He had not mocked just her but himself.
For she was beautiful. Her naked flesh was truly exquisite. Her breasts rose voluptuously, firm and full, and they were crowned by tempting, rosy peaks that hardened evocatively to his touch. Her back was grace incarnate, her hips flared both delicately and lushly, and her waist could be spanned by his fingers. A rage against her burned within him. Despite his anger, he had taken care with her. He had nurtured the fires in her eyes and in her spirit, and he had known that she had obtained a sweet pleasure in the act, but nevertheless she behaved as if he had beaten her. She still fought him, still defied him.
She was still dreaming of another man.
Life was made of hard facts, he thought. She must accept that. She was his wife.
Another rage burned deep inside him too. He spoke in jest to shame her; yet he spoke the truth. They were enemies, keen and bitter, and she would fight and despise him at every turn. It was a brutal and ironic thing, for when he made love to her, he remembered love, the tenderness, the sweet laughter, the need.
This passion was no such emotion but a desire so strong that he did fight some savage beast within him, a wolf that yearned to howl and claim this woman. He did not want tenderness; he wanted to take her and cast her from him and keep that memory of love clean within him.
He gritted his teeth. She did not seem to recognize his Irish blood. She saw only the savage. Then be damned, he determined. He would quench the fever within him and be all that she saw.
He closed his eyes. He felt the rich fullness of her breast, and a fire pulsed inside of him again. He tightened his jaw. He had told her to sleep, but he could not allow her to do so.
His lips touched hers. His hands moved over her breast and he knew that he would take the vision of her beauty into battle with him and through the empty nights to come. He pressed his lips against her flesh and tasted the sweet salt of their first union. She moved, not really awakening. Her body writhed and arched instinctively to his caress.
Then he claimed her lips again, wedging his body between her thighs. Her eyes flew open with startled alarm just as he thrust into her with the hardness of his sex. It was too late for protests. A strangled sound escaped her, and she slammed her hands against his chest, but then her fingers curled over his shoulders, her nails raking his muscled flesh.
His lips left hers and he stared down at her. Her eyes were closed and her breath came raggedly through her barely parted lips. She might deny him. She might deny herself. But she was blessed with beauty and sensuality, and if she was not allowed to waylay him, she would learn the truth of it.
“You are mine,” he whispered to her softly. “My wife. Remember it. Never forget it.”
Then he moved within her.
His passion unleashed, he swept her into his great tide. Perhaps there was something of savagery in his demand, for he rode her at a fever pitch, and when he reached his climax, it seemed that the anger and tension spewed from him with the seed of his body. She was his, and she would know it now.
He felt her shudder, felt her release. He lay against her in the night until she cried out with outrage, trying to shove his weight from her.
He set her free, and she curled away from him. After a long time he saw the heaving of her shoulders cease. She slept again.
In sleep she was all innocence. Dark lashes swept over her cheeks, and her hair was an elegant tangle of flame covering her body like some finely spun cloth. She was very young. Seeing her so, he braced himself. He tried to remember how she had cast her clothing aside for her lover, intending to cuckold him. He remembered only the flow of her back and the beautiful flare of her hips, and he thought again how curiously she appeared as pure as winter’s first snow, and as vulnerable and sweet.
He lay back and closed his eyes, and he reminded himself that he had to meet that very lover at dawn, and that he had gravely determined that he did not want to slay the lad. He would need his wits about him. Then the company would leave and they would ride to face Gunthrum at Rochester. He needed to be awake and ever aware, and his sword arm needed to be rested.
And still sleep eluded him.
* * *
The cock’s first crow came at last, and the sky was lit with crimson.
It was time for him to meet with Rowan.
Eric rose and dressed quickly, belting on his scabbard and sliding Vengeance within it.
He paused, staring at Rhiannon. With morning’s light she looked ever more innocent, ever more beautiful. Deadly beautiful, he thought, feeling his anger with her inflame him again. She might well have cost the poor fool lad his life, for they had to fight, and swordplay could always be deadly.
Rollo waited at the door of the wedding bower. He led the giant white stallion and carried Eric’s faceplate and armor. They did not speak; there were no ribald jokes exchanged. Eric donned his mail and set the helmet and visor upon his head, adjusting it. He mounted Alexander.
“Is the king ready?”
“The king and the lad, Rowan, along with a number of the Englishmen, await us on the field.”
Eric nodded.
“What will you do?”
“Slay him if I must.”
Rollo smiled. “You never imagine that you will fall yourself?”
“Nay, never, for to imagine death is to invite it. And here I feel that I have the advantage, for the lad has not fought the long years that I have.”
“This is bad between the Saxons and us,” Rollo muttered.
“Aye, it is,” Eric agreed. “But there is no help for it.”
They came upon the field where they had practiced their deadly warfare just the day before, the place where the challenge had been issued and accepted. The king rode out to him, Rowan at his side. Alfred was grim and visibly displeased. And, Eric thought, he was also pale and pained.
The fight must take place; there was no alternative. But the king mourned the young man’s death already. He had no doubt that Eric would take the victory.
They paused. The king raised his hand. “Swords only. The rush is upon horseback, and only when a man is unseated shall the fight come to the ground.”
Eric nodded. Rowan, pale but determined, nodded too. Eric closed the visor over his helmet, and only his eyes, fire and ice, appeared behind the silver mask. The white stallion pranced and reared, the others backed away, and he raced toward his starting point. There was the sound of a horn; the men were aligned to fight.
The horn sounded again, and Eric slammed his heels against Alexander’s flanks. Thunder rang against the earth and mud flew. The great power of the beast entered into him, and he rode as the lightning rode against the sky. Rowan, too, rode a great charger. The horses tore toward one another, breathing smoke, as if they were majestic dragons of legend, into the cold morning air. Thunder followed upon thunder.
And then they met.
Steel clashed against steel. Eric swung Vengeance with his battle cry upon his lips, and it was a chilling sound. Swords reverberated and shook. Their impact was mighty.
Eric compressed his lips grimly. He saw that the Englishman was well trained, but he must have felt that even his God was against him, for he fought weakly. Eric raised his sword again and cast it hard against Rowan’s, and the younger man was unhorsed.
Eric instantly leapt from his mount, pressing his advantage for the moment. Rowan raised his shield but fell back, and then, in a pit of mud, slid to his knees. Eric smote him again, and Rowan’s sword went flying, and then his shield, and he lay panting, his jugular pulsing, his eyes upon Eric’s where they gleamed ruthlessly from the slits of his visor.
Eric held Vengeance to his side. Then, with purpose, he slid the blade against the other man’s throat. He held it there, then raised it. He nicked Rowan’s cheek. The lad reached instinctively for the wound and stared blankly at the Viking.
Eric turned to the king. “My honor is satisfied. This man is courageous, and if he is to fall beneath steel, I would have him fall in his quest against the Dan
e.”
He awaited no reply. He turned and strode toward the waiting stallion.
There was movement behind him. Swiftly he spun, amazed, but wary lest the man intend him harm still. These English! he thought disdainfully. Ever ready with a sword at a man’s back!
But the man did not hold his sword, and when Eric turned, young Rowan fell upon a single knee and cast his fist against his heart. “I thank you for my life, Prince of Dubhlain. I am ever your liege man.” He stared up at Eric for a moment, then he lowered his head. “And as you know,” he whispered, “in truth I never did lie with your … wife.”
Eric reflected upon the words. “Get up. We’ll all face death soon enough.”
He turned and mounted Alexander. He saluted the king, then rode back toward his bridal bower. It was time to prepare to ride away to Rochester.
Rhiannon awoke slowly. She had never slept so deeply, she thought vaguely. Beneath her fingers she felt the cool smoothness of the sheets, and her head was cosseted by soft down. It was easy to remain adrift in a misted dream world.
But then she was wide awake. Her eyes flew open, and she tossed over in a panic.
He was gone. She was alone.
Nevertheless, she shivered again, remembering. Remembering the way that they had lain together, remembering his mockery and his touch and his promises … nay, his threats!
But even just thinking of him, her breath came short. And she felt the curious burning deep inside of her again. Her breasts ached, her nipples hardened, and the heat seemed to rise to her face. “Nay, nay!” she muttered vaguely, and pressed her face into the pillow.
Then she remembered her nakedness and she determined to rise and dress before he could return. It still seemed like early morning, too early for the army to have departed.
“Lady!”
There was a tap upon the door, and Magdalene, one of the queen’s women, entered. She brought water to wash, and she wore a shy smile. “Your lord has gone, so I have come to help you dress.”
Rhiannon nodded and tried to smile. Magdalene was a gentlewoman. Never married, she was tall, slim, gray-haired, and kindly. Alswitha had certainly sent her on purpose, knowing that she would not offend Rhiannon with laughter or jibes after the consummation of her marriage.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and bit into her lower lip. “I am eager to dress.”
Magdalene came in and set her water on the trunk. “I suppose that you are anxious to reach the field, for the men must meet with their swords soon.”
“What?” Rhiannon demanded. She sat up, pulling a cover about her shoulders. She frowned and added more quietly, “What sword battle is this?”
“Why, Rowan did challenge your new husband. My lady, to be so beautiful that men would die for you! Ah!” Clasping her arms to her breast, Magdalene sighed wistfully.
“Die for me …” Rhiannon repeated. Then panic seized her and held her in a deathly grip. Rowan had determined to fight for her. She cared for him still, even if the night had changed her forever.
And he was no match for Eric of Dubhlain. He was not so well trained or so experienced. Nor was he created of steel, with an overmastering will and cold confidence.
“No—oh, no!” she said with a moan. She jumped from the bed, forgetting that she was clad only in the linen sheet, desperate to stop the fight before it could begin.
“Lady!” Magdalene called after her.
She ignored the summons. She burst out to the door, and the cool rush of the morning air filled her heart with dread. She ran into the dirt path that led toward the manor, and then she stopped, her heart seeming to miss a beat.
Eric was already mounted. His sword was in its scabbard. Her hand flew to her throat. They had not met yet. No blood dripped from the blade.
“My lord!” she cried.
His face was hidden behind the steel of his visor; she saw only his eyes—blue ice, blue fire. He dismounted, and his stride brought him quickly to her. She swallowed and lowered her head. Even before he reached her, she fell upon a knee in the dirt, keeping her head downcast.
“Please!” Her voice was husky and deep with heartfelt emotion. “Please, do not engage in this battle. Do not—do not slay Rowan. He is not guilty of anything, I swear it. You …” She paused as a flush covered her cheeks. How hard it was to beg anything from this man! “You know that we were never lovers in truth!”
He reached down. He took her elbows and forced her to rise. She gazed into his face, and still it was only the unfathomable blue fire of his eyes that she could see.
“Lady, what is this habit with you of walking about unclad?” he demanded hoarsely.
Miserably she pulled the linen more tightly about her.
“I speak of a man’s life!” she cried.
“Your lover’s life?”
“He was never—”
“No, madam, he never consummated the act of love. What he did receive from you—that tender scene in the forest!—was surely more than most husbands would endure.”
“Please …” She opened her mouth to protest, but he had turned her around, and with a gauntleted hand heavy upon her waist, he pushed her back toward their wedding chamber. She looked behind her, then stumbled forward. He followed her. Magdalene remained inside. Eric cast her one swift gaze as he lifted off his visor, and she bobbed and hurried away.
Eric closed the door, and his back remained to Rhiannon for a long moment. Then he turned around.
“This man’s life is very precious to you.”
Rhiannon swallowed.
“Life is precious to me.”
He cast his gauntlets upon the bed. “Except for mine?”
“Please, I beg you. Don’t kill him.”
“It’s so intriguing to see you beg.”
“You enjoy this!” she accused him.
“Indeed, madam, I do. Pray continue.”
He was silent then and still, towering in the room, his hands upon his hips. She swallowed again, clamping her lips down hard. Then she walked toward him, hesitantly. And once again she knelt before him. The sheet and her glowing curtain of hair shielded her like a royal mantle, and she looked up to him at last with glorious, tear-shimmering eyes.
“Do not leave me now to go and slay him, and I swear to you that upon your return I—I will give you everything that you ask of me.”
Eric leaned against the door and crossed his arms over his mail-coated chest with amused interest.
“You are my wife,” he told her. “I can take what I want.”
She flushed. “Aye, but you said that you wanted more than my body. What I’m saying is that I will not protest—”
“Protest or no, lady, when I return, this thing between us will go on.”
Even as she pleaded, her temper was rising, yet she bit her lip lowered her eyes and began again. “Nay, sir, there are things that you cannot demand, and things that you cannot take, even as a husband.” Her gaze rose with defiance and pride and reckless courage. “Spare him, I beg you, for mercy’s sake. And spare him, I beg you … for me. I will repay you.”
He lowered himself to her. She felt the radiating strength of him and inhaled his subtle masculine scent. She was trembling again despite herself, alive with the thing that tore into her breasts and spread like fire to her loins.
He reached out and lifted her chin, and his eyes burned into her. “What, Rhiannon? What will you do, how will you pay?”
“If he lives, I swear to you, I will come to you like the best of harlots. I will answer to your every whim. I will adore you like the most doting lover.”
“If he lives? If I do not slay him?” Eric said.
“Aye!”
“You will pay so, you swear it?”
“I swear it.”
He released her chin and moved suddenly, as if he had been scalded. She held her head down, then she gazed up at him. His eyes were fathomless once again, and her stomach did a somersault in panic. He was going to refuse her.
“Done,??
? he said softly. Relief swept through Rhiannon, yet she frowned, for she was certain that the hint of a wicked smile played upon his lips. “Done, lady. I will return to you most eager for this payment. And so help me, madam and wife, you will make good the payment!”
“Aye!” she promised.
He stepped past her and she rose slowly. There was a tap on the door. Rhiannon pulled the sheet around her. Eric bid the caller enter.
It was Rollo, stating that the king needed to see him.
It was time to leave.
Eric took up his gauntlets, opened his trunk for his saddle roll and leather satchels, then swung them over his shoulder. He swept by Rhiannon, dismissing her. She watched him go, amazed that he could make such a bargain—one that her cost her all her pride and her dignity and her very soul—and then dismiss her as a matter of little importance.
“Lady?”
Magdalene stepped back into the room. She cheerfully went to Rhiannon’s trunk, seeking out clothing. She chatted away, but at first Rhiannon barely heard her.
“They are all in awe, for it was such a noble fight! Lady, you are blessed!”
Rhiannon stared at Magdalene, then raced to her. “What fight?”
“Why, when your Irish prince battled Rowan. The young man lost his sword almost immediately, but they tell me that Eric of Dubhlain only cut his cheek, then bid him rise and live to fight the Dane.”
A horrible churning began in Rhiannon’s stomach. “When—when did this happen?”
“Why, with the dawn. The entire place is a-buzz with it now, lady!”
Once again Rhiannon turned and ran to the door. She cast it open and ran back into the dirt road, clad only in her linen sheet.
They were mounting. They were ready to ride out. She saw Eric and she ran to him. Once again he wore only his visor, but his eyes condemned her with fury.
“Damn you, wife! Go dress yourself decently.”
“Bastard!” she hissed.
He dismounted with no patience. He swept her up into his arms and carried her back to the structure. Furiously she pounded against him, bruising her hands upon his mail. “You bastard! You tricked me, you used me, you hated son of a rodent and a whore!”