MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (26 page)

Conar frowned and Bryce quickly smiled. “She entertains us often. She has the voice of an angel, you will see. Truly, Conar, you have been away too long.” Indeed, he had. That quickly became apparent. Melisande did have the voice of an angel. Strong and sweet, she sang as naturally as she spoke, and her fingers moved with ease upon the lute. Her song was so beautiful that it took some time for him to begin to listen to the words.

She sang of a hapless warrior, one born to sail the sea—and die upon them.

The raider found himself raided upon the windswept waters.

The song, he realized in time, was about Alfred"s seizing of Danish ships, and so for all outward appearances, there was nothing wrong with it. But she didn"t refer to the invader as a Dane each time, merely a Viking, and the song was therefore about a Viking who received his just due.

Himself, he knew well.

The hall burst into applause once again when she finished her song.

Naturally, Conar thought. She"d sung like a lark, and she was the picture of beauty, her hair caught by the firelight and shimmering with blue-black lights, her violet eyes wide, surrounded by ebony lashes. She smiled, and the curve of her lip was haunting, compelling.

She returned the lute to its owner and paused at the end of the table to speak with Daria. Conar saw that Mergwin was watching his wife, his old brows knit in perplexity.

And then Melisande went into her true performance for the evening. As she spoke, she suddenly cast the back of one hand to her forehead, clutching her stomach with the other. She groaned softly. Conar leaned forward, studying her.

Bryce was already on his feet, running to her side. Daria was up, making her sit, calling for cool water to press against her forehead. Rhiannon was quick to reach her side, too.

“It"s nothing, really!” Melisande assured them all, her wonderful smile in place.

Indeed, it was nothing. He was damned well convinced of it. But they were all around her now, so concerned as to her welfare.

Conar stood, eyes narrowed, and watched her from a distance. She suddenly stood. “If you"ll just please forgive me, I think a night"s sleep is all that I need.

I"m so sorry, this being Conar"s first night here …”

“Conar?” Rhiannon spun on him, her eyes wide, concerned—condemning him if he thought to bother his wife in any way.

“Oh, I think she must go to bed. Immediately,” he said politely. He walked around the table, not coming close to Melisande but pausing behind Mergwin"s chair instead.

“I"ll take you up, Melisande, and Conar can remain here,” Daria assured her.

Jesu! How could his own sister believe that Melisande was seriously concerned with his whereabouts. All she cared for was that they were distant from her.

He set his hands upon Mergwin"s shoulders. “Is she sick?” he demanded softly for the old Druid"s ears only.

“Perhaps she is weak from excitement—” Mergwin began.

Conar"s fingers tightened upon the fantastic old man who had helped raise them all. “Is she ill?” he repeated.

“No,” Mergwin admitted.

“Thank you,” Conar murmured.

He strode through the others and saw the alarm in Melisande"s eyes as he swiftly swept her into his arms. “If you are ill, my love, I wouldn"t begin to allow you upon those stairs alone! You could fall and injure yourself, Melisande, and I would be desolate should such a thing happen!”

“But you"ve just arrived!” she cried. “You scarcely see your brothers now, or your sister. You need time with them.”

“They"ll understand, I"m certain.”

“Of course, Conar!” Rhiannon said quickly. “Is there anything that I can send up, anything that we can do?”

“I think that Melisande is right,” Conar said firmly, his eyes locking with his wife"s. “I intend to see that a good night in bed cures this fever of hers! Our deepest thanks, and good night!” he said swiftly, carrying her from the hall with long, quick strides. She was silent on the stairway, but her fingers held tightly the fabric of his shirt upon his arm, her eyes radiating fury as they met his. He didn"t give a damn. She"d made him a promise. She would keep it.

He reached the heavy door she had blocked against him before and cast it open with his shoulder, his eyes never leaving hers. She cried out when he dumped her none too gently upon the bed, then turned back to bolt the door himself. When he turned again, she was on her feet—and obviously seeking the way he had managed to enter before so that she might exit quickly now.

He strode across the room to her. “You gave your word,” he reminded her.

She backed away, moistening her lips, allowing her lashes to fall over her eyes.

“I am ill!” she protested. “Too frail—”

He snorted his disbelief. “You"re as frail as a healthy ox, my love.”

“How dare you!” she spat out. “How can you begin to think that you know me, anything about me. You"ve no right to me. If you so much as come near me again, Conar, I swear that I will scream—”

She did scream, a scream that was choked off with speed when his hands suddenly wrenched her against him. She was lifted up and off the floor and thrown hard upon the bed, where he braced himself over her. “Scream, Melisande. Scream long and hard. Let the entire household hear you. No one will interfere with the union of a legally wed husband and wife. Let them all hear. They will know then that you are mine, and that I will never let you go.” She was pale, stricken. She lay against the bed gasping, but not moving. She lashed out at him in an anguished whisper. “That"s all that you want! The consummation, the guarantee that you are count, that the
property
is yours.” Damn her! He was irritated with his family, that they should so easily fall prey to her! But there was something in her voice, something that drew tenderness if not pity from him, despite his anger, despite his desire, and despite, even, his resolve.

He brought his knuckles down over her cheek, noting its marble beauty against the rough texture of his huge, battle-worn hands. Her eyes were so very wide, so liquid in their violet shimmer.

“I tell you, Melisande, you are mistaken. There is nothing I want so much as you.”

Her lashes swept over her eyes. “I don"t believe you.”

“When I am done this eve, you will.”

Her eyes rose to his again.

“You gave your word, Melisande. When you give it to me, you will keep it.”

“I cannot!” she cried out softly, her lashes falling again. He could feel the fierce pounding of her heart. Could she be afraid? Melisande?

“How strange!” he said softly. “I would have thought that Manon"s daughter would keep a vow.”

Once again her gaze was upon him. He had struck upon the perfect words to reach into her soul, he saw, and realized then that she trembled violently beneath him. How odd. She had drawn such a fury from him today, and even in the hall tonight. He would have taken her swiftly, and with a certain violence, if he had been forced.

But now he wanted to draw her to him. Gently. “Bathed and perfumed, waiting and willing,” he reminded her softly.

She didn"t reply, and he rose from her, keeping his eyes locked with hers.

“I"ll give you a few minutes, Melisande. When I return, I expect you to keep your promise.”

He turned, departing her room by shoving the tapestry aside, opening the small connecting door, and entering his chamber.

He closed the door thoughtfully behind him. “You fool!” he charged himself aloud. He walked to the hearth and spread his hands out before the low flame.

What would happen now? Was she already tearing through the door, ready to disappear downstairs and give Rhiannon a tale of some terrible illness that required the soothing hand of a servant through the long hours of the night?

“Ah, lady! It must be done, it will be tonight!” he whispered to the flames.

And still he waited, weary and aching, wishing that this particular battle could be over.

His face grew warm with the heat from the flames. He pushed away from the fire at last and headed for the connecting door. She would be gone. And he would be forced to retrieve her. He didn"t know what he would do then, only that he couldn"t allow her to escape him.

But his heart seemed to shudder and then stop when he quietly reentered her room.

Melisande was there.

She had changed into a soft, sheer gown that was very nearly the color of her eyes. Her back was to him, for she, too, faced the fire. Her hair was loose, just brushed, and like the finest silk he might find for trade anywhere along the Mediterranean. It curled and waved in a glorious black tumult down her back while the sheer gown gave away everything and nothing at all. The elegant curve of her back could be seen, the curve of her hips.

He found himself striding swiftly to her, his hands falling upon her shoulders. He lifted the length of her hair, and felt the fierceness of her trembling. He placed his lips against her throat and felt the speed of the pulse beating there.

A soft mauve cord was tied just below her neck. He pulled it and stepped back as the flimsy garment fell with a soft whisper to the floor. A small sound escaped her, yet she remained with her back to him. He pressed his lips to her shoulders, his fingers easing down her back, tracing the shape of it.

“I thought you"d be gone,” he said huskily, spinning her into his arms.

She gasped again as the tips of her breasts were crushed to his chest, as she felt him with the naked length of her beauty.

“I always keep my word,” she murmured.

“Do you? Or did you think, perhaps, that I would find you, wherever you were to go?”

Her eyes rose to his, deeply, richly violet with wild emotion. “Could we please … get this over with?”

“As you wish, my love. As you wish.”

He lifted her again, feeling the fierceness of the hunger she so swiftly awakened within him. He stretched her out on the bed and lay beside her, still aware of the way she shook. She longed to leap up and flee and fought the wild desire to do so, he knew. She did not close her eyes, but stared at the ceiling, avoiding his. He smiled slightly, seeing her start as he touched her, the tips of his fingers running softly down the valley of her breasts to her waist, then circling the flesh of her belly below. By all the gods, she was glorious. Her flesh was as pure as cream, silk to the touch. Her breasts were large and firm and beautifully shaped, the nipples a deep dusky rose. Her waist was slim, her hips delicately curved. Down the soft expanse of her abdomen, a soft display of ebony temptingly triangled about her sex. He let his fingers wander there and heard the sound she tried to choke back too late.

He smiled again and leaned over her, capturing her lips with his own. She tightened against him for a moment, but he forced her lips apart, his tongue plunging deeply into her mouth, demanding a response. He lifted his lips from hers and her breath came in great ragged gasps.

“I cannot breathe.”

“You don"t need to breathe.”

His mouth descended upon hers once again, raw now with its hunger and need, giving excitement as well as demanding it. Her hands lay at her sides, fingers curling. They fell upon his shoulders at last. He didn"t know if she had intended to push him away, but it didn"t matter. Her fingers went still. He kissed her until he had his fill of the sweetness of her lips, then parted from her mouth at last and met the dazed look in her eyes. He kept his eyes upon hers, then lowered himself against her body, capturing her breast within the palm of his hand, cradling it, stroking it, running his thumb erotically over her nipple.

Her breath caught, she froze, swallowing hard as she stared at him.

And still he kept his eyes locked with hers even as he closed his mouth over her nipple, teasing it with the tip of his tongue, surrounding it with the fullness of his mouth, sucking upon it until the bud hardened like a pebble beneath his liquid touch.

Again a sound escaped her. She closed her eyes, her face pale once again.

She still trembled, ceaselessly, but she was no longer rigid against him. He brought his lips to her left breast, teased and tarried there, and while he did so, he began to move his hands upon her again, cupping and stroking her hip, her thigh, her belly, and once again her thigh. At first he touched her everywhere but that sweet, tempting triangle. And then he began to stroke it lightly with the tips of his fingers, with his palms. He rose above her again, capturing her wild gaze as he wet the length of his fingers with his tongue, then brought them back to that silk and ebony triangle, delving within it to find the pink petals of her sex.

She gasped, her knees rising, her head twisting. He lay the pinioning weight of his body half atop her again, leaving him free from her protest to have his way. He parted her, stroked her, sought out the most sensitive of places, then delved more deeply within her with his sure, demanding stroke. She was incredibly tight. Sweetly damp, but tight.

Touching her, feeling her warmth, her movement, seemed to create all of the fires of hell within him. She had instinctively tried to close herself, yet had whispered no protest. Still he found himself fighting the strength of his hunger for her, the ache in his loins. He had demanded her bathed and perfumed, waiting and willing. Perhaps that had not been quite what he had received, but she was definitely bathed and perfumed, her own sweet scent mingled with that of lilacs, enticing, tempting. “Look at me,” he demanded, and when she did, her eyes huge, shimmering and challenging still, he smiled slowly, still touching her, and lowered his lips to hers, tasting wine and mint. She did not twist from him. Indeed, her lips parted slightly. He felt the rush of her breath before his mouth devoured hers.