and soft-spoken words between them was fading. All that remained was a sudden picture of his strong, handsome, and gloating Viking face, and the memory of the wanton desire he could draw from her so very easily.

  “I shall never love you!” she promised hoarsely. “This is just my conjugal duty. You give me no choice about that!”

  His eyes did not seem so light; indeed, it was as if a glacial shield covered them, yet still they remained upon her. His smile did not alter. “Aye, lady, you’ve no choice. Bear that in mind always. You need not love me—you need only serve me. Perhaps we shall do very well. Love is such a painful emotion.”

  “You do not love me!” she reminded him.

  “Good lord, no,” he replied curtly. Still he did not move. His knuckles brushed over her cheek, and he added almost softly, “Heaven help the man who loves you! Heaven, Valhalla, and all of the gods, Christian and pagan.”

  Then abruptly he pushed up and leapt away from the bed with the grace of an acrobat despite his size. She started to turn away, reaching for a sheet to cover herself. She was yielding to the drowsiness that crept over her when his steely voice splashed across her like cold water. “Get up, my love, you’ve guests to entertain in the hall.”

  “I’ve guests to entertain?” she said coolly.

  He reached for her, drawing her up before him. And God help her—just the touch of her body against his hardness warmed her anew, even as she met his gaze, hating him.

  “As I’ve said,” he whispered softly, “you need not love me. But you are my wife and you will serve me.”

  “I am not your slave!”

  “Nay, Rhiannon, you are lady here. And so you will reign within the hall where you were born. And you will lie with me within this room, when I, as lord, demand it.”

  “We shall see.”

  “Indeed,” he said, laughing, “we shall.”

  He pulled her into his arms once again and kissed her. The kiss ran passionate and deep, and she could not fight it. And then, mingled with the passion, there seemed to be the slightest touch of tenderness, and when his lips broke from hers at last, his eyes were nearly a cobalt blue, so hypnotizing that she could not begin to tear hers away. “Indeed,” he murmured, “God help the fool who dares to love you, Rhiannon!”

  Then he turned away again and reached into one of his trunks, dismissing her. “Dress quickly, we have lingered long enough.”

  “We have lingered? I did not—”

  His eyes met hers again, silencing her. “But you did,” he told her, his voice teasing, playful. “And you will do so again. And again. Now come.”

  Seething at his insinuation and at the sharp command in his voice, Rhiannon spun about to find some new clothing for herself. She kept her back to him as she donned a shift, and then she turned just slightly.

  He was clad again in hose and slipping on a shirt, and she bit down hard upon her lip as she felt a trembling begin anew deep within her. His waist was so trim, his shoulders so broad. His arms were like steel, with their bands of muscle, and his thighs were as hard as tree trunks. Even now she longed to stroke the taut bronze of his skin and marvel at the feel beneath her fingertips.

  He did not love her ….

  He was her husband, and fate had cast them together.

  She would not serve him! She would not!

  And yet …

  He cared for this place. For the land. For the people. For the children.

  He started to turn, some sixth sense telling him that she watched him. Hurriedly she turned and drew out a new un
dergown and tunic, slipping into the more elegant powder-blue ensemble. Then she knew that he watched her. When she turned again, he was clad as an Irish prince in his shirt and ermine-lined short tunic, royal-blue hose and crimson mantle and brooch. He adjusted the dagger he was never without into the sheath at his waist and extended his hand to her.

  “Shall we go, milady?”

  “You dragged me here. Now you rush me.”

  “Alas, if you would rather stay, I would be very glad to ignore all rules of hospitality and linger with you awhile! You learn so swiftly, lady and wife, and yet there is so much more that I might show you. Surely my haste was unseemly, and I had nothing but dreams so long after the truly astonishing raptures of our wedding night ….” His voice trailed away, and the deep, husky sound of his laughter filled the room.

  Rhiannon, herself, had determined to hurry. By the time he finished speaking, she had brushed her hair, donned her shoes, and quickly swallowed down a measure of the wine that had been left them. She stood at the door, jutting her chin proudly against his laughter.

  “I see that you are ready, after all,” he said. He took her hand and led her from the room.

  In the hall he paused, kissing her hand, his eyes very blue as they probed hers in the shadows.

  “You are, my love, incredibly beautiful.” A wicked grin twisted his sensual mouth. “The afternoon has waned in splendor, and already I am anxious for the night.”

  She returned his gaze steadily, praying that he could not hear the fierce flutter of her heart or realize that just his words warmed her with small, sizzling fires of excitement.

  “We’ve guests waiting,” she said.

  “Indeed.”

  He took her hand, leading her toward the stairs and the hall below.

  And as they walked, she suddenly shivered fiercely.

  God and heaven help the woman who was fool enough to love him! she thought.

  Indeed, God help her.

  12

  On his fifth morning home Rhiannon discovered that the Viking was again gone from her bed.