The Viking's Woman (19 page)

“You’d kill an innocent babe!”

“I merely told you what is done in the north. Perhaps in your next dramatic storytelling session the information will do you well.”

“But …” She floundered, staring at him. The fire still rose behind them, her knees grew weak, and she felt again a terrible sense of heat surrounding just the two of them. She longed to beat against him, to hurt him. She feared to touch him lest the fire take hold of her, and she did not understand the feeling. She could hate no man with greater vigor, and yet she had never felt so deeply influenced by any other man, as if storms raged between them when the air was clear. Her heart beat raggedly, and she could not breathe. She feared his temper and hated him deeply. More than anything, she dreaded the night to come.

“I will hate you into eternity,” she swore to him.

He smiled and bowed stiffly. “Unto the very halls of Valhalla, lady, you are welcome to do so. But you will
not stop the wedding … or avoid the marriage bed tonight.”

He started to move away. “Wait!” she cried out to him, and he turned quickly back to her. She stumbled for words. “W-would you cast out your own son to die in the snow? You’ll never know!” she cried. “If you—if you—”

“If I bed you this night?” he inquired. “Lady, you seem to have far more difficulty with intimate words than with intimate actions. Is that what you mean?”

“Aye!” she stormed. “If you bed me, you’ll never know whose child I carry!”

“But I am part Viking,” he said smoothly. “Rape and ravishment and murder are my heritage. I shall fare well, lady, have no fear. I am set, I am determined.”

“But if—”

“There are no ifs, milady. Whatever the truth happens to be, I will know it.”

“No. Wait, listen, I am not a fitting bride. Not just Rowan but an endless assortment of lovers have been mine.” Her panic was so great, she hardly knew what nonsense she babbled.

Rhiannon cried out softly, startled and in pain as he pulled her to him suddenly. She was forced to cast her head far back, and she felt the thunder of her heart echo against the hardness of his chest.

“Cease, milady, and cease now. Our marriage will be consummated this night. Don’t think to make fools of all in the church, for my patience is already strained, and if you would truly know something of Viking vengeance, test it just one grain further!”

She could not breathe. She felt him with the entirety
of her body, the bold strength of his legs, the vibrance of his arms, the staggering power of his eyes. She felt his touch keenly upon the naked flesh of her arms and shivered, aware that he would soon have every right to her, to take her and use her as he pleased. A quaking began deep in her heart, and she felt as if a wind had come, great and tempestuous and sweeping, and she could not fight the current of it. She was afraid and could not draw her eyes then from his hands, where they lay against her. Hands of great strength, with very long, handsome fingers. She wondered if they had ever dealt gently with a woman, and then she began quaking again, for she knew that he would never deal gently with her. Suddenly she was aware that her fate, her life, was being given into his hands, that she was to belong to this ruthless golden giant for the eternity of her days.

“Please!” she murmured desperately. “Think on this! It must not be! The years stretch out before us—”

“Lady, the years indeed stretch out. And they begin this night.”

He released her abruptly. He turned and walked away, and the Saxon serving women who had waited a discreet distance from them came forward to escort her to the women’s solar.

There were moments when she was bathed and dressed so carefully and tenderly for her wedding that she felt like falling to her knees, beating her breast, and tearing out her hair like a madwoman. She imagined just such a scene, and yet she imagined, too, that the Irish Viking would go through with the
ceremony, anyway. He wanted something—and she was part of his quest, so that was that.

Alswitha brushed her hair while the other women set her train about Rhiannon’s feet. The queen had brought her wine to sip to calm her, and Rhiannon quickly realized that the tankard she had been given held more than wine. She was glad of it, for she ceased to tremble, and though her dreams of redemption ran on, she stood still through it all, outwardly serene. Serene from sedation, perhaps, but serene.

She could walk down the aisle of the church and refuse to say the words. She could wait until she stood before the altar—and then reject him.

And still, she imagined dryly, he would go through with it, and all present would ignore her words if they were not the proper ones. Marriages were arranged, and hers should be no different from others. She knew that she could find little true sympathy even from Alswitha, for the queen had been of the Mercian royal house and her marriage to Alfred had been expedient. That they had come to love each other through the years was fortunate. There had been rough periods for them, too, Rhiannon knew, for the queen had at times found her husband self-righteous rather than good or pious, and she had once condemned him heartily for his unforgiving nature.

The longer she stood, the less anything seemed to matter. When an hour had passed, she was quiet and still and elegantly beautiful in the tunic that had been so carefully crafted for the occasion. Her hair was burnished to molten copper, and she carried the scent of rose water upon her skin. She did not protest
being led from the manor longhouse and across the yard to the church. If anything, she appeared grave, understanding the solemnity of the occasion.

Whatever potion the queen had given her was a godsend, for she could walk with her head high and with her dignity intact. She knew that she hated the king, but she did not protest when he took her arm. And she knew that she despised the Viking—nay, he could not cloak himself as an Irishman!—who awaited her before the altar, appearing as grave as she did herself, though at the sight of her his lip curled slightly, and a touch of curiosity lightened his eyes.

He was quite splendid, she could admit, for she was able to feel distant from it all. He was taller than any man in the assembly, and his head gleamed high and golden above the others. His eyes were searing; no man could hide the truth from him. His head was fine and proud, and he was a striking bridegroom.

He was golden because he was a Viking, she reminded herself. And he was strong and powerful in build because he excelled in conquest, in dealing out death.

Father Paul was speaking. Rhiannon felt the king’s hand upon hers, and it felt like dust. He handed her over to the Viking and she started, for his very flesh was searing. She looked around and saw the torches burning, and the faces of her countrymen and his swarming before her. Alswitha’s face, the king’s face, Allen, William … and Vikings and Irishmen in curious jerkins. One face caught her attention and she almost smiled, for it belonged to a man so old that his skin was wrinkled and browned like leather, and his beard fell nearly to the very ground. He watched her
with a curious kindness, and her heart skipped a beat when she returned his very intense gaze. She found herself smiling at him. He nodded in some strange acknowledgment.

Father Paul cleared his throat endlessly. He spoke firmly of the Christian faith and of the importance of the sacrament of matrimony. He must have spoken too long, for at some point the Viking interrupted the ceremony.

“Get on with it, man!”

Then she was being charged to honor him as her husband and to obey him.

“Honor? Obey? A Viking? Oh, surely I think not!” she said very sweetly.

There was a silence, long and deadly. Then she felt herself whirled around and pulled hard against the crimson mantle of the man, the crimson mantle with its emblem of a snarling wolf. He touched her chin, and it was not a gentle touch or a kind one, but neither did it hurt. She felt, rather, the cobalt power of his eyes.

“Lady, you will honor, and I promise you, you will obey me.” He stared at Father Paul. “Go on.”

There were other things said. No longer did anyone wait for her replies. She was swiftly declared Eric of Dubhlain’s wife.

Though it had been a Christian ceremony, it ended with a chorus of pagan shrieking and goading, and she was taken into her husband’s arms. For one moment she felt his gaze again … and then she felt his lips, hard upon hers.

She thought to struggle. She pressed her palms against his chest, but they were like dust in the wind,
and she longed to jerk her head away but she could not, for his fingers wound into her hair. He held her mercilessly still, as he slowly took his leisure. This was no brief peck, no swift brush of lips. His mouth molded surely to hers, and he overpowered her with the mastery of his kiss. His tongue teased her lips, then forced them to part. She felt that he consumed her. His tongue plunged with purpose into the dark recesses of her mouth and ravished her with wild abandon. He pressed her lips ever further apart and filled her ever fuller with the hot demand of his mouth and tongue. When she was able to breathe, she inhaled the scent of him—clean but male, threateningly male. She tried again to free herself. His arms were too strong, his kiss too powerful, a slow, sure, complete seduction of her mouth, tasting and delving and demanding with such startling insinuation that a ragged heat came into her, like an arrow cast into her very womb. She was struggling for breath, nearly losing consciousness and caught in the shocking force and intimacy of it all, when he suddenly released her.

She very nearly fell, but he caught her arm. She gazed into the curious blue fire of his eyes, and she brought her trembling fingers to her swollen lips. People were still shouting, in pagan chants that rose high in an endless series of crescendos. Men began to clap Eric heartily upon the back, then Alswitha and many wives of the English aldermen came to kiss Rhiannon’s cheek. The sweet, dazed feeling remained with her, and also the awful, restless heat.

When he touched her, she despised him. She remembered all the infamy he had brought upon her, and she remembered what he was by birth—and
choice, it seemed. But in the midst of the night she had realized, too, that when he touched her, she burned. She felt like a caged beast, desperate, seeking some freedom from the bars and barriers she could not see.

He disappeared from her view, and she was pushed along with many women. Warriors caught and held her and kissed her cheek and then released her, all of them boisterous and brimming with an intoxication brought on by the free-flowing wine and ale and the excitement of the night.

Then she was leaving the church and coming into the cool spring air. There was laughter then, and the sound of the lute, and a slow, seductive beat of a drum. And suddenly, beneath the moon, there was dancing, and she was swept into it. Wine flowed again, from Viking drinking horns now, and when one was pressed to her, she drank deeply.

She did not know where she was going until she was brought there, to one of the small outbuildings, distant from the longhouse of the manor. When she was borne within it, she discovered that the wood-and-daub structure was a single room, and within there was a large bed with fresh linen coverings, huge down pillows, and sheer gauze draperies. At the sight of it she paled and stood still, but the women were still with her. They laughed and spoke of their own wedding nights, and someone wondered if the sleek Viking warrior would be as gifted below the waist as he was in the shoulders while the others convulsed in laughter.

Her wedding finery was taken from her. She stood naked for several seconds, and then they cast a sheer
gown over her head. She closed her eyes, feeling more naked and vulnerable than ever. The gown covered nothing but enhanced the shadows of the curves and mounds of her body. The sweet numbness that had sustained her through the wedding was ebbing away. The queen was not with the women now, and Rhiannon longed to see her, to plead for more of the potion so that she might endure the horror of the night to come.

Then suddenly there was silence. The women had paused, and Rhiannon spun in the sheer gown and saw that he stood in the doorway.

He ducked to enter the room. Men were behind him and they shouted raucous words of encouragement to the new bridegroom. Rhiannon suddenly felt, as she had before the fire that night, as if the known world had been eclipsed and she had entered into some distant plain, some place of magicians or Druids or gods. All sound paled; indeed, the world paled. All that she could see was the man, and she feared him, for her heart pounded, yet she felt alive, seared by blue fire and swept into the flame of it herself. She might loathe him, but he stood before her like a god, ever regal, indomitable. Since she had first seen him she had not been able to erase him from her mind. And now she was his wife. Certainly not to be loved. But to be possessed.

He stared at her, and she felt that his eyes roamed her like a lapping flame, that they invaded her very being. From head to toe he observed her, and the men fell silent behind him.

He did not turn. “Good night, friends,” he said. No one moved, and he looked pointedly at her women.
And still no one moved, for they all seemed to stand in awe of him.

“Go!” he commanded. He took a step into the room, and someone squealed, then the women departed, following in the footsteps of Eric’s men.

The door closed behind them. For several seconds Rhiannon could still hear the chatter and laughter of wedding guests, and then the sounds all ebbed into silence. The world faded away.

There was only the Viking.

His hands upon his hips, he began to smile. It wasn’t a warm smile. It was as glacial as the color of his eyes.

She swore in silence that she would show no fear. She vowed to herself that she would despise him with pride and dignity, no matter what came.

But that smile of his was completely unnerving.

Watching her all the while, he cast aside his royal mantle with both grace and purpose. She started to tremble, despite her determination. She wished desperately that she had more of Alswitha’s drugged wine.

“Lady … wife!” he muttered. He unbuckled his belt with its sword scabbard, and let it fall heedlessly to the floor.