The Viking's Woman (30 page)

“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 undergown 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.

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

She awoke to find the linen sheets rumpled where he had lain, but the blond giant who had returned all too swiftly to plague her life was gone.

She leapt up, as if she needed to escape even the haunting memory of him beside her, and stared at the bed as if it, too, were a living, breathing taunt of all that marriage meant. She clenched her fists at her side, wishing desperately that just once she could give him a sound thrashing. Not that he had really raised a hand against her. It was just that his word was law, and he knew how she loathed his dominance and therefore seemed determined to rule the bride who had brought the land as well as the land itself.

She shivered, realized that she was naked, and dived into a trunk for a shift and hose and tunic. Half clad, she turned to the ewer and bowl on the stand by the mantle and scrubbed her face and throat and hands. Then she finished dressing, brushed and braided her hair, swept a fur-trimmed mantle about her shoulders, and left the room quickly.

High upon the stairs she paused. She did not hear her husband’s voice within the hall, but there were
others there. Rollo told some tale of battle, and others listened and interrupted with a question here and there. Rhiannon hurried on down the stairs quietly, unnoticed. She inhaled sharply as she saw Rowan and the other young men who had been in King Alfred’s service now within her hall.

Her husband’s hall, she thought bitterly.

Well, they had been there since his return. They had greeted her politely that first night, and with all due respect and even tenderness when she had descended the stairs on Eric’s arm. Even Rowan. He had touched her hand, bowed deep over it, and had kissed her cheek with Eric right there, greeting her like a sister. Such conduct had made her feel abandoned, for the fact that he had dared touch her so before Eric was somehow a deep and disturbing disavowal of all that had been between them.

Love was over, she thought. Once it had bubbled soft and light and beautiful, like a spring, but it seemed now all a childish game of pretend. Or maybe it was just that Eric was here, so very real when dreams had all become fantasy. Maybe it was the way that he had touched her, putting some brand or claim upon her that she could not, even in the deepest recesses of her heart, deny. She had known Rowan for years, yet Eric now knew her better. She had believed for years that she would cherish Rowan until the day she died. Yet already the thought of Rowan’s gentle kiss was hazy and innocuous, while the very memory of the passion of Eric’s lips brought forth a new, dizzying heat to her blood and a flood of color to her cheeks ….

And a longing stirring deeply inside her.

She would be foolish to love him; she did not love him and she never would. Even if they did share a love of the land and of spirited animals and vulnerable children. Even if they did share certain values—an abiding respect for their elders and the traditions of their respective heritages; a taste for the exotic; and a reverence for learning. No, whatever rapports might exist between them, she would never love him. Nor would she ever, ever honor or obey him.

She slipped hurriedly and unseen from the hall. One of Eric’s men, an Irishman, stood guard by the door. He bowed to her as she passed. She knew not where she was going, just away, far away from the hall to which Eric might too quickly return.

She walked quickly, passing smiths and artisans within the walls, then left the gates—and more of Eric’s guard—behind her. Her destination was away from the sea. She hurried along a path that led to the grass-carpeted cliffs to the north. Fifteen minutes brought her to a huge oak with heavy branches that waved over a cool, quickly moving stream.

Egmund had been buried here. Egmund and Thomas. Adela had brought her to the graves, and she had spent much time in prayer for their souls. She had thought to have them reinterred under the chapel floor, but then she had realized that she loved coming to the oak, that it was beautiful and peaceful, and there was no sign of the sea, or of the dragon-prowed ships that lined what had once been her coast, her domain.

She sank to her knees in the grass and bowed her head, praying again for the friends she had lost, yet her mind was not on her prayers. She sat back on the
grass, idly chewed a stem, and stared at the swift-moving water. She was numb, she thought. She had not been prepared and he was back. There had been a certain peace in returning home in his absence. She’d had the illusion that life was almost what it had been before. She had sat in the hall and listened to the complaints of her serfs and tenants and freemen, and she had carefully judged them by Alfred’s laws. She was just in her ordering of compensations. There had been very few complaints among the people, though. They had been too busy rebuilding their homes after the futile battle they had fought to bring strife against one another. But men were men. Disputes would arise and Alfred’s domain was known for the fairness of its laws.