MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (33 page)

She came halfway down the stairs, curious as to what was going on below that would keep him awake so late.

Then she knew. Brenna. He sat before the fire with her, talking. The firelight played on both golden heads. She thought about striding in on them and sweetly stating the need for a cup of wine or ale, but withdrew instead, hating them both.

She feigned sleep when he came up at last. It did her little good. He disrobed with his customary speed and climbed beneath the sheets. Several moments later he spoke coolly. “If you feel the need to listen in on my conversations, you should make yourself known. You would learn so much more.” She didn"t reply, and he continued, “You needn"t eavesdrop upon us, Melisande.”

“I had no desire to eavesdrop,” she replied at last. “I had hoped that the hall might be empty, and that I might sit before the fire alone.”

“And where else but the hall might I have been, milady, since I was not here?”

“God alone knows where you might choose,” she said.

To her amazement he sniffed and turned to his side.

And did not touch her that night.

The following morning she found herself strangely restless and decided that she was going to take a long ride alone. She had discovered that she greatly enjoyed the stream that ran near Eric"s castle, and she knew of a similar run not far from the castle walls.

Conar was nowhere about, and in truth it did not occur to her that he might object when she left. She rode out alone, neglecting to tell Ragwald or Marie or anyone where she was going.

Only the young stable boy knew she had taken Warrior.

She never meant to be careless. She had simply awakened with a rare tempest in her heart, and had determined that she must find a way to understand it, to still it. She reached the water she had sought, leapt from Warrior, and walked with a swift agility over the stones that crossed it, leaving Warrior to nibble at sweet grasses. When she came to the far side, she slipped off her shoes and wiggled her toes in the water and wondered why she felt so restless.

She had come here with her father years ago, when she had been just a child.

There had always been a danger of Viking raiders. But they came from the sea then, and the ships could be seen from the fortress. They had never known that danger could come from within—until Gerald.

She had loved this place once. Maybe that was why she had so quickly found the stream in Wessex.

Her cheeks grew hot and she placed her hands, cooled by the water, against them as she remembered how Conar had come upon her by that English stream.

She could almost feel the heat of his eyes as they had touched her where she stood with Gregory.

She dipped her head, soaking her face again, as she realized the source of her restlessness.

Conar, of course.

She had wanted to beg, barter, or steal a safe distance from him. Maybe she had always known that it might be possible to care too much for him, find herself dangerously beneath his domination …

Wanting him. Feeling fierce jealousy because of him.

Wanting other women to sink to the bottom of the ocean and be consumed by fishes because of him!

Falling in love with him.

She sat up straight, hugging her arms about herself, swearing inwardly that she was not falling in love with him, only a foolish milkmaid would be stupid enough to fall in love with such a man.

And yet she had hated last night. Hated the coldness. What could she do?

She didn"t want him coming from Brenna to her, or from any of his more casual mistresses. Yet what help had she? What power? She would never give him her soul, never allow her heart to fall.

Life would become unbearable then.

It seemed to stretch out very bleakly now, even here, even where she loved so many people so dearly and was loved in return. There was an emptiness in their lives. One that had not existed in either the walled city of Dubhlain or the Wessex fortress across the sea. Because there had been laughter there, and a different kind of love, that very rare and special love that could exist only between a man and a woman.

She didn"t dare love him, she must fight against it, fight bitterly and without quarter to retain her heart and soul—and self.

“Melisande!”

She heard her name spoken by a voice oddly familiar. She looked up and across the stream, and her heart seemed to freeze.

Geoffrey Sur-le-Mont. Gerald"s son, grown older, heavier, so much like his father now, dark-haired, hazel-eyed. Those same eyes, eyes that glittered with speculation and greed.

She straightened warily.

He stood across the stream from her, just watching her, making no move to come closer.

“Don"t be afraid,” he told her quickly.

“I"m not afraid,” she lied with equal speed. She stood in the cool water, suddenly wishing that her shoes were on, and that Warrior, too, was not on the other side of the stream.

“I heard that you had returned,” he told her. He didn"t make a move toward her. He was a tall man, like his father, well built, his face long and lean, handsome enough.

Except for that strange flaw within his eyes, within the curve of his lip.

Something that made her feel very uncomfortable now, as if he undressed her completely with his steady gaze.

“Aye. As you can see, I have returned,” she murmured simply.

“You"ve changed greatly, Melisande.”

“Have I?”

“You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever seen.”

“Surely not, Geoffrey.”

“But it"s true.”

“Perhaps your acquaintance with women is limited,” she murmured.

He took a step toward her, balancing upon one of the stones, as she had done herself. “No,” he told her. “My acquaintance with women is vast.” She reached for her shoes, heedless now as to whether she wet them or not.

If it became necessary, she wanted to be ready to run.

“Wait!” he told her swiftly. “I"ve not come to hurt you. Just to speak with you.” She stood still, and he was silent for a minute. “You know, once upon a time it was to be you and me.

She shook her head. “I"m sorry, Geoffrey, but I can"t believe a word of that.

Your father tricked mine, betrayed him ruthlessly, murdered him. Everyone knows the truth of that.”

“And he was murdered in return by your Viking.”

“He"s not a Viking,” she heard herself saying.

Geoffrey arched a brow to her, a small smile curving his lip. He came another step closer. “You cannot be happy with such a union, Melisande. Your husband"s father is from the house of Vestfold, and even if they pretend at times to have become Christianized and civilized, they are Vikings at heart, mercenaries to the highest bidder. Conar fought my father—to gain you. His people might turn at any time. You never know them, they can be like mad dogs.”

“Geoffrey, I"m sorry—”

“I have coveted you forever, Melisande. Once, your father did intend you for me.”

“The church would never allow it anyway, Geoffrey—”

“The church allows what the powerful demand!”

“Geoffrey,” she said flatly, “your father wasn"t sure if he wanted to keep me for himself, give me to you—or murder me outright and have done with it.”

“I"ve always wanted you, Melisande. And mark my words, I will seize you from that bastard Viking yet! Seize you—or rescue you. Which will it be, Melisande?”

“Your father murdered mine!” she cried. “I will never have anything to do with you!”

He took another step as if he would come across the stream. But suddenly they both became aware of the sound of horses. He stood still. In a second Melisande was relieved to see Conar burst through the trees on the opposite side, mounted upon Thor, accompanied by Swen and Gaston.

No armor adorned him. He sat atop Thor, his head glinting gold from the sun, his eyes a searing cobalt blue as he stared down at Geoffrey.

“Ah, the great Lord of the Wolves has returned!” Geoffrey murmured, undaunted. He offered Conar a deep bow, then his gaze rose once again, and he looked Melisande"s way. “I had heard that you had returned with my kin, Conar, and when I saw Warrior disappear by the stream, I was afraid for her safety. But—as you can plainly see—she is perfectly well, unharmed, untouched.”

“Aye, we"ve come in time!” Gaston said angrily.

“If I am guilty for my father"s deeds, Conar, then you must be guilty for your sire"s as well. King of Dubhlain he might be now, but it is my understanding he raided that land long before he ruled it! Ah, but then he gained recognition through marriage to the Ard-Ri"s daughter, did he not?”

“I should slice you through here and now,” Conar said softly.

Melisande was glad to see Geoffrey whiten beneath Conar"s cool scrutiny.

Still he held his ground, smiling as if with some secret knowledge.

“Slaying an unarmed, innocent man?” Geoffrey demanded, lifting his hands to prove that he carried no weapons. “That, Milord of the Wolves Viking, would not endear you to the other barons of France, would it?” he asked softly.

“Go, then,” Conar warned him. “But if I catch you with my wife again—”

“Me with your wife, or your wife with me?” Geoffrey taunted him.

Conar suddenly nudged Thor. The great black warhorse pranced forward, and Gaston cried out with alarm. “Mon Dieu! Stay your hand, Count! He is not worth it!”

Conar reined in just as he reached the edge of the stream, not a foot away from the man. “Go!” he warned hoarsely.

Geoffrey leapt from the stone to the shore, turning back to bow deeply to Melisande only when he had put several feet between himself and Conar. Then he leapt atop his own mount and called out, “Good day, Countess!” He spurred his horse and quickly galloped away. Melisande watched him, then felt Conar"s furious eyes upon her. She turned to him, stunned that he could be so angry with her.

“You"ve called this upon yourself, Melisande!” he charged her.

“Caused this?”

“Get on your horse.”

“But—”

“I"ll not discuss it here, now!” he snapped.

She looked at Swen and Gaston. Both the young redhead and the older graybeard looked keenly uncomfortable.

She determined that she was not going to have him issuing any commands to her in front of the two. She leapt across the stones and strode swiftly toward Warrior.

Warrior was a match for any horse. She nudged his sides, and he took off like a winged creature. She raced hard across the fields, back to the walls.

Though Conar was close behind her, he could not catch her.

She leapt off Warrior at the entrance to the south tower, tossing the reins to a young groom. Hurrying up the stairs to the hall, she then rushed up the second flight to her room. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, but a thunderous weight suddenly shoved against it, and she jumped away as he opened the door. His gaze met hers, then fell to her breasts. They rose and fell with her effort to find breath, with the fierce pounding of her heart.

“What a place to come to escape me!” he mocked.

“If you wish me not to escape you, milord, then you must cease to speak to me the way that you did before others. I shall not be yelled at and ordered about and constantly condemned as if I were a child!”

He started to stride across the room, and she jumped back, frightened that he meant her some violence. But he strode past her, coming into the room. To her surprise he suddenly started tearing through one of her trunks, not one that she had brought from Wessex, but an old one, one that had been transferred here from her old room.

Garments went flying as he sought something. His effort didn"t stop him from speaking. “It is difficult not to speak to you as if you were a child when you behave as foolishly as one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Riding out alone like that, unescorted, without anyone even knowing where you were going!”

“But—” she gasped, stunned. “I am not a prisoner here!”

“You cannot ride out of the walls!”

She shook her head wildly, coming over to stand beside the trunk and stare down at him. “You"ve no right to tell me that, none at all! You made a prisoner of me for years in distant lands. I will not be told that I cannot ride in my own home—”

He stood suddenly, and she was so mesmerized by his eyes that at first she did not see what he held in his hands. “Melisande, you will not ride out alone again. I can and will tell you that.”

“But—” she began, but then her eyes were caught by a glinting from his hands, and she gazed downward to see that he held her coat of mail, the extraordinary gilded tunic that had long ago been the gift from her father.

“What are you doing with that?” she cried.

“Seeing to its disposal. I"m afraid I shall ride out and find you clad within it next.”

“No! No!” she cried. She suddenly pit herself against him with a wild vengeance, her fists flying against his chest, her vehemence such that he was actually forced back a step to keep his balance. “No!” He dropped the suit of mail and caught her wrists, dragging her against him.

She stared wildly into his eyes. “You can"t! It was his last gift to me, my father"s last gift. You cannot take it, I will hate you forever if you do, I swear it!”

“Ah, but you hate me already!” he taunted.

“You will never know such loathing!” she promised him.

His hold eased somewhat. He seemed to be thinking. “Then I shall leave the mail in exchange for a promise.”

She stiffened instantly, cursing herself for a fool. He hadn"t thought that she was about to ride out in the suit of mail. It was a bargaining point.