MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (5 page)

He leaned nearer her, smiling still. “When I"ve finished with you tonight, milady, you"ll not be able to move a muscle, I swear it!” She paled at that, turned white as a ghost, but recovered quickly—kicking him hard on his unprotected shin. He almost cried out, caught himself just in time, and leapt up the next step with her. To his rather bitter amusement she clutched him desperately rather than plummet to her death.

With a few more strides he reached her tower room. He tossed her down upon her bed and was once more treated to the ironic pleasure of seeing her leap quickly up, her pulse pounding frantically against the lovely white column of her throat.

“Can it be? Melisande, afraid. Of a
Viking
touch? Perhaps you remember it all quite too clearly. Is it fear then, or longing? Anticipation—or dread? Fear not, my fair lady! I haven"t time for your welcoming arms at the moment. But then again—don"t fret. The night will be long.”

“Fret!” she choked out. “You invite hell upon us both! You—” She broke off with a gasp because he had come for her. Wrenched up into his arms, she was pulled hard against him. “Heaven or hell, lady. Maybe a bit of both. I don"t believe I will offer you such hardship, but then again, I am lord here, and will have my Viking way!”

“Oh!” she cried in fury. “You sea snake! You bastard, you—”

“I cannot wait to hurry back to your arms!” he assured her. “Tonight, Melisande, there will be no escape.” He released her. She fell back but quickly caught herself, leaping up and backing away from him.

“I didn"t mean to escape you!” she whispered frantically. “I was needed here, and you wouldn"t come. You claimed you were needed elsewhere—”

“In my father"s house!” he reminded her angrily. “For all that your only term for me seems to be
Viking,
I am a prince of Dubhlain, and aye, I have many responsibilities!”

“Well, I have just these here!” she cried passionately.

“And we are seeing to them now!” he told her, turning. “When the ceremonies are over, I shall require a bath. So shall you. You might ask your people to see to it.”

“I"ll not—” she began, willing her lip not to tremble. But it did not matter.

They were interrupted.

“Conar!”

They both started as he was called from the doorway. The man standing there was Swen of Windsor, always Conar"s man, at his side, at his back when needed. He was tall with fiery red hair and a pleasant freckled face that belied his great strength in battle.

Seeing Melisande, he bowed to her quickly. “Milady.”

“Swen,” she murmured softly.

“Conar, you are needed. We do not know how you would deal with the prisoners.”

“I"m coming now,” Conar told him, still watching Melisande.

“Wait!” Melisande cried. She hesitated, strange for Melisande. “What—what do you intend to do with them?”

“The prisoners?”

She swallowed hard. “You can"t just—kill them!”

He lowered his head for a moment. He didn"t want to have to do so. But they were dangerous. They remained enemies.

“Conar—”

“Half an hour,” he told her.

“Die a slow, lingering death!” she hissed to him.

“Half an hour—and if you"ve any love for your people, don"t even think of defying me this time.” He swung around, his mantle billowing out behind him.

He clapped his hand upon Swen"s shoulder, leading him out.

The door slammed in their wake.

“Before all the gods!” Conar swore savagely. “That woman is the worst witch I have encountered in all the known world!”

Swen"s eyes slid his way. “Now, come, milord Wolf!” he said lightly. “You cannot feel quite so hostile—”

Conar shot him a deadly blue gaze.

Swen inhaled deeply. “Ah, well then, perhaps you shouldn"t have
wed
the lass,” he said idly. “But then again—”

“Then again what?” Conar demanded.

Swen grinned. “She"s also the most beautiful witch in the known world. And she can be quite delightful.”

“To anyone but me!” Conar muttered.

“Milord?”

“She came with a great deal of property,” Conar said angrily. He waved a hand in the air. “I accepted her when she was little more than a child because of that wretched Ragwald.” He hesitated, then added slowly, “And because I came too late to save her father. My uncle had promised I would fight with him. We came too late. Still”—he gazed to Swen, eyes burning—“she was little more than a child then, and I never imagined that—”

“That she could twist a wolf by its tail?” Swen suggested, starting to smile, then quickly wiping the grin from his lips. Conar seemed in no mood for this.

He hadn"t been since Melisande had managed to gain passage here on one of Conar"s kin"s own ships. It was her land, of course. Her birthright. But still …

She had lied to them all, of course, swearing she had Conar"s consent.

And when he had returned …

“She was a child!” he roared suddenly.

But she"d been a damned beautiful child, too, Swen thought in silence. With Conar"s present dark mood, he decided to keep the thought to himself. She had always brought about the deepest emotions within Conar—ever since he had discovered that his bartered bride was a wayward and independent creature, determined to manage herself and her inheritance.

Things had always been tempestuous between them.

They were doomed to more storminess now, but the time had come.

Melisande was indeed grown up, but she didn"t seem to have realized yet that Conar had come to stay. He had to. A true tempest was brewing here, with the Danes amassing in the thousands to ravage the countryside.

Because of his Melisande, and their property, Conar was called upon to thwart them.

“Well, milord,” Swen murmured uneasily, trying to soothe his temper somewhat, “I must say you have always behaved with great restraint, sending her first to the nuns until she gained her years—”

“She considered that the worst of tortures!” Conar snorted.

Swen held silent for a moment. Conar"s motives might well have been missed. She had been young when they had met. But already she"d been more than stunning. She"d been alluring. He might have been putting her out of temptation"s way from himself!

Swen lifted his hand absently. “You have, er—like I said, always shown restraint.”

“No more!” Conar vowed suddenly, his blue eyes like daggers. “No more!” For a moment Swen wondered which would be greater for Conar—his battle with the Danes, or his battle with his wife.

Whichever, it seemed that the days ahead would stretch very long. For there was one thing perfectly true that few men could see, and most assuredly, Melisande herself did not see it. For all that he was so constantly furious with her, Melisande definitely held a piece of the warlord"s heart.

“Find Ragwald. See that he gets his people gathered on the slope to the sea. I will see to the prisoners, and meet Melisande here within the yard, then we"ll go before them together.”

“As you wish,” Swen said, eyeing him speculatively.

Conar smiled suddenly. “She will be there, never fear. She would not risk her people. That is in her favor.”

Swen hurried off to do as he was bidden. Conar watched him a moment, straightened his shoulders wearily, and whistled for Thor. The ebony stallion obeyed his summons instantly, trotting to him.

“If only women were so well behaved, eh, fellow?” he whispered to the horse, then mounted it and rode quickly outside the wall.

His prisoners were an assorted lot, perhaps twenty-five in number, fifty percent Danes who stared at him with murderous hostility, the other fifty percent followers of the fool Geoffrey, who was so damned determined to take what did not belong to him.

He should have them beheaded, Conar thought. Not a one of them seemed worth keeping alive. But even as he stared at them, one of the Frankish men broke from the ranks and came rushing over, falling to his knees, grabbing Conar"s foot. “Mercy, great Lord of the Wolves! Mercy, I beg you. We were tricked, we were—”

“Kill him, Conar of Dubhlain!” one of the Danes cried out in his father"s language. “Or we shall do so ourselves!”

Conar looked down to Able, Brion, and Sigfrid, the three of his men guarding the group.

He felt tension seeping into him as he remembered his wife"s pleas not to kill the men. She never did understand that he despised such things. But she should have understood by now just how dangerous Geoffrey"s men—and definitely the Danes—would be. He sighed inwardly.

“Separate them for the time being. Have the smith make shackles for the lot of them, send the Danes to the east pit beneath the tower, and take the others to the long house east of the fields. Make sure they are well shackled, for we cannot afford trouble from them now. They must be guarded until we can decide what to do with them.”

“Some are injured,” Brion told him.

“Send some women to tend to them then, but keep a wary eye upon them.” Sigfrid shrugged. “We should behead them, have done with it!”

“For the moment, they will live. When these men are attended to, we will gather at the sea slope. There"s much to celebrate. My lovely wife and I reunited and this fine land held firmly in our own hands. There will be much to fight for again, but for tonight I intend to enjoy the evening. I hope the same for all of you.”

He rode back through the broken wall, making a mental note that it must be repaired immediately. He"d come as quickly as he"d been able to manage, and still he"d nearly been too late. But maybe he"d needed the sea voyage to rein in the anger he"d felt at first.

Yet every moment of delay had been torture, his anger knotted with passion, his hunger for her eating away at him, his fury with himself for having been so easily taken by her growing with his fear that some ill would befall her.

At long last there was tonight. Nothing in hell or Valhalla would stop him!

When he came on through the courtyard, she was there, awaiting him. She was mounted upon her magnificent horse, Warrior. The animal was huge, adding to her remarkable dignity.

He thought the same as old Ragwald once had—
men will follow her!

“Come!” he told her.

Violet eyes lit on him. He smiled, nudging Thor forward. She followed, just at his heels.

They came to the strip of beach. As he had commanded, the people were gathered there. His seafaring warriors. Her guard, and the farmers, the smiths, the craftsmen, their wives, their children. The priest and his plump mistress, their little barefoot waifs.

They were all there, a strange assortment, some speaking the Irish, Norse, and Frankish languages, and some understanding only one of the three.

He caught hold of Melisande"s hand. She longed to rip away from him—he could feel the tension in his arm. But she did not do so.

“We have joined together today as it was long ago destined to be!” he called out. “We have beaten back the foe, but greater battle is still to come, for our enemies would ravage this land straight to Paris! We must remain united here and fight them. As Melisande and I have come together, so shall you. Tonight we are triumphant! Celebrate with us.”

A cheer went up. The people all cried out, whether they had understood or not.

He repeated the words in his mother"s Irish, then began to speak to them in Melisande"s Frankish.

But Melisande was speaking already, fluidly, melodiously.

And determined that she was going to rule.

Not me, my love! Not me! he promised in silence. She had already led him on many a merry chase. She had stolen his damned soul!

Tonight it would all change.

She was staring at him now with daggers in her eyes.

“Smile, my love. Lift your hand in a gallant wave, and smile.” There
was
a beautiful smile on her face.
Angelic!
he thought with some amusement. The people were shouting their adoration for her, as well they might. Her hair was about her like a cape, spread out over the cloth of gold that streamed down her back and over the horse"s haunches. Her face remained the fairest he might have imagined, eyes ablaze.

She looked at him, her forced smile quite near plastered in place. Her hand moved to encompass the crowd. Though she smiled incredibly sweetly, her words were hissed, and for him alone. “You are an unholy bastard,” she murmured, her expression never changing.

He smiled pleasantly in turn, his hand waving to encompass the crowd.

“Your flattery will go to my head, Melisande.”

“I hardly think there should be room for it.”

“Pity your arrows aren"t as piercing as your words,” he informed her coolly.

“You"d have bested us all—Danish, Norse, Irish, Swedes—for sure. But alas!

None here is as talented with a weapon of steel or wood as you are with your barbed tongue!”

“Indeed,” she promised, smiling and waving to the crowd still. “You had best take care of those barbs. They might well undo your might and muscle and slice you to ribbons!”

He laughed. “I shall have to take my chances with your tongue, Countess.”

“I warn you, it will be dangerous.”

“I thrive on danger.”

“You thrive on command!”

“Be that as it may. I am victorious, I will rule this land, and you. So come, kiss me, my beloved witch,” he returned.

“I should sooner kiss a toad!”

“I don"t believe you!” Still they smiled, facing the crowd, waving to prove to all that the houses were united.

“Melisande, my love! I demand a kiss before these good people!”

“A kiss?” she inquired. “You"d best be daring, Viking. My barbed kiss could too easily slice you to ribbons.”