A black wave of terror seemed to engulf her. She fought it, determined that she’d never show him fear.
“Tell the king that you don’t want me!” she whispered fervently. “Tell him—”
“Would you have a war so fierce that your land would run with rivers of blood?” he demanded harshly.
“But you cannot want me—” Rhiannon broke off as she heard the thunder of hoofbeats again. The king’s men were coming close.
The Viking stood and reached down for her wrists, jerking her to her feet and, for a moment, hard against himself. “No, lady, I do not want to wed you!” he assured her quickly. He released her. She stared into his eyes for a brief second and then turned, instinctively, to run. His fingers closed savagely on her hair, and she cried out as she was wrenched back against him. His whisper touched her ear.
“Come now, you mustn’t be a coward,” he told her harshly. “I had admired your courage, at least.”
She faced him again, hatred tripping from her tongue. “Nay, I do not fear you, and I shall never fear you. You’ve no power to hurt me, ever!”
He smiled at her but it was a grim smile, and his eyes were like frozen fjords in the height of winter’s fury. “I do suggest that you learn to fear me, lady. Aye, I do suggest that you learn to fear me—and quickly. There’s much you need to fear.”
She longed to keep her chin high, but she was naked, and his ice-blue gaze swept dispassionately and with contempt over the length of her.
The horses pounded ever closer. His gaze flickered away and he knelt, picked up her mantle, and drew it around her shoulders. She wanted to bolt, to run, and she could scarcely breathe. She was amazed that he had covered her nakedness. Tears sprang behind her lids, but there was no kindness to the act, she quickly discovered.
“I believe you’ve exposed enough of what is supposedly mine for this day, don’t you, milady?” He arched a brow but did not wait for an answer. He did not expect one.
She found her voice even as he turned from her, whistling for his mount.
“I will never be yours!”
His mount came forward, and she gasped with surprise. Numbness filled her. The horse was hers. It was Alexander, her favorite stallion.
“That’s my horse!” she cried.
“My horse,” he corrected her.
She had forgotten that he held all that had been hers.
His smile, a chilling one, remained in place when he looked at her again. “My horse,” he repeated. “And as this animal, lady, is mine, so you shall be. And you, too, will learn to come when I call. If I still choose it to be so. A used horse is one thing, a used wife another.”
She gasped. “Vile bastard—” she began, but her words were cut off in a frenzied protest as she felt the biting power of his fingers once again, closing around her arm.
“Nay!” she cried in panic, but he ignored her, sweeping her off her feet and into his arms. In terror she attempted to strike him, to claw him, to free herself. He secured her wrists with one swift measure. His gaze alone stilled her then. “Lady, push me no further!”
He waited. She could not move. She clenched her teeth together and fought the rising panic within her.
He nearly threw her atop the white stallion, then quickly mounted behind her. “Don’t fight me,” he warned her. “Don’t even think of it, for if you attempt to strike me again, I promise that I will strike more swiftly—and with greater effect.”
She choked back her rage at his callous words.
“Barbarian!” she accused him, but she did not move. His eyes narrowed.
“Shall I show you?” he inquired.
Rhiannon fell silent. He nudged the horse forward, and her mind began to race even as she shivered against the powerful feel of his arms about her.
The king’s men were almost upon them, and suddenly it was too much for her.
She had dishonored Alfred. Alas, when she had meant at last to obey him, she had dishonored him. She had truly meant to go through with her wedding, to create the alliance the king desired.
But it had all gone wrong. And though innocent in truth, she had been caught by the very man to whom she had been promised. A man who had already sworn her vengeance ….
There would be no help for her from the king.
Rowan! She thought desperately. This loathsome Viking had seen them together. He would seek out Rowan. He would demand recompense.
Blood would run, and the burden of it would be hers.
Blackness danced before her eyes, and the mercy she had pleaded for came her way at last.
She passed out cold, yet even as consciousness eluded her, she realized that she was being caught by the strong arms of the very man she was so desperate to elude.
Her Viking master …
6
Merciful oblivion was not to be hers for long. A sharp tap upon her cheek awoke her. She rested against the crook of the Viking’s arm. She would have bolted from him, were he not lifting her already, sliding her to the ground with little care. She could not gain her balance and fell upon the earth. She stared up a tremendous height to meet his unyielding, glacial eyes once again.
“Your clothing, lady,” he told her dryly. He had brought her back to where her clothing lay in the grass. She longed to survey him with disdain, pride, and hatred. Her eyes fell and she gazed at the haphazard pile of her belongings: her fine, soft shift; her long tunic; and her hose and leather slippers.
A blush suffused her cheeks. She couldn’t expect much courtesy from him after the way he had found her, but she couldn’t possibly cast aside her mantle and dress before him. Besides, she was innocent. And Rowan was innocent—even if he probably would never believe her.
She lifted her chin but could not raise her eyes. “If you please—”
“I do not please!” he swore.
“Grant me this courtesy!”
“First it is mercy, and now it is courtesy you want. I am trying hard to grant you life! Dress now, and quickly.”
The hell with the bastard, she decided, her emotions simmering hotly inside of her. Courage came to her—a fool’s courage, perhaps. She rose slowly, regally, staring at him with open defiance. She held the mantle tightly about her and arched a brow as her lip curled into a scornful smile. “Slay me if you would, lord Viking. It might well be a better fate than being your bride.”
The tightening of his jaw was just barely perceptible, and despite herself, Rhiannon felt a chill race down her spine at the sight of his cold control.
“Really?” he murmured politely. “It grieves me that you should feel so, milady.” His tone changed abruptly. “Get dressed. Now,” he said. His voice was low, deep like the sound of thunder. She braced against the sound of it.
She shook her head, determined.
“Do it,” she said.
“What?” he demanded sharply.
She forced herself not to waver as she stared at him, far up where he sat towering atop the stallion, regal and splendid in his dress, for he wore the rich trappings of a prince that day. Norse jewels sparkled from the horse’s harness and from the jeweled brooch he wore upon his shoulder to fasten his mantle. She had risen, but she still seemed to be so far below him, encased in the folds of her mantle, disheveled, her hair a wild cascade of flame about her. Her eyes were alive with silver, sparkling and glistening in pride and defiance.
“Do it!” she cried. “Take your pagan sword and skewer me through.”
Then she cried out, amazed, for he did draw his sword. The stallion pranced and pawed the earth, and the cold, ruthless Viking upon him leaned forward, casting the tip of his blade against her throat. She could not move then, for it played against the vein where her lifeblood flowed.
“Dress. I have no intention of slaying you, milady. Not when our joyous future lies before us. But I shall come down and perform the task for you.”
“How dare you!” she spat out, trembling.
“How dare I?” His voice was low, yet it was laced wit
h fury and tight control. In seconds he had dismounted from the stallion. He stood over her, the blade of his sword still against her throat. Then he sheathed the sword. She was not small, and still he towered over her. “How dare I, milady?” He spoke deceptively softly. Then his hands were upon her, catching her mantle where it closed over her breasts and pulling her by the material until she was flush against him. His breath fanned her cheeks as he spoke. “You dare speak to me so, when I have discovered you here this day as you were? You had best take care, my little Saxon, grave care. Don’t forget that I am, in your own words, a barbarian. And we dare anything.”
With this last he tugged the mantle from her with a deceptively gentle touch. She was so startled that she remained still for a long moment, staring at him. And when she realized that she did so naked, she nearly spun about in panic. But she held her ground, lifting her chin and her eyes. “Definitely a barbarian,” she taunted, and then spun around, fighting the fear that continued to rise within her. What would he do?
She reached beneath the oak for her shift, and all the while she felt the searing chill of his gaze upon her. Her fingers were numb with fear, and she could not pull the soft shift over her head without a struggle. She did not look his way but donned her tunic and tied the belt. He did not move. She felt his ominous gaze all the while, and as silence stretched out between them, her apprehension grew. She could scarce pull on her hose, and she stumbled into her slippers, her back still to him. When she was finished at last, she found her mantle and swept it back around her shoulders with what dignity she could muster. She realized then that shouts still rose around them, that the king’s men still sought her. And she wondered desperately if Rowan had made good his escape.
She heard movement and realized that the Viking had mounted Alexander once more. She spun around quickly and warily to watch him. He stared down at her, and she knew that he read her mind, sitting calmly, supremely, upon the stallion. His sword remained sheathed. He reached out a hand to her, betraying no emotion in his features. She sensed the fury that emanated from him in great waves.
“What do you intend?” she said. She had meant it to be a demand. It came as a whisper.
He urged Alexander forward with the press of his knees. She started to back away, but he had too quickly reached her. With little effort he scooped her up, reaching low to sweep his arm about her waist. She was seated before him again on the stallion. She felt the rugged hardness of his thigh and the steellike band of his arm. He nudged the horse and they started forward. His eyes were not upon her, he looked ahead; and when she turned to see where he gazed, she felt the soft friction of his beard against her forehead.
William and Allen were riding toward them but they were still at a distance.
“Were this my mother’s country,” he murmured, “I’d cast you aside and return you to your father’s family dishonored.”
She had no father; he would return her to the king. And Alfred would banish her to some distant port. She would be despised here forever, but she would be free. Free from this man. Yet her heart was thundering, and she was afraid that he would do just as he said. As much as she hated him, she loved Alfred and Wessex, no matter what the king had done to her.
“That would suit me well,” she told the Viking.
He ignored her, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken.
“Were this my father’s country,” he added with a warning ebb to his tone, “a whore would be sold into slavery. Straightaway to a crew of the filthiest Danes I could find, I believe. In your case I’m sure I could find a berserker who’d take you off my hands.”
She stiffened, a furious gasp escaping her, but she could do no more than swear against him, for his arms were suddenly so tight about her that she could not move. Tears pricked her eyes but she refused to shed them. “I have already been given to a Viking. What matters if he invades from Norway or Denmark?”
“Or Ireland.”
“Or Ireland!”
“There might be a great deal of difference, my lady. Perhaps you will discover just how much.”
Again she trembled despite herself. Alfred would be even more furious with her than this Viking was. She had disobeyed her king, had dishonored him. She had perhaps cost Rowan his life, and her own had become a nightmare.
“I despise you!” she hissed vehemently.
“Cease!” he told her sharply as the riders approached. His arms tightened around her. “Are you truly so selfish that you long to see more Norse and Irish and English blood spilled upon this ground?”
She went still, wondering if there was some way to avoid the bloodshed. Surely the Viking would not accept her as his bride now. Yet if he discarded her, there could be war among the English and the Irish prince’s followers.
“This will be our battle,” he added softly, brushing her cheek with his whisper and sending a spiraling heat deep within her. “With luck, lady, no other fools will die for your treachery.”
“I am guilty of no treachery!” she protested heatedly, swirling to meet his gaze. It was chilling. He would never believe her.
Then his gaze rose from hers. “At last,” he said softly, “we are met.”
“Eric of Dubhlain!” William cried in greeting, his dark, condemning gaze touching quickly upon Rhiannon. “The king begs pardon again for the way you are met—”
“I will make my own way to the King,” Eric said.
“The girl will be—”
“I will bring the girl,” he said coolly. He urged the stallion past the two men and then nudged the horse to a smooth lope. The wind, filled with the freshness of spring, rushed upon Rhiannon. The air suddenly seemed unbearably cold as the stallion moved beneath her. She was cast hard against the Viking’s arms, and again she shivered at the power in them. His power came from his prowess in battle, his deadly prowess.
She had labeled him a barbarian and he had heard her. He was probably the most capable warrior she had ever encountered. He had seen her with Rowan, and he could kill Rowan easily.
No, she couldn’t think such thoughts, or she would give way to a fit of trembling. He could feel her every movement, for with each smooth stride of the stallion she was swept hard against his chest.
They fast approached the gates. Men were emerging from either side of the forest—the king’s men, the Irish and Norse contingent. She did not see Rowan among them, and she prayed that he had managed to disappear into the harbor of the trees.
The gates opened. The massive stallion sailed through them, and they came to the manor.
The king himself waited in the courtyard before the manor’s longhouse. He watched Eric as the Viking rode to within mere feet of him. Eric lifted Rhiannon from the stallion, setting her upon her feet.
She stood before the king.
She could scarcely stand as she faced Alfred. Her knees trembled and she was afraid. To feel condemnation and hatred from the Viking was one thing, but the fury and hatred of the king’s cold gaze was another. He walked toward her, and she realized that he knew she had gone to meet her lover. He couldn’t know that she had meant to obey him. She had just wanted to see Rowan alone one more time, to say good-bye.
Alfred thought she had willfully and treacherously betrayed him.
He walked straight to her. He stared at her and then struck her so hard that she cried out and fell to her knees. Behind her, she heard the Viking dismounting. Thunder touched the ground, for the horsemen were all returning, and the massive array of English and Norse and Irish troops was entering into the walls of the manor fortress.
“Eric of Dubhlain,” the king said, “I release you from your vows of allegiance and free you from your promises.”
She heard the Viking dismount from behind her. He came down beside her, lifting her to her feet by her elbow. A tempest burned and tossed within her. She longed to wrench free from his touch. She did not dare. She bit her lip lest she cry out.
“Alfred, King of Wessex,” Eric said, “I bid entry to your manor, an
d I would speak alone with you so that we may rectify the damage done here.”
The king nodded slowly. “Then welcome, Eric of Dubhlain, welcome, indeed, to my home.”
Rhiannon couldn’t move. Eric’s fingers tightened upon her arm until she nearly screamed out with the pain. She gazed up into his Nordic eyes and felt their power. Her chin jutting upward, she returned his stare.
“Milady?” he said, the word polite, his tone anything but. Yet she managed to stand tall and follow Alfred.
The Viking did not release her.
When they came inside the house, the king’s servants fell back, awaiting Alfred’s orders. Alswitha, smiling nervously, hurried to Alfred’s side. She curtsied beautifully before the guest, her eyes darting from Rhiannon’s ashen pallor to the cold fury that knit the king’s brow. Stuttering, she offered Eric ale and bread and herring. Servants came forward then, and he took a stout leather cup of ale but declined the meal. The king lifted his hand and told Alswitha, “Take Rhiannon.”
Dread filled her. The Viking’s hand lay heavily upon her shoulder, and he urged her toward one of the chairs before the fire. “The girl stays,” he said, pressing her down into the chair. To her great unease he remained behind her.
She swallowed, then turned to Alswitha in desperation, but there was no help to be had there. The queen stepped back and stood demurely behind Alfred.
“I’d not have men go to war over this girl again,” Eric said.
Rhiannon started to leap to her feet, to deny her guilt for the previous bloodshed. His fingers clamped down upon her shoulders and she understood the command to be still.
“You’ve every right to break your vows,” Alfred said.
“The right, King of Wessex, but not the desire. I will take the lady and the land, but with these conditions: We go to war against the Dane at Rochester before the nuptials. Rhiannon will be given over to a holy house until such time as it can be determined that she does not bear the seed of another man. If I am killed in the battle, the lands to which I have laid claim will pass to my father, the King of Dubhlain, to distribute among my brothers as he sees fit. And if I am killed, the girl, too, is given over to my family, and they will decide her fate.”