MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (36 page)

“Alas, we are oft on our own these days, lady, for there is little help in the weak king who sits in Paris!”

Melisande was gracious and knowledgeable, speaking with them about vulnerable points of geography, the history of Danish attack, the vulnerability of the rivers.

Later he saw her with Odo and Geoffrey, and he was stunned by the force of jealous fury that washed over him. She hated Geoffrey, he knew that. She greeted the man, for Odo wanted peace, yet Conar knew her freezing tones well, the imperious way she could lift her chin.

He was convinced anew that she despised the man with a greater animosity than she had ever borne toward him.

At last the evening meal came, and he was seated beside his wife at a place of honor. Still, they did not speak to one another much, for their attention was drawn to others. Odo had arranged for entertainment, an Irish seneschal to tell the tale of their combined families, a singer, jugglers, even trained bears.

Yet at last the time had come. Marie de Tresse paused behind her mistress"s chair, and Melisande rose with her and left.

The other guests would notice her absence soon, and since he was in the mood for no raucous bedding as might occur tonight—with or without the approval of the church—he determined that he would not take long to follow her.

When he entered their room, it was cast in shadows. The only light came from the flickering fire.

She wasn"t there, he thought, his soul sinking.

But he sensed a slight movement before the fire. She sat there, fingers closed over the arm of a chair, waiting for him.

He slid the bolt, announcing his arrival, and leaned against the door.

As he watched, she rose. She was still in silver, but different silver. This gown was just a glistening of color against her naked flesh. She paused a moment, staring at him across the room. It seemed that a tremor shot through her.

She arched back, lifting her hair. He watched the flawless display of her body as she pulled the cord at the throat of the garment and let it fall in an endlessly slow stream to the floor.

She stepped from it and slowly came his way, pausing just a step before him, then pressing her naked body to him, rising on her toes, touching his lips with hers.

He nearly burst into climax at that moment, yet fought against it, enwrapping her in his arms. She tasted like sweet, sweet wine.

His lips rose just above hers.

“How much did you have to drink to do this?” he whispered softly.

Her eyes touched his with a mauve sparkle. “Not nearly so much as I might have imagined.”

“Pray, then, continue.”

“Continue?”

“Disrobe me.”

She paled slightly, but didn"t back away. He decided that she needed a little help and stripped off his scabbard, mantle, and shirt. He collected her in his arms again and felt the fierce burning as she shimmied within them, freeing herself to press her lips to his shoulders and throat, to rub her breasts erotically against the breadth of his chest as she did so. His breath caught, his heart hammered. He slid from his boots and chausses at last. She paused before him.

“Bathed and perfumed. Eager. Seductive, arousing …” he murmured.

“I cannot—”

“Lady, you are that already!”

She stepped forward again, just a bit hesitantly. Her fingers fell upon his shoulders with the lightest touch. She brushed his lips hesitantly, his chest again.

Her fingers began to stroke his sides. Knuckles upon his flesh, fingertips.

She eased low against his body again.

A low groan escaped him, a shudder seized his body with a staggering violence as her fingers closed around the engorged shaft of his sex. She started to release him. “Jesu, no!” he said swiftly, and leaned against the door for strength. “Jesu, no …”

Her ebony head bent low before him, and she went down upon her knees. He gasped again, shaking as if seized by lightning, when her lips closed hesitantly around him, her mouth hot and liquid.

“God!”

His fingers laced into the silk of her hair. Her hesitance faded. Her tongue flickered over the length of him, stroked, laved.

Moments of sheer stunning ecstasy swept him. Then the pleasure became pain, then an unbearable agony of needing her. A hoarse cry tore from his lips, he wrenched her from her knees into his arms, lifting her high and swirling to lean her against the door. Her eyes were wide upon his, somewhat frightened by the wildness of his manner, then she gasped as he arched her higher, and brought her down upon him there, commanding that she wrap her legs around his waist.

She did so …

In all his life he had never been so aroused. Never so hungry. Never so desperate to touch, to taste, to hold, to have. The fever that filled him was a tempest, blinding. He drove into her fiercely, having to fulfill the need she had awakened. A blaze burned, incredibly swift, incredibly high. He erupted in a climax more violent than he had ever known, holding her betwixt himself and the door, feeling the hot burst of his seed rush into her and over them both.

She clung to him in silence. He prayed that he had not hurt her and lifted her into the crook of his arm, carrying her to the bed. Her eyes were closed, her lashes over them.

“I will never again doubt your ability to fulfill a promise!” he whispered softly.

Her gaze touched his at last. “And what of you, milord?”

“I will fulfill any promise I give you, Melisande. I will never let you go.” Her eyes closed again. He thought the smallest smile curved her lip.

His lips touched down on hers. Rose above them. He wanted to whisper something.

I love you.

Nay, he might as well hand his heart to the Danes!

He couldn"t speak. He touched her lips again, then determined that she would die a little tonight from his caress, just as he had died from hers.

And so he began to touch her. To stroke her. Slowly. Tongue teasing, fingertips just brushing. He left no spot upon her unadored, yet moved around the very center of her longing, creating spirals upon her belly with his tongue, caressing the soft inner flesh of her thigh. Suckling her breasts, stroking her thigh again …

At last he came upon his knees at the foot of the bed, caught her ankles, and brought her down hard against him. Parted her gently with his fingers, had her with his tongue. When she gasped and writhed and cried out softly, he still continued, until he rose over her, seeking one more thing tonight.

“Tell me that you want me, Melisande.”

Her eyes fell upon his, damp, wild, filled with reproach.

“You cannot!” he said harshly, for her. “Aye, but lady, you can!” He rubbed his palm over her. His eyes demanded hers. With a startling fury she looked at him. “I want you!” she whispered.

“My name, Melisande.”

“I want you—Viking!”

He laughed huskily at that, but brought his whisper low against her ear. “My name, Melisande.”

She cried out softly, nails digging into his shoulders, face burying there. “I want you, Conar.”

He rose above her.

“You have me, lady, you have me.”

Chapter Seventeen

Returning home was far more pleasant than riding to Rouen. Oddly enough, for all Conar"s never-ending demands, something had changed between them, and for the better.

He was far more often with her, quick to urge her to race him to one hill or another, and he was even willing to call a halt to their entire procession one afternoon when she found particular pleasure in one of the streams where they had stopped. He sat with her by the water, his feet bared and cooled by it, as were hers.

Yet when they returned home, things were quick to change, fate was destined to step in upon them in a number of ways.

Melisande came down the stairs her first morning home to see that Brenna was slipping from the great hall. She followed her down the stairs to the courtyard below, wondering if Conar had really kept his word.

She shouldn"t ask.

“Brenna.”

The Dubhlain woman stopped, aware that Melisande had been following her.

She turned slowly. “Aye, milady.”

Melisande discovered that she couldn"t simply demand to know the truth.

“The runes,” she murmured. “You plucked up the runes so swiftly the other day. Why? What runes were they?”

Brenna arched a brow to her. “Don"t you know?”

Melisande frowned, shaking her head. “What were they?” she repeated.

Brenna paused a moment, looking at her. “Two runes, lady, Injuz and Jera.” Melisande shook her head blankly. “Ragwald knows the runes,” she said.

“He taught me some when I was young, but I"m afraid those elude me. What are you telling me?”

“You really don"t know?”

“I really don"t know!”

Brenna"s golden lashes swept over her eyes. “Then count back, lady, and think carefully.”

“I—”

“Milady, they are the runes for fertility.”

“I don"t—”

“You"re expecting his child!” Brenna said impatiently.

Melisande felt as if she had been struck, she was so startled. And then she felt so incredibly foolish because Brenna had only to whisper a few words, and she realized how very late she was.

She shook her head. “I don"t—I can"t be! I don"t feel anything.” Brenna shrugged, a small grin upon her lips. “Then you are lucky, and your labor might well be easy.” She paused a moment. They were both silent. Brenna frowned, and Melisande realized that she must be very white, the blood having drained from her face.

“What is your distress? Your husband will be pleased. Indeed, Odo and half this land will be pleased, for a child is the mortar that holds close many a union.”

“Does he know?” Melisande asked her suddenly. Was that the source of his sudden consideration?

Of the laughter that sometimes touched his hard features, of the tenderness.

“Well, it seems that you have not told him,” Brenna said.

“But you!” Melisande cried. “You"ve known, and you serve him, and I"m certain you think he should know.”

Brenna was quiet for a moment, studying her. “It is your place, not mine, milady, to tell him.”

Melisande started, glad that the building of the keep was near where she stood, for she suddenly discovered herself leaning against it.

“You wouldn"t do so?” she queried suspiciously.

Brenna sighed softly, looking to the ground. Then her eyes touched Melisande"s. “I serve Conar,” she admitted softly. “If you were endangered, or the life of the child were endangered …” She shrugged. She straightened abruptly. “I"m not your enemy, Melisande. I never have been.” Melisande bit into her lip, studying the beautiful blond woman she had avoided for so many years.

“Have you really …”

“Really what?” Brenna inquired.

“Ceased to sleep with him?”

“Ceased to sleep with him?”

Melisande let out a cry of exasperation. “You mean you"ve never slept with him?”

“Of course I have slept with him. I travel with him constantly. I have slept with him on ships on long sea journeys, beneath trees when we have traveled on land.”

Melisande started to turn, afraid that she was going to be ill after all. She had felt fine until this moment. She wouldn"t have believed her feelings of dismay.

Now she felt desperately ill.

A small hand touched upon her shoulder.

“Lady, I have slept with him. But you misunderstand the meaning of what I am saying. Swen has slept with him often enough, too, and I assure you, neither of them has an interest in other men or little boys! I have never made love with him. I cannot cease doing something I was not doing to begin with.” Melisande swung around again, astounded. “What?”

“Ah, don"t look at me so! I would have done so, had he wished it. And should he ever seek me …” Her voice trailed away. “But that is unlikely. He has discovered what he seeks in you.”

“Indeed,” Melisande whispered softly. “He has discovered a fool!”

“Your pardon?”

“Never mind, Brenna.” She stiffened, feeling wave after wave of fury sweep through her. His magnificent bargaining! Of all the horrid things to do to her.

How amused he must have been! She had bartered herself to him in exchange for a promise that he sleep no longer with a woman he had never touched!

“Melisande—”

“Thank you for your honesty,” she said smoothly. She turned back into the tower and made her way up the first flight of stairs. She found a chair in the great hall and sank into it, trying to remember everything he had said that night in Rouen. She had
demanded
he not sleep with Brenna anymore. And oh! He had sworn that he would not do so.

She had fulfilled her part of the bargain tenfold.

He wasn"t sleeping with Brenna,
never had
slept with her.

He had taken Melisande again for such a fool. Even if she had walked right into it.

She would never, never tell him about their child. If it really existed. If Brenna wasn"t taunting her even now.

But Brenna wasn"t taunting her. All she had to do was look back and know that she hadn"t had her time since Conar had come to claim her by that stream in Wessex.

She put her head down upon the table. It was what he would want. Exactly what he would want, what he would demand. And as usual, she would give it to him.

But not now, her heart cried out. Not now.

She tried to eat, but found she wasn"t hungry. She reached for ale, then thought she should be drinking goat"s milk. Marie de Tresse had always said it was good for women who were with child.

I don"t believe this, she insisted to herself.