The Viking's Woman (41 page)

She ceased looking about the room and gazed back at Eric, startled to find him staring at her intently.

“What—what was your grandfather saying to me?” she whispered. “Whom did he think I was?”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t really time to talk now,” Eric said curtly. “The manor is well staffed. Someone will come to you soon with food and drink and anything that you require.” He still stared at her, and she shivered. He did not seem so cold now but distant, and she realized suddenly that he was suffering but that he would never betray it. She wanted to reach out to him.

He had dragged her here. He cared nothing for her, or for her feelings. He cared only that she obey, that he speak and she jump to his commands.

She turned away, tears again spilling from her eyes. She could not love him! She could not be so great a fool, nor could she cast aside pride so very easily. He
used her constantly. He menaced her with his strength. She would not give him anything, not even sympathy. “I shall be fine,” she told him stiffly.

Still he did not leave. Then, moments later, she heard the door open and close.

She sat down on the bed and sobbed, and she didn’t know if she cried for herself, for Eric, for Erin, for the Ard-ri, or perhaps for all of Ireland.

In time her tears dried. A girl named Grendal came to the door with a rich stew and warm mead. The girl assured her that a bath would not be difficult, and many lads came with a fine carved tub and buckets of water, and just as efficiently they removed the tub when she was done and dressed in a new bed gown of finely embroidered Irish linen. Grendal quietly left her be then, and Rhiannon crawled into the massive bed with all the furs and slept.

Sometime later Rhiannon awoke but did not know why. Then she realized that she was not alone in the room. Eric sat before the fire, his legs outstretched before it, his golden head heavy between his two hands. The fire snapped and crackled, but no sound came from the man. Rhiannon sat up and paused, and she reminded herself that he had been cold and brutal in the extreme about her coming here, but then she rose, anyway, remembering the whispers of the lover he had been at the stream. She could despise him, but there was something binding them together. She rose and found the mead and brought him a horn of it. She knelt upon one knee at his side to offer the drink to him. Startled, he turned to her. He took the mead, watching her warily. “What is it that you want now, Rhiannon?”

She started, moving back from him. “That I want?” she repeated.

“Aye,” he said wryly. “When you come to me so, it is always for some purpose.”

She rose swiftly and gracefully, ready to spin about and leave him. He caught her hand and held her there. “You are not going home,” he told her.

“I did not ask to go home,” she said coldly.

He stared at her, then nodded and gazed absently at the fire again. “He is gone,” he whispered softly. “Aed Finnlaith is gone, and so is the peace of many decades.”

“I’m … sorry,” she said softly. She could feel his pain, but she longed to ease it.

He released her hand. She stood there awkwardly. “Truly, Eric, I am sorry.”

“Go to bed, Rhiannon.”

Still she stayed, uncertain. “Is there anything—”

“Go to bed, Rhiannon. I wish to be alone.”

So dismissed, she swung about. She wanted to run from the room, from him, but she did not dare, not when he was in his present mood. He might let her go … and then again, he might not.

Miserably she crawled back into his bed, and she wondered what he had been like as a little boy; she wondered about the man who had grown up with this castle as his home.

Hurt, she curled to the far side of the bed, leaving him plenty of room. Cold, she shivered, pulling the furs about her. In time she drifted off to sleep again.

Once more, before the dawn, she awoke. He lay beside her. He was upon his back, and she was curled
upon his chest, in the shelter of his arm. She was no longer cold.

Nor could she pull away from him. He slept, exhausted. Her hair was caught beneath his naked back. She tugged upon it gently, then realized that her simple movement had awakened him, and his gaze was hard upon her. “Forgive me, madam, am I touching you?”

With a soft expletive he shifted, releasing her hair. Naked, he rose. She watched him, biting her lip, longing to say something but unable to, as he quickly dressed, then slammed out of the room.

She lay back down, but she did not sleep again. Much later Grendal came to her with fresh water and a meal, but she was not hungry and could not eat. She did not know what to do, and so she remained in Eric’s room throughout the long morning.

Later in the afternoon she wandered into the hallway, took the curve, and came to the top of the stairway. From the great hall below she could hear tears and wailing, the deep sounds of mourning. Rather than intrude, she swung around and hurried away. She stopped short, for the hall was blocked by the height and breadth of a man. In the shadows she blinked fiercely, thinking that it was Eric, then realizing that it was not Eric but his father, the King of Dubhlain himself. A true Viking, she thought fleetingly, and a rosy flush colored her cheeks as she thought of all the times she had railed against and taunted Eric for his paternal parentage. Yet surely Eric would never have mentioned her hatred to this man.

“Why do you turn away?” he asked her.

“I …” She stared at him blankly, then realized that he meant she had turned away from the stairs. “I—I did not wish to intrude, my lord.”

“Ah, Rhiannon! You are my son’s wife and therefore our own daughter, and in this moment you do not intrude—you are deeply welcome. My father-in-law knew this, for as his life ebbed away, he reached for you, and you answered that which he needed to hear. Come, take my arm. Eric is downstairs.”

He reached for her gently, and still she withdrew, shaking her head with sudden fear. “You do not understand, my lord.”

“Ah! You cannot take the arm of a Viking, even one so very many years upon this shore?”

“No!” she cried out, stricken, then realized that a subtle smile played on his ageless features. The years would deal with Eric so, she thought. Until the end he would be so very straight, so formidable—so dominating!—and yet still have the ability to charm with the curve of a smile.

She lowered her lashes, flushing, for it seemed this man quite easily read her mind. She shook her head. “It is not that.” She paused. How could she tell the king that his son did not want her with him? “I—I don’t think that Eric—”

“My Lady Rhiannon … daughter!” he corrected himself. “Come, take my arm. No man forces a maid across the sea to a foreign land if he does not wish her presence there.”

“But—”

“Come,” he said, urging her gently. And yet this gentle urging was every inch a command, and she took his arm. As she walked down the stairs she wondered
how these men were so able to bend her will, the one she had married with his ruthless demands, this one, his father, with a gentle force every bit as strong.

When they came below, he led her to the Ard-ri’s bed, and the high king was adorned in all his glory, in royal blue and crimson, the crests of Ireland and Tara emblazoned on his mantle, a golden cross resting on his chest. She bent low with the Viking king of Dubhlain and said a prayer, and when she rose, she was still on her father-in-law’s arm. Men, kings of Ireland, came to speak with Olaf the White. To each he presented Rhiannon as his new daughter, and every man there gave her welcome and the respect demanded by the king. She was led across the hall, where a meal awaited them, and there Erin, her beautiful face betraying the stains of her tears, came upon them. She led Rhiannon to the high dais that fronted the long tables, but before Rhiannon could be seated, she felt her arm taken once again, and she turned swiftly. There was Eric, clad much as his father, wearing a crimson mantle trimmed with ermine and emblazoned with the insignias of the wolf, of the kings of Tara, and of the house of Vestfald. “Mother, I thank you. I will take my wife now, if I may.”

His words to his mother were so gentle, so tender. Thank God, Rhiannon thought, that he was not so gentle with her, for the tenderness would play too painfully upon her heart. She needn’t fear, she thought wryly as, seeming to growl, he demanded that she come with him. He seated her at his side and next to his father, and though she shared a chalice with her husband, it was her father-in-law who
thought to speak with her, to engage her in conversation, to tell her about their customs. When the meal had ended, Eric led her back up the stairs, opened the door, and ushered her into the room. She turned about to see that he was already closing the door, leaving her again.

“Eric!” she called.

“What is it?”

She shook her head. “I just …” She paused and inhaled deeply. She remembered her father-in-law’s assurance: No man brings a woman across a sea to a foreign land unless he desires her presence there.

Or unless he merely seeks to frustrate her own desires, Rhiannon thought bitterly. But she lowered her lashes softly and said, “I do not like to see you suffer so.”

He was very still for a moment, and she thought she felt a coldness like an icy rush of air. Then he stepped back into the room, closed the door, and strode to tower before her. His touch was none too gentle as he raised her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. “You do not wish to see me suffer? Why, lady! I thought that it was your dearest wish to have me boiled in oil!”

She pulled away, alarmed by the tears that stung her eyelids. “Indeed, I had forgotten. So it is!”

He did not come for her, yet she thought that there was the slightest ghost of a smile upon his face, and watching him, she felt her heart seem to cartwheel. She dug her nails into her palms because she was tempted to run across the room to him, he was so striking there, so regal in his attire, so tall that he dominated the room, so golden that he seemed to radiate light. “I suffer the loss of my grandfather,
yes,” he told her very softly. His smile faded, but his gaze remained gentle upon her. “But you cannot understand the gravity of it all. Grandfather was the backbone of the island. He
was
Eire. He was … much as Alfred, you see. He was a very old man, over ninety years old, and he lived a great and majestic life. He will be welcomed in heaven, and the Norsemen he has known will save him a place at the table in Valhalla.” He paused, then came toward her, the gentleness gone. His eyes were alive with a glacial radiance as his fingers threaded through her hair, forcefully tilting her face to his this time. “My father is strong, my brothers and I are strong, and now we must turn that strength to the aid and assistance of my uncle, Niall of Ulster. Do you understand this?”

“You are hurting me!” she told him.

His hold did not ease. His lips moved above hers, and his whisper warmed and taunted her. “There will be war. And you will remain here, within the safety of these walls, for the length of it.” He did not release her but awaited some protest from her. Levelly she returned his gaze and allowed him no answer, no protest, no tears, and no fight. “My Lord, you are pulling on my hair!”

Then he did release her. He swung about and was gone.

She paced the room for what seemed like forever. Her trunks had been brought to the room; however, she did not change into her own bed clothing but chose the beautiful gown of Irish linen she had worn the night before.

The fire grew very low, and Rhiannon was cold
when she at last slipped beneath the sheets and furs of her husband’s bed.

It was later still when he entered the room. Wearily he took a chair before the fire and stared into the flames.

She watched him in the firelight for what seemed like eons. There was such harsh tension in his features, such pain in the depths of his eyes. Her father-in-law was wrong. He certainly did not love her, and now, here, he did not even want her.

But she was falling in love with him despite her better judgment, despite all that had passed between them, despite the man himself. Nay, she
was
in love with him ….

She rose and walked before the fire. His eyes met hers, and he arched a brow in surprise and taunting question.

He would reject her. She should run and bury herself in the covers.

She did not. She pulled the tie upon the embroidered gown and allowed the linen to fall softly to her feet. More slowly still, she walked to him, meeting his gaze. Before him, she fell to her knees, took his hands, and lightly kissed his palms.

A sharp sound escaped him, and he was up, swinging her into his arms. He placed her upon the endlessly soft texture of the furs and began to make love to her. His kisses seared her flesh. His hands aroused her to a frightening ecstasy. She had longed to ease his soul, had meant to make love to him. Yet she had no chance, for it seemed that she had opened up the floodgates to his passion, more powerful and fierce than the storm that had threatened the sea and sky on
the day of their arrival. Now that she had unleashed this tempest, she could neither guide nor control it; she could do nothing, indeed, but ride out the storm.

And it was sweet. He maneuvered her upon the fur, ravenously played his lips and teeth and tongue upon her, sweeping her back, her spine, and her buttocks with his soaring desire, then turning her and positioning her to his leisure once again. She felt the wind inside of her, and the gold of his sun, and she cried out, obliging his every whim, accommodating the dark and windswept passion that rose with a pulsing crescendo between them. The world seemed to rock when he was inside her, to pitch with the wicked, awesome force of the sea, to spin like a whirlpool, then explode in a frenzy of brilliance and light and sweet, sweet nectars.

At last he held her very close. He said nothing but stroked her sweat-dampened body. Words rose to her lips.
We’re going to have a child
. She tried to open her lips, to utter them. She could not. In time she slept.

In the morning he was up and dressed before she could open her eyes. Exhausted, her hair a tangle within the furs, she realized he was standing above her. “You are not going home,” he informed her harshly.