MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (21 page)

She certainly had no intention of ever telling Conar, but she hadn"t been able to spend the months—years!—living in his father"s household and not come to care greatly for the man. He was stern, she had learned, but fair. She had constantly been amazed by his easy shift in languages, his attentiveness to others when they were speaking, and the sense of fairness that seemed to hold his strange kingdom of Norse and Irishmen together. Since the night she had failed in her attempt to reach home as a stowaway, she had known that her father-in-law had been keeping a watchful eye on her. He had even taken her out one day to try to explain just how dangerous it could be for her to fall into the wrong hands. That warning, however, had brought a curious smile to her lips, and she had asked him softly, “Dangerous for whom? The land is my inheritance, the people are mine to care for and guard, and yet for me to keep it, Conar imprisons me across a sea!”

“You are not imprisoned,” the king of Dubhlain had assured her, yet he had seemed to assess her anew. “It is simply the way of things. You"ll return home soon enough,” he promised her. “You see, you"ve grown up now,” he said very softly. “In time you"ll have sons to inherit after you and Conar have gone, and that will give you both the strength to hold what you love so dearly.” She paled slightly at that, unwilling to tell the man who had come close to being a father to her that the last thing in the world she wanted to imagine—and certainly the last thing that would make her feel secure about her future—was that she and Conar should have children together. All she could think of was the cool blue fire in his eyes when he had caught her that night, and how she had lain awake for hours, shivering, feeling the heat of the man beside her.

He had come home late because he had been spending his hours with his mistress.

And he had most probably been determined to return to France without her so that he might spend his life with his slim blond rune reader, unencumbered by any necessity to look after her.

Conar was such a stranger. And yet, in ways, she knew him very well. He had managed so deftly to rule her life with an iron fist that she spent half her waking hours despising him, and half of her very best dreams meeting him in battle with a sword, and seeing him down on his knees at its end, begging for mercy.

Recently, since she had met Gregory of Mercia, she had decided that she would allow him the chance to live if he would help her acquire an annulment from their marriage. She had some beautiful dreams about returning to France with Gregory and living there with him, carefully tending to their land and their people, as her father had taught her. Upon occasion she did feel a qualm of guilt for her dreams, since Conar"s family—though watching her with eagle eyes—

had offered her every kindness, making her imprisonment—for yes, no matter what Olaf said, she was a prisoner—a gentle one. She could not possibly have sailed for France from the king of Dubhlain"s house, she had been certain. Yet it had occurred to her, since she had received Conar"s message and determined to come here, that once she was convinced Conar had sailed from France himself, she might well manage to do so from here. It had been an exciting thought.

Rhiannon, Eric"s wife, was a golden blond beauty who was extremely kind and charming and a great deal of fun. Melisande had been very careful not to say a single word about Conar that was unkind, or give away her emotions regarding him. Rhiannon therefore offered her every freedom in the world. It would be difficult to curtail her activities anyway, since she spent so much of her time with Daria, who had a streak in her just as wild as that in any of her brothers. Daria, despite her exuberance, usually had her brother"s trust, and Melisande felt as if she had found her best friend in her sister-in-law.

Everyone else had been lost to her, she thought upon occasion. Marie de Tresse remained in France, as did Ragwald—she had never imagined she would miss that old tyrant—Philippe and Gaston. She wrote constantly, and heard from them in return. None of their letters had reached her here, though, since she had been careful to leave as quickly as possible once Daria had invited her.

She had tried to keep her distance from Eric since she had come here, and that had been easy enough because Rhiannon was so charming, and Daria so constantly on the go, and the fortress on the sea such a hive of activity. She had enjoyed her host"s precocious and toddling young son, Garth, and his infant daughter, Aleana. She kept herself busy and out of the lord"s way, which was easy—there was so much to see in the countryside. Daria had been the one to originally suggest that she come to Wessex, and when she had received the letter from Conar, informing her after all this time that he was returning and she should be prepared—well, it had certainly seemed the right time to her to vacate Dubhlain!

She had enjoyed Mergwin, too. She was certain that she had never met a man quite so old in all of her life, but Mergwin"s great age made him all the more fascinating. He was fantastic to look at, very tall and skinny, with flapping robes, a wild mane of silver hair, and a beard that rippled past his knees. His eyes were ancient, almost the color of his hair, and all-seeing.

Too all-seeing. He watched her often with disapproval, but she found that she still liked him very much, for though he taunted and warned her upon occasion, he also spent long hours with her talking about Eire and England and history and her own country"s past—and future. He reminded her very much of Ragwald and seemed a link to home for her—even if he was the one person who seemed to read something that was not quite innocent into her relationship with Gregory.

“I repeat, milady,” Mergwin said firmly.
“He’s
here.” Gregory frowned, looking from a suddenly pale Melisande to Mergwin. He plucked his feet from the water and smiled pleasantly.
“Who’s
here?”

“Conar MacAuliffe,” Melisande said briefly.

Mergwin bowed deeply to Gregory. “The lady"s husband,” he added carefully.

Melisande waved a dismissing hand in the air. “In truth, Mergwin, this lady has no husband, only a dictating tyrant.”

“Milord Eric"s brother?” Gregory murmured.

Melisande inhaled and exhaled slowly, wanting to shake him. “There is nothing to be afraid of,” she said, staring at Mergwin.

“Oh, indeed not!” Mergwin exclaimed, smiling at Gregory. “After all, milady Melisande is not afraid in the least, is she?” Melisande grated her teeth together, not letting her eyes fall from Mergwin"s.

“Not in the least,” she assured him. And she wasn"t afraid, she told herself, she was just deeply disappointed—and angry. Conar had been so damned determined to be rid of her, to send her away from home. And now, when she had finally begun to enjoy the sweet taste of freedom, he was appearing. Well, she wasn"t a child anymore. And he wasn"t going to dictate to her forever, and after all this time she"d see him when she damned well chose to do so.

“Perhaps you might wish to come to the house,” Mergwin suggested, his tone annoyed. “I"m sure that the ships have docked by now, but if your lord husband finds that you have, at the least, hurried to meet him there …”

“I"m not hurrying anywhere.”

Gregory stood, his eyes upon her, still caring, but deeply concerned.

“Perhaps—”

“Perhaps nothing!” she cried. “Mergwin, if you wish it, you go back to the house and greet him. You may send my regards, and I will come along shortly.

I—” She broke off for a moment, a chill running down her spine as she remembered that she had come here under false pretenses and that he had sailed specifically to retrieve her.

Well, if he had let her stay home where she longed to be, then he wouldn"t have had to retrieve her.

“I"ll give Conar your apologies, and assure him that you will be with him soon,” Mergwin said. “Very soon.”

“But that"s not what I wish—” Melisande began. It didn"t matter. Mergwin was gone. He had been her friend, her companion. She realized bitterly that that didn"t matter at all. Mergwin had served the Ard-Ri, and then his daughter, and thus his son-in-law. And now there was no ill that could be done by the offspring of Olaf and Erin. Once Conar entered upon the scene, Mergwin served him. She should stand well advised.

She sighed, watching the old man go, unease sweeping through her. Maybe she should follow him, be with him. No! She wasn"t going to return to Eric"s coastal fortress. She didn"t want to see Conar any sooner than she had to, and she wasn"t going to hide behind the old Druid"s robes.

She suddenly wished with all her heart that she had somehow managed to run away from Conar years ago.

But she couldn"t have done that. She intended to return to her own land—
her
inheritance.

Gregory was still standing, barefoot and awkward, looking at her, his eyes warm, his young face handsome and sincere. “Melisande, you said you barely knew him, that he wouldn"t come for you. I truly think that perhaps you should go. You can only make matters worse. You"ll have to go to him eventually.

You did marry him.”

She walked toward him, shaking her head, placing her hands upon his shoulder. She came to him for strength, for support. They were of a height. She felt such a warmth for him, such a gentle affection! “Maybe I don"t really have to go back!” she said softly but, desperately.

“But—”

“I married him, yes. There had been a battle, my father had just been killed.

He was strong, and my people seemed to think we needed that strength. But we parted right after. I was very young. It has never been a real marriage,” she said earnestly. “Truly, he has been like a guardian, nothing more. I"m of age now.

Old enough to choose, old enough to know my own mind. And I"ve beautiful lands of my own, Gregory. They are mine, you know, not his. Perhaps …” He inhaled swiftly, staring at her. A hunger went into his eyes for her, or for the promise of a rich future, she wasn"t sure. But the moment was suddenly very sweet. The scent of the earth was rich and inviting, the sound of the bubbling brook seemed to lull her senses. His mouth was so very close to hers.

She leaned forward, not really knowing what she intended, or what beckoned her. Her lips touched his. They were soft, pliable. She felt no great desire, just the most tender warmth, and still it was very nice. His hand pressed suddenly upon her shoulders. He touched her cheek, lifted his face from hers, met her eyes, and kissed her once again.

And it was then that she heard her name, and a wall of ice seemed to form around her.

“Melisande!”

She had never heard it spoken so coldly, with such a fierce bite of anger. She didn"t need to turn to feel the ice continue to form. A great wave of dismay washed over her, cascading fiercely down her back, causing icy rivulets to sweep through her.

It was one thing to come to him when she so desired, or leave him waiting as he had so often left her. It was another to be caught like this when she really hadn"t been guilty of anything.

Conar remained behind her. She did not want to turn to see him.

But Gregory was watching him.

He stepped swiftly away from her. So swiftly, she might have fallen had she not made a valiant effort to balance herself. She saw Gregory"s eyes first, and they were wide with sinking fear and vast dismay. She stared at him, stunned as he fell to his knees in the few inches of water, head bowed low.

“Milord! Your pardon.”

He stood quickly, and Melisande turned at last.

Conar had indeed come.

It was amazing. Apparently, he hadn"t been willing to wait for her to come to him—startling after all this time. He had Thor with him and sat atop the huge black horse in a rich crimson mantle, ermine-edged. His brooch held the shield of the wolves, his father"s insignia from the house of Vestfold, while his sword hilt was decorated with one of the Celtic crosses of Eire. He sat upon Thor as easily as always, silent, still, staring at them both with the blue eyes that cut like fire and ice.

She was not afraid of him, she assured herself, she was the injured party in this. She had been sent away from him—from her home—by force. Equally, she had been kept away from home by force. He lived his life as he chose, with no thought for her. She owed him nothing. She was suddenly quite determined to get an annulment.

She moistened her lips, dismayed that Gregory was so quickly and ardently intimidated by Conar. Perhaps Conar was intimidating, he seemed so tall upon the horse, so broad and as if molded of steel, hard and striking with his sweep of golden hair and rugged features. She swallowed hard again for strength, swearing that he would no longer hold her beneath his will.

“So you"ve come, Viking!” she said lightly, determined that she had done nothing wrong.

He nudged Thor, and the huge war-horse carefully picked his way down to the water. Gregory struggled for the sword he wore in the scabbard at his side.

Before he could begin to draw the weapon, Conar"s steel was touching his hand where it lay upon his sword hilt.

“Leave it, boy,” Conar warned.

“You"ll not hurt him—!” Melisande began, but those glacial Viking eyes were on her quickly, and to her dismay, she found herself falling silent.

“No, I"ll not hurt him. I do not do battle with boys.” Gregory was down on his knees again, kissing Conar"s boot. “I thank you for your mercy, milord. I—”

“Gregory!” Melisande cried, deploring his subjugation.

“Ah, Gregory. I believe she thinks you should be quite willing to die for her.

But, alas, I am not willing to slay my brother"s young kin for my lady"s foolishness. Go home, boy. Now.”