Chapter 10

“He’s come, you know.”

Melisande jumped up. She had been sitting by the side of the stream, her shoes off, her feet in the cool water, just letting the beautiful summer afternoon pass her by.

She hadn’t come here alone. Gregory of Mercia was distant kin to Alfred of England, a guest in Eric’s house, as was she. He was one year her senior, a handsome young man with reddish brown hair and a very quick smile.

He was constantly charming to her. They’d hunted together, ridden together, and talked endlessly together since she had come. They were even able to spend long moments of very comfortable silence together, as they had done here now, by the stream. Silence was a wonderful way in which to allow fantasies to grow. She’d actually been enjoying a few rather pleasant daydreams until Mergwin, the very strange old man who had once been the Irish Ard-Ri’s close friend, interrupted the beauty of her lazy thoughts.

She had thought for a while that Conar might not come, that he might reach his parents’ home at Dubhlain and decide that while he had managed to spare himself her presence this long, a little bit longer would certainly be advantageous to his peaceful state of mind.

She wished that he had stayed away. She was actually enjoying herself very much for the first time in years.

Even the simple matter of coming here. She had so enjoyed the stream since the first afternoon she had arrived. It was just beyond the castle walls, and no one seemed to think there was anything wrong with her riding here with Gregory since he was the very example of what a young nobleman should be. Not even Conar’s brother Eric, the lord of the place, who bore an uncanny resemblance to his sibling. Melisande had nearly jumped away the first time she had seen him, she had been so startled by the resemblance. Except that this cub of the Norwegian Wolf seemed of a far more even temper than his brother. He had politely welcomed her to his home and inspected her with a certain amusement, arching a brow to his wife and wondering aloud why on earth Conar would be in France while sending his wife here. Melisande quickly reminded him that Conar hadn’t sent her, that she had come because Daria suggested that she sail back with her, and because Bryce had assured her that she would be welcome, and that he would be glad to escort his sister and sister-in-law. She was very pleasant to Eric, of course, and refrained from mentioning that it was Conar’s letter warning—very coldly, she reminded herself—that he was on his way home that had inspired her trip.

Eric seemed to accept her desire to travel, and they all appeared to consider it exceptionally proper for her to do so when she chose to travel where her brother-in-law could act as her guardian and protector. Olaf and Erin had given her their permission to come here, and so to Eric her being here must seem quite natural.

If that was the way that he saw it, then Melisande was glad. Upon closer inspection of Eric, she realized that Conar was a little bit different. He was several years younger, and perhaps his eyes were a slightly lighter, cooler shade of blue. The brothers were very much alike, though, built alike, even moving alike, and in that, Melisande decided, they both must be very like their father.

She certainly had no intention of ever telling Conar, but she hadn’t been able to spend the months—years!—living in his father’s household and not come to care greatly for the man. He was stern, she had learned, but fair. She had constantly been amazed by his easy shift in languages, his attentiveness to others when they were speaking, and the sense of fairness that seemed to hold his strange kingdom of Norse and Irishmen together. Since the night she had failed in her attempt to reach home as a stowaway, she had known that her father-in-law had been keeping a watchful eye on her. He had even taken her out one day to try to explain just how dangerous it could be for her to fall into the wrong hands. That warning, however, had brought a curious smile to her lips, and she had asked him softly, “Dangerous for whom? The land is my inheritance, the people are mine to care for and guard, and yet for me to keep it, Conar imprisons me across a sea!”

“You are not imprisoned,” the king of Dubhlain had assured her, yet he had seemed to assess her anew. “It is simply the way of things. You’ll return home soon enough,” he promised her. “You see, you’ve grown up now,” he said very softly. “In time you’ll have sons to inherit after you and Conar have gone, and that will give you both the strength to hold what you love so dearly.”

She paled slightly at that, unwilling to tell the man who had come close to being a father to her that the last thing in the world she wanted to imagine—and certainly the last thing that would make her feel secure about her future—was that she and Conar should have children together. All she could think of was the cool blue fire in his eyes when he had caught her that night, and how she had lain awake for hours, shivering, feeling the heat of the man beside her.

He had come home late because he had been spending his hours with his mistress.

And he had most probably been determined to return to France without her so that he might spend his life with his slim blond rune reader, unencumbered by any necessity to look after her.

Conar was such a stranger. And yet, in ways, she knew him very well. He had managed so deftly to rule her life with an iron fist that she spent half her waking hours despising him, and half of her very best dreams meeting him in battle with a sword, and seeing him down on his knees at its end, begging for mercy.

Recently, since she had met Gregory of Mercia, she had decided that she would allow him the chance to live if he would help her acquire an annulment from their marriage. She had some beautiful dreams about returning to France with Gregory and living there with him, carefully tending to their land and their people, as her father had taught her. Upon occasion she did feel a qualm of guilt for her dreams, since Conar’s family—though watching her with eagle eyes—had offered her every kindness, making her imprisonment—for yes, no matter what Olaf said, she was a prisoner—a gentle one. She could not possibly have sailed for France from the king of Dubhlain’s house, she had been certain. Yet it had occurred to her, since she had received Conar’s message and determined to come here, that once she was convinced Conar had sailed from France himself, she might well manage to do so from here. It had been an exciting thought.

Rhiannon, Eric’s wife, was a golden blond beauty who was extremely kind and charming and a great deal of fun. Melisande had been very careful not to say a single word about Conar that was unkind, or give away her emotions regarding him. Rhiannon therefore offered her every freedom in the world. It would be difficult to curtail her activities anyway, since she spent so much of her time with Daria, who had a streak in her just as wild as that in any of her brothers. Daria, despite her exuberance, usually had her brother’s trust, and Melisande felt as if she had found her best friend in her sister-in-law.

Everyone else had been lost to her, she thought upon occasion. Marie de Tresse remained in France, as did Ragwald—she had never imagined she would miss that old tyrant—Philippe and Gaston. She wrote constantly, and heard from them in return. None of their letters had reached her here, though, since she had been careful to leave as quickly as possible once Daria had invited her.

She had tried to keep her distance from Eric since she had come here, and that had been easy enough because Rhiannon was so charming, and Daria so constantly on the go, and the fortress on the sea such a hive of activity. She had enjoyed her host’s precocious and toddling young son, Garth, and his infant daughter, Aleana. She kept herself busy and out of the lord’s way, which was easy—there was so much to see in the countryside. Daria had been the one to originally suggest that she come to Wessex, and when she had received the letter from Conar, informing her after all this time that he was returning and she should be prepared—well, it had certainly seemed the right time to her to vacate Dubhlain!

She had enjoyed Mergwin, too. She was certain that she had never met a man quite so old in all of her life, but Mergwin’s great age made him all the more fascinating. He was fantastic to look at, very tall and skinny, with flapping robes, a wild mane of silver hair, and a beard that rippled past his knees. His eyes were ancient, almost the color of his hair, and all-seeing.

Too all-seeing. He watched her often with disapproval, but she found that she still liked him very much, for though he taunted and warned her upon occasion, he also spent long hours with her talking about Eire and England and history and her own country’s past—and future. He reminded her very much of Ragwald and seemed a link to home for her—even if he was the one person who seemed to read something that was not quite innocent into her relationship with Gregory.

“I repeat, milady,” Mergwin said firmly. “He’s here.”

Gregory frowned, looking from a suddenly pale Melisande to Mergwin. He plucked his feet from the water and smiled pleasantly. “Who’s here?”

“Conar MacAuliffe,” Melisande said briefly.

Mergwin bowed deeply to Gregory. “The lady’s husband,” he added carefully.

Melisande waved a dismissing hand in the air. “In truth, Mergwin, this lady has no husband, only a dictating tyrant.”

“Milord Eric’s brother?” Gregory murmured.

Melisande inhaled and exhaled slowly, wanting to shake him. “There is nothing to be afraid of,” she said, staring at Mergwin.

“Oh, indeed not!” Mergwin exclaimed, smiling at Gregory. “After all, milady Melisande is not afraid in the least, is she?”

Melisande grated her teeth together, not letting her eyes fall from Mergwin’s. “Not in the least,” she assured him. And she wasn’t afraid, she told herself, she was just deeply disappointed—and angry. Conar had been so damned determined to be rid of her, to send her away from home. And now, when she had finally begun to enjoy the sweet taste of freedom, he was appearing. Well, she wasn’t a child anymore. And he wasn’t going to dictate to her forever, and after all this time she’d see him when she damned well chose to do so.

“Perhaps you might wish to come to the house,” Mergwin suggested, his tone annoyed. “I’m sure that the ships have docked by now, but if your lord husband finds that you have, at the least, hurried to meet him there…”

“I’m not hurrying anywhere.”

Gregory stood, his eyes upon her, still caring, but deeply concerned. “Perhaps—”

“Perhaps nothing!” she cried. “Mergwin, if you wish it, you go back to the house and greet him. You may send my regards, and I will come along shortly. I—” She broke off for a moment, a chill running down her spine as she remembered that she had come here under false pretenses and that he had sailed specifically to retrieve her.

Well, if he had let her stay home where she longed to be, then he wouldn’t have had to retrieve her.

“I’ll give Conar your apologies, and assure him that you will be with him soon,” Mergwin said. “Very soon.”

“But that’s not what I wish—” Melisande began. It didn’t matter. Mergwin was gone. He had been her friend, her companion. She realized bitterly that that didn’t matter at all. Mergwin had served the Ard-Ri, and then his daughter, and thus his son-in-law. And now there was no ill that could be done by the offspring of Olaf and Erin. Once Conar entered upon the scene, Mergwin served him. She should stand well advised.

She sighed, watching the old man go, unease sweeping through her. Maybe she should follow him, be with him. No! She wasn’t going to return to Eric’s coastal fortress. She didn’t want to see Conar any sooner than she had to, and she wasn’t going to hide behind the old Druid’s robes.

She suddenly wished with all her heart that she had somehow managed to run away from Conar years ago.

But she couldn’t have done that. She intended to return to her own land—her inheritance.

Gregory was still standing, barefoot and awkward, looking at her, his eyes warm, his young face handsome and sincere. “Melisande, you said you barely knew him, that he wouldn’t come for you. I truly think that perhaps you should go. You can only make matters worse. You’ll have to go to him eventually. You did marry him.”

She walked toward him, shaking her head, placing her hands upon his shoulder. She came to him for strength, for support. They were of a height. She felt such a warmth for him, such a gentle affection! “Maybe I don’t really have to go back!” she said softly but desperately.

“But—”

“I married him, yes. There had been a battle, my father had just been killed. He was strong, and my people seemed to think we needed that strength. But we parted right after. I was very young. It has never been a real marriage,” she said earnestly. “Truly, he has been like a guardian, nothing more. I’m of age now. Old enough to choose, old enough to know my own mind. And I’ve beautiful lands of my own, Gregory. They are mine, you know, not his. Perhaps…”

He inhaled swiftly, staring at her. A hunger went into his eyes for her, or for the promise of a rich future, she wasn’t sure. But the moment was suddenly very sweet. The scent of the earth was rich and inviting, the sound of the bubbling brook seemed to lull her senses. His mouth was so very close to hers.

She leaned forward, not really knowing what she intended, or what beckoned her. Her lips touched his. They were soft, pliable. She felt no great desire, just the most tender warmth, and still it was very nice. His hand pressed suddenly upon her shoulders. He touched her cheek, lifted his face from hers, met her eyes, and kissed her once again.

And it was then that she heard her name, and a wall of ice seemed to form around her.

“Melisande!”

She had never heard it spoken so coldly, with such a fierce bite of anger. She didn’t need to turn to feel the ice continue to form. A great wave of dismay washed over her, cascading fiercely down her back, causing icy rivulets to sweep through her.

It was one thing to come to him when she so desired, or leave him waiting as he had so often left her. It was another to be caught like this when she really hadn’t been guilty of anything.

Conar remained behind her. She did not want to turn to see him.

But Gregory was watching him.

He stepped swiftly away from her. So swiftly, she might have fallen had she not made a valiant effort to balance herself. She saw Gregory’s eyes first, and they were wide with sinking fear and vast dismay. She stared at him, stunned as he fell to his knees in the few inches of water, head bowed low.

“Milord! Your pardon.”

He stood quickly, and Melisande turned at last.

Conar had indeed come.

It was amazing. Apparently, he hadn’t been willing to wait for her to come to him—startling after all this time. He had Thor with him and sat atop the huge black horse in a rich crimson mantle, ermine-edged. His brooch held the shield of the wolves, his father’s insignia from the house of Vestfold, while his sword hilt was decorated with one of the Celtic crosses of Eire. He sat upon Thor as easily as always, silent, still, staring at them both with the blue eyes that cut like fire and ice.

She was not afraid of him, she assured herself, she was the injured party in this. She had been sent away from him—from her home—by force. Equally, she had been kept away from home by force. He lived his life as he chose, with no thought for her. She owed him nothing. She was suddenly quite determined to get an annulment.

She moistened her lips, dismayed that Gregory was so quickly and ardently intimidated by Conar. Perhaps Conar was intimidating, he seemed so tall upon the horse, so broad and as if molded of steel, hard and striking with his sweep of golden hair and rugged features. She swallowed hard again for strength, swearing that he would no longer hold her beneath his will.

“So you’ve come, Viking!” she said lightly, determined that she had done nothing wrong.

He nudged Thor, and the huge war-horse carefully picked his way down to the water. Gregory struggled for the sword he wore in the scabbard at his side. Before he could begin to draw the weapon, Conar’s steel was touching his hand where it lay upon his sword hilt.

“Leave it, boy,” Conar warned.

“You’ll not hurt him—!” Melisande began, but those glacial Viking eyes were on her quickly, and to her dismay, she found herself falling silent.

“No, I’ll not hurt him. I do not do battle with boys.”

Gregory was down on his knees again, kissing Conar’s boot. “I thank you for your mercy, milord. I—”

“Gregory!” Melisande cried, deploring his subjugation.

“Ah, Gregory. I believe she thinks you should be quite willing to die for her. But, alas, I am not willing to slay my brother’s young kin for my lady’s foolishness. Go home, boy. Now.”

“Milord!” Gregory agreed. He was instantly on his feet.

Melisande discovered that he could run very fast. He raced from the stream to his horse, mounting him in a frenzy, and quickly disappearing.

And she was, quite suddenly, alone with Conar, her husband, the stranger she knew only too well.

He stared at her, very long and very hard. The rivulets of ice that had come dancing down her spine now seemed to be full rivers. She forced herself not to move, returning his cool stare. The silence between them seemed incredible. She could hear the soft gurgle of the water, the swaying whisper of the trees. It was so beautiful here, so peaceful, with little rocks in the way for the water to dance upon. She heard the chirping of a bird, and still no sound at all from him.

“Well?” he murmured at last.

Melisande hiked a finely arched brow, determined that he’d never know how she stood there shivering. “Well, what, milord?”

He dismounted. She found herself backing away a step, and then forced to halt as he stood before her since she had backed her way against a tree.

“It didn’t occur to you that I might have been ever so slightly displeased with the fact that you fled across the sea to England when I sent a message specifically to inform you that I was coming for you? Ah, and then, when you knew I was coming here, you didn’t think it might be wise to greet me with the others, and somewhat soothe an ever so slightly heated temper?”

Ever so slightly heated…

She could see the fury of his pulse, ticking against the corded strength of his throat. Maybe she was a fool. She’d fought him before and lost every time.

But she’d been a child then. She refused to be one any longer.

“Well, milord, you will forgive me,” she replied smoothly, her chin high, “if I refuse to take any message of yours to heart. You sent me away bound up in a sheet once. Therefore it is difficult to believe that you are eager to find me once again.”

“Trust me,” he warned, his voice with an edge of danger, “I would like to see you bound in a sheet at this moment.” He stared at her still, shaking his head with disbelief. “By the gods! I cannot begin to believe your behavior now! Have you no sense?”

“Sense?”

She gasped as the tip of his sword swung like mercury in the air, coming to rest just at her throat. “Some men would take great offense at your actions, lady. Not only do you defy me, but I find you in the act of seducing some poor boy in the woods.”

She froze for a moment, her breath gone, wondering if she hadn’t gone too far, if he would, in fact, skewer her through. She inhaled raggedly, seeking some emotion in his eyes, but there was nothing there except for Nordic blue frost. So she had offended him. All that he had done to her meant nothing.

Let him skewer her.

She touched the sword with her fingers and thrust it from herself, challenging him. “Really? Some men would take offense! Well, milord, I have taken grave offense, many a time. So you are angry that I did not run to beg your pardon when I heard that you were near! And you are disturbed that I have acquired friends within the households of your family. Pray forgive if I do not quiver with fear! Just what is it that you intend to do, milord, in retribution? Steal my land, perhaps? Seize my property? Why, I do believe that’s already been done!”

“Take care, Melisande, I can surely find something.”

“Ah, well! I don’t think that slitting my throat the Viking way would serve you well. If I die, my property will revert to my father’s nearest male heir, I believe.”

He sheathed his sword, staring at her. “You are quite incredible, Melisande. Time has not improved your manners in the least.”

He seemed so calm. She had done well to stand up to him, she thought. She still wished that the tree was not so tight to her back, that he did not seem to tower over her so. He created a certain breathlessness within her. She had felt it all that miserable night when they had last met. She felt it now. That and a heat that spread throughout while she continued to shiver at the same time.

She arched a brow again. “I have been left in the care of your family, milord. Surely, then, I have matured as you might have wished.”

“Umm. Perhaps. And then again, perhaps it is a pity that I have not had much time to see to your maturing myself!”

Her hands pressed against the tree at her back. She realized that she was using it for strength. “Shouldn’t you be with your family now?” she demanded.

“I don’t think so,” he told her. He took a step closer. One of his hands landed against the tree, as well, just above her head and to her right. No matter what her sense of victory had been, she discovered then that she was tempted to spin to her left and run. She forced herself to stand still, meeting his gaze.

“I think I’m exactly where I need to be. With my wife. Remember, Melisande? That is what you are. My wife.”

She moistened her lips, her eyes falling from his as a new wave of shivers swept over her.

“By a contract only. It means nothing.”

“It means everything. And you will learn that, milady!”

“It has meant everything to you—”

“You are a little fool—my love. I tried to consider your feelings. Your dislike for me—”

“Ah, milord! Dislike? How gentle a word! I despise you!” she assured him swiftly.

“Forgive me for so sorely understating your gentle heart, Melisande. But then you must bear this in mind. It’s a good thing the boy wasn’t a shade older,” he snapped out, his voice so raw that she could feel its fever. “I’d not have stayed my hand.”

The passion and fury in his words suddenly frightened her, not so much for herself as for Gregory. Perhaps she had wanted Gregory to stand up to Conar, but now she was afraid. Conar was older and harder and far more experienced. He had learned everything he knew from his father and the fiercest fighters on earth. He was built like brick and steel and remained as quick and agile as a buck.

“Nothing happened here!” she whispered, furious herself. She didn’t want to whisper, she wanted to cry out. But then suddenly she saw her opening. “Yet if you are in the least concerned, I beg you, have this marriage annulled. I’m sure—”

“Nothing happened?” he demanded, arching a golden brow.

“Nothing. You may ask Gregory to swear so before God. Gregory is a Christian noble—”

“How applaudable. I’m quite sure that he is many things I am not!”

She didn’t like the cool tone in his voice. He was still absolutely furious, and she was painfully aware of it. “Speak with him if you so desire.”

“Ah, but I’ve no intention of asking that poor besotted boy a thing.”

“Then if you’ve doubts—”

“If I’ve doubts, I will still them myself, milady.”

Jesu, if he came any closer, he would be on top of her! She wished fervently that she had realized he was coming, that she had been in Eric’s house, that she had stood with his family to greet him. Anything to take him away from her now. She was too keenly aware of his heat and vitality, his height and breadth.

The fury in his eyes…

And that simmering of tension within him. He stayed very still. He didn’t touch her, didn’t reach for her throat, and didn’t begin to threaten to strike her. But still, just looking in his eyes and feeling the great warmth that seemed to spill from him, she realized ever more fully just how angry he was. His temper was under control, but just barely. His shirt sleeve had fallen back when he leaned against the tree over her, and she could see the taut bulge of muscle within his arms, the sinew, the steel of it.

She stiffened her spine, wishing that she were not finding it so hard to speak.

“No true marriage, eh?” he said suddenly and very softly. She realized that he had come upon them when she had been telling Gregory that she didn’t consider herself obliged to Conar in the least. If the tree hadn’t been behind her then, she might have fallen. But she wouldn’t be able to bear having him so very near her much longer. She wanted to scream as it was, strike out against him.

“You’re extremely rude to listen to other people’s conversations.”

“No true marriage, and I am merely a guardian?”

A rush of color made its way to her cheeks. “You shouldn’t have listened.”

“You shouldn’t have spoken.”

She inhaled, wishing she could run from him now, and it didn’t matter where. If she took a step, he would drag her back, and once he had moved, once he had touched her…

“I didn’t say anything that I didn’t mean,” she informed him in a brash rush. “The land is mine. You’ve no interest in me, that has certainly been evidenced over the years. An annulment could surely be had easily enough, if we were both agreed upon it. You could move onward wherever you liked, you’d be free—”

“Ah, yes. The property is yours. I’m the one who risked my life for it, but the property is yours.”

“The inheritance—”

“No.”

“Damn you—”

“No.”

He was a tyrant. Standing here condemning her for a silly tryst in the woods with Gregory when he kept mistresses by the scores, not to mention his precious Brenna. He was too close, he was suddenly denying her all her dreams. It was perhaps the most foolish thing she had ever done, but she lashed out at him with fury, her fingertips catching his cheeks before he had a chance to lash his fingers around her wrist.

“No!” she cried, trying with all her strength to wrench free. She tore away from the tree, whirling before him. Her nails clawed at his hands but he didn’t seem to feel them, his eyes were so hard upon hers.

“I gave you playtime, Melisande,” he said, his voice still raw, his tone husky. “Time to grow. Time to live. I was told so very often that you were old enough to be a wife, but I still gave you time. Well, my love, that playtime is over now. You’ve wanted to enter the real world, milady, you shall do so now.”

She managed to wrench her wrist from his hold. “I want my world!” she cried to him. “My home, my land. I do not want you!”

“Your home and your land come with your husband, Melisande.”

“With or without your help, I will get an annulment!” she swore to him.

He was silent for a moment, his jaw locked, his eyes like ice.

He stood with his foot resting upon a rock. She didn’t know what stupid demon possessed her then, but he always managed to make her behave wildly, rashly. She suddenly rushed toward him, hurling her weight at him. He was falling, she realized triumphantly. The great Prince Conar had fallen into the cool bubbling brook, and his very handsome mantle was sodden. She spun around, ready to run at long last, but she gasped instead, for his fingers were wound tightly around the hem of the blue linen tunic she wore over the deeper blue full-sleeved bliaut beneath. “Let go!” she cried, grasping at her hem.

“I’ll never let go,” he promised her.

The next second she was down in the water with him, her clothing drenched, her hair soaking down her back. She gasped for breath, then realized that he lay at her side. In a split second she was up, and running once again.

She tore downstream in the shallow water, inhaling deeply, wishing just to escape him for a while. She needed some shadowed sanctuary now, somewhere to still her racing heart, to calm her spirit.

She paused, jumping upon one foot as she rubbed the other, for she had hit hard upon a rock in the stream. She thought she heard someone in pursuit and spun back. He wasn’t there. The trees, dense here, surrounded her with their green darkness. Rays of light shone between the swaying branches in delicate flashes of brilliance. She narrowed her eyes, searching for him, then turned to run again.

And there he was. He had mounted Thor and ridden the crest of the stream to come before her. She grit her teeth and turned to run back. The war-horse slammed through the water, spinning to cut her off. She turned, and he was there again. Once more she ran, once more the horse followed her, cutting off her route of escape each time.

“What!” she cried. “The great Lord of the Wolves cannot catch his own wife on foot?”

She panted, playing for time. He leaned down to her, blue eyes acute. “I use whatever is at my disposal, milady, to gain what I am after. And I repeat, milady, I will never let you go.”

He dismounted from his horse, water spraying from his boots as his feet hit the water. She was nearly out of breath, but she backed away from him. In doing so, she tripped upon a stone. She cried out, falling backward into the water. He reached out for her, catching her before she could strike the ground. In a second she was swept up into his arms, and long strides quickly brought them from the water to the pine-laden floor beneath the towering trees. She was shivering wildly from the cold of the stream, from the feel of his arms.

He set her down and straddled her.

“Let me go!” Melisande whispered.

“I told you, milady, I will never let you go.”

She brought her hands up to slam them against his chest. They were captured within his grasp. She stared into his eyes, seeking something in their blue depths. She bit her lip, still staring at him as he leaned low against her, pinning her hands to the ground just above her head.

She had felt such ice when she had first seen him. Now she felt as if all the fires of hell had invaded her. Her breath came too quickly, mercury seemed to leap through her. Despite her great heat, she shivered suddenly, looking at him, at the hard lines of his face, at the startling color of his eyes. At the breadth of his chest, at the ripple of muscle within his arms as he held her.

She had hated him forever, so it seemed. Yet to her great dismay, she realized now that she didn’t actually hate him, she hated what he had done to her. Not only was there her anger against him, there was something else, too. She didn’t know exactly what it was. He was a challenge, she had always enjoyed defying him.

Even though she had meant to win.

Now, having him atop her, she was frightened of him in a way she had never been before. Because she wasn’t really frightened of him, she was frightened of herself, of the way that he was making her feel, of the sudden longing within her for something that she really didn’t understand. She moistened her lips, shaking her head. “An annulment would make so much sense. Your heart always seems to remain in your father’s country, you would always fight there first. There is so much else that you want!” she told him breathlessly.

“There is nothing else that I want,” he corrected her. “At this moment there is nothing else in the world that I want.”

“We’ve got to go back,” she said desperately. “They’ll miss you, your family will miss you.”

“Now you’re worried about returning to the fortress!” he exclaimed softly.

“Please, milord, if—”

“Ah, lady!” he murmured, and it seemed his cool blue eyes raked her face, her heart, and soul. “It’s far too late for ‘Please’! Alas, I’m afraid that I must convince you that an annulment is entirely out of the question.”

She stared at him, his meaning slowly dawning upon her.

“No!” she protested.

But her protest was quickly swallowed by his lips.