MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (25 page)

“I cannot believe that she really wishes to miss this meal,” he said, forcing a polite smile to his lips. He bowed to Rhiannon at his side. “Forgive me, lady. I will attend to her myself, and see if she cannot be persuaded to join us.” His simmering anger allowed him to take the stairs very quickly. He followed the hallway down to the heavy wooden door to her room, thought about throwing his shoulder upon it and bursting in on her, then took a deep breath. He knocked loudly and awaited her reply.

He heard a soft moan.

“It is me, Melisande. Open the door.”

“I cannot. I cannot rise to do so.”

He hesitated a moment, teeth clenched so tight, he wondered if they would snap. He didn"t want to break doors in his brother"s house.

If it had been his own, he would not have hesitated.

He was not going downstairs without her. He strode down the hallway to his own room, entered, and strode to the tapestry. He thrust it aside and found the small doorway there. Bending low, for the doorway did not permit his height, he slipped into the adjoining room, thrusting another tapestry out of the way to fully enter.

She did not see him, had not heard him enter. She sat at the foot of her bed, freshly, beautifully gowned in a silver tunic over blue, her brush moving through the waterfall length of her hair. She was staring at the door, as if she expected further action from him, prayed it would not come, and dreaded the next few minutes.

He stood still, arms crossed over his chest, watching her. After a moment she rose and crossed the room. She came to one of the windows and looked out to the courtyard below. The last rays of sunlight drifted in to set blue fire highlights to her hair and elegant shadows upon her face. He felt the same rise of hunger within him that had seized him earlier by the water. There was something within her that compelled the eye, something that haunted a man, something that seethed with a graceful compelling sensuality.

She was his wife.

And as hostile as ever, he reminded himself.

Her promise to him regarding this evening didn"t seem to mean much to her.

Her cheeks were pale, he admitted. But that was because she waited for his next move.

She turned and saw him standing there. A small, startled cry left her lips, and her eyes drifted quickly to the door and back. She bit her lower lip.

“I"m terribly distressed to see you so ill,” he told her.

The pallor in her cheeks was replaced by a crimson flush. “Perhaps it was the water. I"m so sorry. If you"ll just forgive me this evening …”

“Certainly.” He strode across the room to her, placing his hand against her cheek. “Aye, my love, I"m ever so grateful that you don"t seem to have a fever.

Still, let me get you undressed. I shall send down and tell them that I intend to stay with you.”

“No! You mustn"t! Join your family, enjoy their company—”

“And leave you—
neglect
you now—when you are ill?”

“You"ve neglected me for years!” she snapped, momentarily forgetting her ploy.

He smiled. “Ah, and there she is, my lovely wife, doing well enough, so it seems. Well, you"ve two choices, milady. You may take my arm and walk down to join the others, or you may disrobe right now and join me in my bed.

Actually the latter is far more my preference.”

“You are despicable! You doubt my word—”

“Indeed, I do!”

“I tell you, I do not feel well—”

“I"m sure that you don"t. My appearance here has most probably caused you quite a headache. But I promise, I will tend to that later. Which will it be, Melisande?”

She swept by him, reaching the door, pausing when she saw the bolt she had slid across it. She stared at him.

“Naturally, my love, there is an entrance from my room. This is my brother"s house, remember?”

She slid the bolt and threw the door open.

“One moment, my love!” he called.

She paused, turning back to him.

He strode to the door, lifting her chin with his forefinger. She wanted to knock his touch away, he knew, but she held still, seething.

“What—milord?”

“You gave me your word, wife, that you would play the part this evening.

Your word, Melisande.”

“I am not feeling at all well,” she insisted regally.

“Lady, unless you are stone cold dead, you will keep your word to me.” She lifted her chin higher than his finger, eyes blazing. “You"re being extremely crude,” she whispered furiously. “You"re behaving just like a—”

“Viking?”

She held silent, staring at him.

“Perhaps. Yet it seems to me that I am acting like a husband—nothing more, nothing less.”

“Blood shows!” she hissed.

He laughed, a hollow sound, and pressed the door open for her, sweeping her a low bow. “Be that as it may. One way or the other, lady, I will see that you keep your promise.”

Chapter Twelve

Conar managed to catch up with Melisande before she reached the stairway.

He caught her elbow, slowing her gait.

“Milady, we will arrive together.”

She bowed her head slightly, and her rich dark lashes swept low over her eyes. She kept silent for a moment—which he was sure took her a great deal of willpower. Before they had come halfway down the stairway, her lashes had risen, and her eyes, a violet blaze, were upon his.

“Because we are so close and tender a couple?” she challenged him, her voice both soft and mocking. “How curious. Those here know that we are all but strangers.”

“Some of those here know that we shall not remain strangers much longer,” he told her lightly. “My brother is even aware that he needn"t be alarmed by screams in the night.”

She colored at that, her lashes falling again.

“You are compelled to discuss everything with your family?”

“You were the one assuring me they were all aware that we were strangers,” he told her, and smiled. Her eyes clashed with his again. “Behave,” he warned her, for they had reached the foot of the stairs, and straight ahead lay the great hall, where the others had gathered at their places, waiting.

“Melisande!” Rhiannon, concerned, quickly rose and came to her side. “Are you quite sure you"re feeling better now?” She touched Melisande"s cheek.

“You"ve not acquired a fever?”

“Something by the stream seems to have affected her,” Conar said smoothly,

“but she now seems determined to dine with us.”

Melisande cast him a quick, sizzling glance, then smiled for Rhiannon. “I am most eager for your company, Rhiannon.”

Conar"s fingers locked around her arm. “Well, then, they have been waiting on yours for quite some time now. Shall we sit, my love?” It wasn"t much of a question. He guided her to their seats at the long U-shaped table. She sat, and he noticed that she was quick enough to smile for Bryce. It occurred to him with a startling pang of envy that she was close with this younger brother of his. He might even have felt a tug of jealousy, except that he trusted each of his brothers and sisters; he would do so with his own life and that of his wife.

She was quick to turn her back on him, discussing horses with Bryce, and history, and arguing certain points with him. Conar gave some attention to their conversation, but then turned to Rhiannon at his side.

“You must be patient,” she said softly, her silver eyes sparkling upon him.

“From what I understand, dear brother, you have been quite a tyrant.” He arched a brow to her, and her smile deepened. “You remind me so much of Eric, of your father. Outraged when you are determined you have done your best. Give yourself a chance, you might discover that you like your wife.” He smiled slowly in turn and spoke softly. “I never said that I did not like my wife. Indeed, I am quite entranced with her.”

“Ah, entranced!” Rhiannon said, but she had been wed to Eric for a long time now and didn"t mind in the least being bold with her husband"s wild family. “I said nothing about desiring her, milord. A dead man might awaken to desire her. I suggested that you might
like
your wife. Don"t take offense, Conar.

I speak with love for you both.”

He curled his fingers over her hand. “Fair sister, I would take no offense from you. But I don"t dislike my wife. She simply—” he paused, then shrugged.

“Infuriates me at almost every turn. I"m a Viking to her, nothing more.” Rhiannon reached for her chalice, sipping wine and studying him. “You have to imagine what it is like not to come from a household such as yours. Since Lindesfarne was raided in 797, we have all feared the fury of the Norseman! It is often hard to accept that one can become an ally.” He stared at her, and she continued. “Conar, you must admit, Vikings do raid, brutalize their dead enemies, plunder vast cities, rape, rob, and murder.” Eric suddenly leaned past her, meeting his brother"s eyes. “Is she talking about me again?”

Conar shook his head. “No, I think it is me this time,” he said lightly.

Rhiannon smiled quickly. Eric touched her lips with a gentle kiss, and Conar turned away, granting them their moment"s tenderness. He reached for the chalice set between him and Melisande, the one they were to share, as was the custom, and his fingers brushed his wife"s. Her eyes met his swiftly, but he realized that she had not been talking to Bryce, nor had she been paying any heed to his words with Rhiannon.

She had been staring down the table, watching Mergwin and Brenna.

But now, with her eyes on his, her fingers flew from the chalice as if it had burned her.

“Please, you must go first,” he told her.

“Nay, milord,” she said. “Always you.”

He lifted the chalice, handing it to her. “Drink the wine, Melisande. You may well need it.”

She took the chalice and drank deeply, so deeply in fact that she returned it to him empty. “I"ve decided I may well need a great deal of it,” she informed him.

“That you may,” he agreed. “I shall summon the servant to bring more.” The young girl with the plaited hair was there quickly to replenish their cup.

Melisande turned away from him, but Bryce asked him what his intentions were. “Are you staying here for a while, Conar?”

He started to reply, then remembered how curious Melisande was on that very subject, and he answered evasively. “I"m not quite sure how long. You know, it always depends on the wind.”

Bryce knit his brow, aware that though, yes, the wind and the tides certainly controlled sea passage, Conar had learned to sail under any condition. He didn"t press the point, but told Conar it was good to see him.

“Aye, it"s good to have come. I know that Melisande is delighted, as well.

She has been so—neglected.”

She looked from him to Bryce. “It"s an incredible pleasure,” she said, and Conar was instantly aware, of course, that it was anything but. He smiled, spearing a piece of meat with the small blade left at his side. The table was covered with boar, venison, rabbit, and several fowl. All perfectly seasoned and roasted slowly over a searing fire. This was how a household should be run, he thought, and felt an edge to his temper. Indeed, it would be something to see Melisande interested in the domesticity of her home. He was certain, though, that her main interest was in seizing the power to run the place, in dressing up in her gilded mail, in usurping him in any way that she could.

Perhaps that wasn"t fair. She had been away from home a long time. Away from him a long time.

He might like her, Rhiannon had said.

But he did like his wife, he realized. She infuriated him, but her hostility was open and honest. She defied him as few men dared. She had courage, and it was that courage that frightened him so badly in regard to her welfare.

She suddenly seemed aware of his eyes on her and turned to face him. She flushed, reaching for the chalice again. He swept it from her fingers. “I would like you pleasantly at ease,” he said softly, “not passing out before you are able to carry out your promise.”

“I will never be pleasantly at ease with you!” she promised him vehemently.

“Then you will learn the pretense of being so,” he returned, again willing his temper to subside.

There was a sudden hush as a young man arrived in the midst of the U of the tables. He bowed low to Eric and Rhiannon. He spoke in the Saxon language of his hostess"s people, yet there was an accent to his words that indicated his native language was that of Eire. He introduced himself as William, son of Padraic, and seneschal, storyteller, now, in the household of Eric MacAuliffe.

Tonight he would honor another MacAuliffe, Count Conar, who had come to them so recently from the sea.

Far behind him a lute player began to create a background of soft music for his words. He spoke of Conar"s stand for his father and family, of the wealth and richness of Eire. Then, as any good storyteller, he began to recount Conar"s deeds, his excellent swordsmanship—and his excellent timing in coming upon a maiden in dire need upon the coast of France. He spoke of how Conar had avenged his host"s death and rescued the man"s daughter, and now held her dear to his breast. When he was done, he turned his eyes on Melisande and said softly that a brave warrior had found great beauty. He bowed deeply once again and was rewarded with applause from all those around the table.

Except for Melisande. She didn"t do anything. Her hands remained in her lap, fingers laced together. Her eyes remained on the young seneschal.

Suddenly she rose and came around the table, softly asking the man if she might borrow his lute player"s instrument.

“She must be welcoming you in her own special way,” Bryce said softly.