“I begged you not to go!” he reminded her, and there was pain in his voice, and worry, and she was suddenly very sorry that she had hurt him so. She cared for him—she could not help but care for him. He was frightening in his way, but he was her friend too. She knew that he believed in her. He had even wanted her as Eric’s wife.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Truly, Mergwin, I never meant to hurt you. And I am sorry, too, for your Ard-ri. He seems to be so admired and loved, he must be a very great man. I will pray for him with all my heart. All of us here will pray for him.”
She had not noticed that Eric had quietly come behind Mergwin in the hallway until his voice, crisp and cold, snapped out to her a sharp command. “Madam, you needn’t pray for him. You will accompany us with the morning tide.”
Her gaze quickly flew from Mergwin’s eyes to those of her husband. In the shadow of the hallway they were cobalt. She thought that he did not want her with him—he simply wasn’t going to leave her because he knew how anxious she was for him to go.
She swallowed, fighting to be soft-spoken and reasonable. “Eric, I am afraid that I would be in your way. It will be a very difficult time for you—”
“And I would not increase that difficulty by wondering what you are up to here—if the Danes have come to seize you or if you have decided to go walking into a Danish camp,” he said harshly. “You’d best look into packing your things, although Mergwin has already advised Adela to pack for you.”
“But, my lord husband—” she began carefully.
“Rhiannon, cease your act and make haste. The dawn will come quickly.”
She looked imploringly at Mergwin but knew that he wasn’t about to help her—she had duped him once. And Eric …
“I shall not go!” she swore, furiously striding past him.
He stopped her, catching a tangled tress of her hair. When she cried out, he calmly studied the lock and then smiled icily at her. “Rhiannon, you will come. Willing or no, you will come.” His blue eyes seemed to strike hers. “I suggest that you make it willingly.” He released her hair and strode by her, returning to the hall. Rhiannon glanced wretchedly at Mergwin, then went tearing up the stairs.
Adela was in the room. A warm bath, clean towels, and rose-scented soap awaited her. Adela assured her with a certain awe that they had all been anxiously awaiting her return—and yet Mergwin had assured them time and time again that no harm would befall her, that she would eventually come home. “And when we saw the Viking ships again and realized that they were not our own returning, why, we were all in a panic! But Mergwin quickly assured us that they came from Olaf the White, King of Dubhlain. To watch them was fantastic! And then you returned, just as Mergwin said you would! And now you will go to Ireland! Oh, Rhiannon, I shall miss you dearly. You must take the greatest care!”
“I am not going to Ireland!” Rhiannon said desperately.
“But, my dear—”
“I am not going!”
Even as she spoke, there was a tap upon the door, and it opened before either of them could call out. Rhiannon shivered as she thought that it might be Eric, that he might have heard her defiant words.
But it was not Eric. It was the girl, Judith—the one who seemed to adore Eric so very much. She came in with a tray of food and set it upon one of the trunks, then bobbed a curtsy to Rhiannon. “My lady, Lord Eric has said that this should be brought to you and that you should eat and then rest, since it will still be dark when you must rise again.”
Watching the pretty girl, Rhiannon knew that Judith would gladly serve Eric in any way. Had she done so already?
“Thank you, Judith,” Rhiannon said. The girl stayed there, looking about the room.
She could not bear the thought of Judith in his arms, or in his bed, or in this very room. She fought hard to curb her temper. She would not make a fool of herself. “Judith, thank you, that is all.”
With a sigh the girl left the room. “I’d watch that one!” Adela warned her.
“Mmm,” Rhiannon murmured wearily. She wanted to be alone. She turned around and gripped her cousin’s hands. “You’ve done so well for me already—my trunks packed and my bath complete. I’m fine now. I’m going to comb out my hair, eat quickly, and go to bed. You do the same. You must be exhausted.”
Adela’s eyes were troubled. “If you’re sure—”
“I am. Please.”
Adela kissed her, then left.
As soon as she was gone, Rhiannon began to pace the room. Then she sat at the end of her bed and idly began to comb her hair. It was raggedly tangled from her nights in the wilderness, but she set to it with a will, and in time it began to dry and untangle and fall softly into her hands and over her shoulders and down her back. She held still for a moment, then dived into her one of her trunks and searched through it for a bed gown. She found a sheer linen one with delicate embroidery about the throat and wrists and with material so fine that it covered almost nothing at all. She slipped into it swiftly, wondering how late it was, then if Eric would come to her at all that night. She glanced at the tray of food that she had not eaten, discovered the mead upon it, and gulped it down. Then she swept her comb through her hair once again.
There were footsteps outside her door. She set down the comb and plunged into the bed, draping her hair about her.
The door opened. She heard Eric’s footsteps as he moved about the room. She listened as he closed the door, and she seemed to freeze as he paused, then walked over to the bed and stood staring down at her.
He was there several long moments, then she heard him move away, aware of the thud of his boots upon the floor and the fall of his clothing as he stripped in the candlelight. She heard him swear softly as he climbed into the now very cold water of her bath, and she heard him splash about for a moment, then rise and come from the tub.
He would come to the bed and accuse her of faking sleep. And she would rise and remind him that all life was by his whim, and she would try very hard to please him and convince him that she would anxiously await his return—if only he would leave her.
But when he lay down beside her, he did not touch her. He turned his back on her.
She opened her eyes. He had snuffed out the candles, but the moonlight came through and played upon the sleek muscles of his back. She bit her lip, hesitating, frustrated. She tried twisting about, brushing his naked back with her backside and tossing a long lock of her hair upon him. Still he made no move.
She lay back and stared at the ceiling.
“Eric,” she said softly at last.
He rose up on an elbow. In the moonlight she could feel him watching her.
“I am sorry about your grandfather. Truly I am.”
He said nothing. After a moment he started to lie back down, but then he swore a soft oath and set his arms about her stiff shoulders, pulling her back. She allowed soft tears to glaze her eyes, and as he held her to him, he paused, and she whispered, “Please don’t make me go! I am so afraid!”
“Oh?” he said, braced above her, studying her features.
She was beautiful in the moonlight. Her eyes so soft, shimmering, liquid, her lips trembling, as red as the rose that had given the nectar to the scent that lingered sweetly over the length of her. Beneath the frail barrier of the gown her breasts rose and fell rapidly with the intake of her breath. The mounds seemed larger, fuller, more tempting than ever; her nipples were larger, darker, duskier, more fascinating, more seductive. Her hair lay about her as soft as down, curling over his nakedness, entangling him. But then she had done that already, entangled and enmeshed him with those skeins of gold and fire, with those eyes of shimmering silver, with the beauty of her lyrical voice and supple form. It was not love, he thought harshly, never love. But she was his, and he desired her beyond any desire he had ever known. He wanted to take her gently into his arms, to reassure her, to hold her.
But he knew her. Knew her well.
What new game was this? It did not matter, h
e thought wearily. She might as well play it.
“Eric …” She said his name softly, seductively, with a whisper, with a trembling innocence. “My lord, please, I would be a good wife, I would obey, I would … serve you in all things. But please, not this! I beg you, don’t make me go to Ireland. When you return, I will be here. And I will strive to be everything that you want of a wife.”
He stroked her hair, finding fascination in the length of it as his fingers moved over the shining softness. “Will you?” he asked her.
“I will.”
Her lashes were low, her eyes soft and seductive. He eased himself down her body, nuzzling her breasts, then closing his mouth gently over one mound and stroking the hard-tipped crest with the length of his tongue over the texture of the sheer linen. She exhaled a sharp gasp, and her body surged against his, her soft woman’s form contacting the rod of his masculinity and quickening the rise of heat and savage need within him.
“I will be whatever you want!” she promised, digging into his locks. She rose with him, draping her hair around him, wrapping her arms about him. Her quick kisses rained over his shoulders and his chest. She held the length of her hair and stroked his body with the soft, silky strands. The sweet-smelling tresses aroused him wherever they touched. Her lips fell upon his and lingered there, and then traveled over his body again. Softly, subtly, sweetly, she seduced him. Desire became a storm within him, shattering, fierce, a whirlwind. She knew how to touch him just where he needed to be touched. She knew when to tantalize, when to tease, when to give. She could blind a man, seduce him until nothing mattered but the fulfillment of his desire ….
He caught her savagely, dragged her atop him, then flipped her down over onto her back. He saw her eyes, and for a moment, before her lashes fell rich and thick over them, he saw a certain triumph there. Fury shook him suddenly, and he breathed in, bracing himself lest he give in to the very ferocity of it.
Hold! he commanded himself, for he would give her the game she played. He smiled, and he tenderly kissed her lips, tasting the sweetness of her mouth. And then he took his time and his leisure, making love erotically through the sheerness of the garment, searing her belly through it and below, touching her ever more intimately, to the pink core of her own desire, with the lapping wet heat of his tongue over the rougher texture of the gown. Whispers and cries met his thrusts, and soon she trembled uncontrollably beneath him, writing, twisting, undulating.
He ripped the gown to shreds, finding her naked flesh, voraciously taking all of it. And when she nearly lay limp from all the shattering climaxes he had mercilessly orchestrated in her, he pulled her beneath him, sheathed himself passionately within her, and demanded everything once again.
And everything was his. He had never known such a sweet and savage explosion of release as that which came to him that night, as wild as the sea in the rage of a storm. Fierce, racking shudders seized him and he filled her again and again with himself, then fell upon her, for a moment at the most extreme peace, sated as he had never imagined that he could be. He closed his eyes and felt the thunder of her heart beneath the fullness of her breast, and he knew that he could touch her, that he could draw from her many, many things that she did not want to give.
But he knew, too, that she had deceived him, that she loathed the very idea of being his wife.
A bitter smile tore at his lips, and a heaviness fell painfully over his chest. God! If he could cease to want her! If he could forget her very existence …
But he could not. When he was not with her, she taunted his dreams. When he thought of her in danger, he was pierced as with a knife. She was his wife.
And, by God, she would learn that she was so, and that her tricks and deceit could not change things, that she must obey him ….
He wondered still at the pain within him, and he gritted his teeth hard against it. Then he pulled her to him and whispered softly in the night, “So you would love me when I return?”
Her breathing was still ragged. He cupped her breast as he held her, and still he could hear the pulse of her heart. “Aye, my lord,” she whispered huskily.
“When I return … you would honor and obey me?”
“Aye!”
He kissed her forehead and pulled her against him. He stared at the ceiling and then closed his eyes. Damn her! Aed Finnlaith was dying! The thought tore into him, and he could not face it. His grandfather was in Ireland; he was the country’s peace, he was its grace. He had brought Ireland her golden age, and he was wise and wonderful. Eric would never forget him—his wisdom, his teachings.
And she would cause him havoc even now …
His arms tightened for a minute. She made a slight sound of protest, and he eased his hold. He needed to sleep, if only for a few hours.
But he did not. He lay awake. And when the first hint of dawn rose, he tossed aside the linen sheet and came to his feet.
She must have known, even in sleep, that he had left the bed. A soft smile curled her lip and she stretched out comfortably, her hair a golden cloak about her. He clenched his jaw, turned away, and dressed quickly, pinning his finest mantle to his shoulder, donning his scabbard and sword. It was a sad occasion, and he had to arrive in proper attire.
He came back to the bed and stared down at his wife. For a moment his fingers trembled, and he gripped them tightly as he stared down at her, for she was beautiful indeed. Perhaps she hadn’t sent a message to the Danes. He didn’t believe that she had. But she must know something, and if she was beautiful, she was every bit as treacherous.
He would bear a scar from her arrow wound all of his life to prove it!
Eric smiled coldly. “Get up,” he said curtly. “It’s time to go.”
“But I’m not going!” she protested.
“You are, madam. I told you so last night.”
“But—” She broke off, her face coloring. “But you said—”
“I never said a thing.”
“Oh!” She realized her folly, and her color deepened ever further. “How could you let me—oh, you bastard!” And with that she was flying at him.
He caught her quickly, even as her arms flailed at him. His heart hammered and a rushing noise came to his brain. He could want her even now, even when he had known again and again the sweetness of her taste.
He held her wrists as he stared into the fiery storm of her eyes. “I will haul you upon a ship—naked or dressed, my lady. I would just as soon bring you clothed before my mother, but I will bring you one way or the other. I told you yesterday that you would accompany me. And I’ve warned you many times that my decisions will never be swayed by the games of a woman—no matter how charming those games.” He pushed her from him, then inclined his head slightly, still carefully holding her wrists.
She would fly at him again, he knew it. Her fingernails were clawed out like a cat’s, and that wild look was still creating fire in her eyes. Words were choking out from her. Bastard among them. Rodent. Then she seemed to have slipped into the Welsh language of her father. He didn’t know it well. It didn’t matter, he understood the general meaning of her outburst.
“Ten minutes, my dear lady wife!” he thundered. He tossed her back upon the bed, and she gasped and stared up at him in silence at last, her eyes damp with tears, her hair beneath her, her form not just naked and beautiful but oddly vulnerable.
“Ten minutes,” he repeated. And before she could rise or gather her breath to speak again, he threw open the door, exited the room, and slammed it behind him.
He paused there, startled, and he heard her sobbing softly. Then he reminded himself that the whole scene had happened because she was so eager to be free of him. After all, he could sink to the bottom of the Irish sea or meet with his demise some other way, and perhaps she would be free of him forever.
There could be war. With the Ard-ri dead, there could be war against Niall, his oldest son, as the Irish kings competed for power. The Danes could realize the weakness in Ireland. But no matter
what, his father would hold Dubhlain, Eric knew that.
Still, his father would support Niall, his brother-in-law too. Indeed, there easily could be war, and Rhiannon might be granted her wish.
He strode away with grim determination and purpose.
In ten minutes she had best be ready to walk, he thought darkly. If not, he vowed, she would reach Ireland wrapped in a blanket and chucked over his shoulder.
15
The passage had been rough across the sea, and yet they had traversed the water with amazing skill and speed.
Rhiannon’s decision to accompany her husband had been one made with little effort—she had never doubted that he would carry out any threat, and so she had walked to the ships well before he had come to join her and had awaited him while the preparations had been made, while the voyagers had loaded their dragon-prowed vessels, while the shouts had rung out and the riggings had been made secure. Alone upon the shore, wrapped in a crimson mantle, she had stared at the ships with their serpents’ faces; at the prows rising so high out of the water; at the beautiful, chilling, and sleek designs; and she balled her hands into fists, fighting the temptation to run. She could not believe that she was about to embark upon a Viking ship.
She had tried to avoid her husband’s ship, but no one had stepped aboard until Eric had appeared on the shore. Immediately his eyes had sought hers out, and she had been infuriated by the cold triumph in his gaze—he had known too easily that she would obey him.
And then, too quickly, he had been at her side, and when she would have fled to climb aboard the vessel taken by Patrick and Rowan, his hand was upon her arm. “My wife will accompany me,” he informed her. She cast him a regal, chilling gaze and stepped aboard his ship. There she found a certain freedom, for Eric stood at the prow, and she found a seat far to the rear of the rowers. They left with the tide, but the wind was not to be theirs; nevertheless, that did not daunt her husband’s purpose. Shouts went up as the red-striped sails were set to catch the best of the wind, and the talented seamen set to their oars with a gusto.