MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (38 page)

She wasn"t planning anything. It was just that he had ridden away before.

And she was older now. She had returned to her household. Even if Conar"s presence was strong within it, there was much she had taken over. She had learned much from her years spent in distant lands. In Dubhlain she had learned the warmth of Irish hospitality and the laws that demanded kindness to strangers and travelers—

When those traveling strangers weren"t ravaging their coastlines, of course.

With Rhiannon she had learned that graciousness could exist during a time of peace. She had learned how to use beautifully crafted tapestries to keep away the harsh chill in an estate that had been ruled far too long by a lord alone.

She"d also learned to hold court to settle petty disputes among the villeins and tenants, to award repayment to those who had been wronged, to chastise those who wronged them.

She didn"t want to leave her home. Her heart belonged there, her soul yearned to stay.

Nor did she want Conar riding off to a foreign war.

It was not a foreign war to him, she tried to tell herself. His father had summoned him, his uncle was the Ard-Ri. She loved her mother-in-law dearly, and cared for her happiness.

But she ached with the thought that Conar would ride away again.

Ride away, leaving her behind.

She couldn"t manage to say any of these things to him. In fact, she had avoided speaking with him since the summons had come, packing what belongings she would take, then spending the early hours of the night on the fortress parapet with Ragwald, staring up at the stars that dotted the heavens.

Ragwald pointed glumly to the haze about the moon and told her that it would rain in the morning.

“I will not be gone so long again!” she promised him. “I will not be gone so long!”

He held her close, and she stared out into the darkness that covered the land around them, so dimly illuminated by the hazy moon. She bit into her lower lip.

If she was going to have a child, it would be born here. If Conar left her too long, she would come home without him. And if he came after her in a fury, well then, so be it.

Yet if he turned from her …

She remembered with an aching heart that Brenna had warned her she was ready to serve Conar in any way that he asked.

She lay with her back to the center of the bed when Conar came to join her late that night. She kept her eyes closed and did not speak. He stood by the bed for a long time, as if he would do so himself.

Then he sighed and walked away and doffed his clothing. Yet when he crawled into the bed, he did not touch her.

Morning came too soon. It was miserable and wet, just as Ragwald had predicted it would be. She heard the drizzle of the rain long before she opened her eyes, before she realized that Conar lay awake, staring at her.

“What?” she murmured, unnerved, and so, biting into her lower lip.

He touched it with his thumb lightly, studying her face. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “I was just wondering if I was going to have to roll you in a sheet again.”

She curled away from him, staring over to the trunk with the gilded mail in it, the trunk that seemed now to contain her childhood.

But the sword atop it was a real sword. The mail would fit her still. It was surprising that he had not seized both mail and sword from her.

He would not leave her. She knew that.

“There is no need to roll me in a sheet,” she said wearily.

She felt his finger draw an arch down her spine, and she trembled despite herself. How strange. That touch suddenly made her feel as if she quickened inside with a strange warmth, a strange longing. She wanted to turn against him, hold on to him, keep him close. She knew now that she would hate it when he went away because she would hate being without him. She would miss his touch in the night. Miss his strength, his warmth. Miss that wonderful way of sleeping, knowing that she was held.

She didn"t turn against him. No matter what she said or did, he would ride away to war. And he would not bring her—as he brought Brenna. He would leave her alone in a household that was not her own, no matter how gently she was treated within it.

“Some wives,” he told her, “might be glad to be with their husbands.”

“But I will not be with you.”

“Aye, you will until we ride north.”

“And then you will be gone.”

“And will you miss me now, my love?”

She was silent. He answered for her in a mocking tone. “Ah, indeed, you will. You will sleep with any demon or devil just to come home! You will be counting the hours until my safe return—just to come back here.” He rolled away, rising to his feet across the bed. Melisande turned, seeing the magnificent structure of his back, the breadth of his shoulders, the ripple of them, the sleek line to his hip, the hard, tight curve of his buttocks, the hard length of his legs.

“And what happens if you do not come back?” she whispered.

He spun on her. “Does it concern you?”

“It is a reason not to go,” she murmured stubbornly, her lashes falling.

He walked around the bed again, coming beside it, lifting her chin. “Would you have me turn my back on my father, Melisande?”

She didn"t answer him at first. Then she sighed, twisting from his touch, her lashes falling over her eyes.

“No. But you risk yourself, you risk me—”

“Ah, indeed, if I were to fall, lady, what then? Would you mourn? Or quickly cast off the chains that have so tightly bound you and sail home to rule here with supreme power and pleasure?”

She met his gaze, her lashes sweeping over her own eyes swiftly once again.

“You are cruel to suggest such a thing, milord. I have never wished any man"s death.”

“Any man"s? I did not see you mourn Gerald"s passing!”

“Well, perhaps not Gerald"s—but only because he murdered my father,” she said.

“Then again,” he murmured, “you have taken a sword against me yourself

…”

She rolled away from him, rising from the other side of the bed. She stood and started to walk away, but he was suddenly behind her, pulling her around to face him again. “I don"t care to discuss this!” she told him.

“But I do.” His hands rested upon her shoulders. “Perhaps there"s nothing to fear. I will return, Melisande. I swear it. I will not die. I will never let you go, remember?”

“My father never meant to leave me!” she assured him softly.

A golden brow arched her way, blue eyes, fire and ice, sizzled upon her.

“Does this mean that you"ve come to care for me in some small way?”

“Don"t mock me, Conar!” she charged him.

It seemed a strange shield fell over his expression.

“I do not mock you,” he told her.

“What of you? Has the tyrant come to care for his ward—in some small way?”

“I have told you several times—and meant it more deeply each time—that there was nothing I wanted so much as you.”

“Wanted,” she murmured, her eyes falling.

His fingers tightened upon her arms. “I will return!” he promised her again.

“I swear I"ll never leave you to Geoffrey. And I"ll not die until we"ve a child to keep any seekers at bay!”

Tell him, a voice cried within her.

But she could not. She still had only Brenna"s words and a suspicious passage of time as any proof. She didn"t feel ill. She hadn"t gained an ounce.

By next week, she realized, she would have missed two months. And then she might be certain. Reasonably so.

He had promised to return. When he brought her home again, she would tell him.

“What is it?” he asked her softly.

She shook her head.

“Melisande! I beg you, don"t spend your life hiding from me!” he entreated.

She stared into his eyes and saw fever there, passion. Did he care?

He wanted her, aye. Unless he tired of her.

His mouth slowly descended upon hers. His kiss was provocative, tempered, his lips forming gently upon hers. She found herself upon her toes, arms slipping around his neck, fingers moving into the golden length of hair at his nape.

There was a sharp rapping on their door. They pulled apart, staring at each other.

“Milord!” It was Swen. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “We must hurry and take the tide.”

“Aye!” Conar called.

Melisande had already turned. She washed and dressed quickly, not speaking with him again.

At the shore he offered to have Warrior brought with them. She shook her head. “This is his home,” she told Conar. “He is not accustomed to your curious manner of transporting horses.”

An unease filled her. She didn"t want Warrior with her, because she didn"t want to have to try to get him home later.

When they sailed, when they waved goodbye to Ragwald at the beach, she realized that she had no intention of waiting for Conar.

She"d be home long before him.

She would pray for his safe return—and would do so from here.

The seas were rough, but Melisande still did not feel a twinge of illness. She wondered if Brenna could be mistaken, if the tempest of her life lately hadn"t caused her to miss her time.

Indeed, she felt Brenna staring at her now and then, and once, when their separate ships were near enough, Brenna asked Melisande how she fared.

They stopped for water and supplies briefly off the southern coast of England, then made straightaway for Dubhlain.

It would have been good to come here if she hadn"t felt such a great concern for her own home. Erin greeted her affectionately, demanding to know everything that had happened since she"d seen her last. Even Rhiannon and Eric were there, for Eric, too, had answered his father"s summons to come and fight for their uncle.

Their first day in the walled city of Dubhlain was a wonderful one, but an exhausting one, and no matter how sweet the reunion with people she loved, there was an edge to it all, for they all knew that as soon as everyone had gathered, the men would ride out.

Eric spent the day closeted with his father, brothers, brothers-in-law, and various cousins and uncles. Melisande spent the afternoon with Erin, Rhiannon, and her sisters-in-law in the grianon, or ladies" sun room, a handsome long room, well ventilated, that the Viking Olaf had built in to his home in honor of his wife—and his adopted country.

Rhiannon was anxious, pacing the floor, and Daria, was, as ever, in constant, supple motion. Yet Erin and her older daughters sat calmly, working upon fine needlework. Katherine, Conan"s wife, read aloud from a beautifully crafted manuscript about the ancient peoples of Eire, about the formation of their social structures. She read about Saint Patrick, who had brought them Christianity and ordered all snakes from the island.

Melisande listened awhile, but her mind wandered. She discovered Erin"s still beautiful emerald green eyes upon her.

“How do you do it?” Melisande whispered softly. “Sit so calmly when they all ride away?”

Erin smiled and passed her a needle.

“Thread this for me, please. My eyes are not what they were.”

“Your eyes are excellent, Mother!” Daria charged her.

“Melisande, as Daria is behaving like uppity baggage, would you please be so good as to thread my needle?” her voice remained soft. Daria stood behind her, linking her arms around her mother"s neck. “Take care, Mother. I am the most like you, so they say!”

“Heavens! Was I ever so wild?”

“Wilder, they say!” Daria replied sweetly.

Erin shrugged. She looked at Melisande and smiled. “I am calm because I have watched them ride away so many times. I am blessed, for they always return. Mostly …” she murmured, then shrugged. “I have lost those I loved, too.

And every time I have seen milord Olaf ride away, I have died a bit inside.

Leith, the eldest, was the first to ride to battle with his father, and I thought that I could not bear it if he did not return. I was blessed. He did return. A little life goes out of me each time I watch a son ride. But I learned long ago that I could not protect the men in my life by forcing them to be weak. You see, my father was able to hold most of this island because he had the strength of my brothers, because he forged tight alliances among the people. When he could not rid the island of Olaf—he wed me to him. We will remain strong as long as we remain united.” She leaned close to Melisande, her eyes gentle. “Conar will return, you know.”

“So he has assured me,” she murmured.

He would come back—because he had not left her with an heir.

“Do you resent his being called here, when you have so recently returned to your home?”

“No!” she said swiftly. But she wondered if Erin saw the lie. She lowered her lashes quickly. She knew that even if she were expecting a child, there could be no motion within her as yet.

And still …

There seemed to be a fluttering. What of their child? Would it be a boy, would he be loyal, determined to fight for his father and home at all costs? She would have fought for her father, given everything for him!

She looked at Erin and repeated her protest. “No, really. I—I am grateful to see you again, for I never really said good-bye.”

Erin smiled and set her sewing down. “You are always welcome here. You are nearly as much mine as my own blood.” She stroked Melisande"s cheek. “I did raise a beautiful child!” she said softly. Then she spoke to them all. “Pardon me, for the house is full, and I must see to our meal this evening.” The house was full and lively. Bryan and Bryce were eager to see her, and she was glad to see them both, finding herself lifted off the ground and spun around by them one by one. There were so many people to greet. All the children of the king and queen of Dubhlain were here, and they with their children, and there seemed very little space to even walk.