Chapter 11

He hadn’t known what he intended when he came to the stream to find Melisande.

He might have been so angry at first that his inclination might have been to drag her back by the hair.

But then he had seen her, and everything had seemed to stop.

She had been changing, subtly, as time passed them by. He had known when he had left her that she was swiftly leaving youth behind and becoming a woman.

Still, he had not imagined the creature he met today.

She had grown very tall, lithe, supple, graceful. She moved effortlessly and with a gentle sway. She had grown into exquisite curves that added a mesmerizing sensuality to her slightest movement. And her face, her beautiful, exotic face…

Her cheeks had become slimmer, adding a fascinating maturity to her. Her lashes had grown richer, her wealth of silken ebony hair even longer. And her eyes, when they touched upon his at long last…

Their violet was open, compelling. In his life, he knew, he had never seen more beautiful eyes. Indeed, in all his life he had never seen a more beautiful woman. And this one was his wife. The pretty, precocious child had grown into a stunning adult.

It hadn’t surprised him that she didn’t come to greet him. Or that she hadn’t been within the fortress walls. She would always do whatever was within her power to defy him.

It had stunned him to see her with the youth, Gregory. Watching her, seeing her earnest conversation, he thought back to the day when he had watched her with one of the young guards in the courtyard of her father’s fortress. The feelings of anger and jealousy that stole over him shocked him. He could scarcely catch his breath. His heart slammed within his chest, and it was all that he could do to control his temper.

She was incredible, Melisande. More than willing to defy him, she was determined to go much further. When he walked to her, he saw that she was willing to fight him forever, her chin high, her eyes blazing, meeting his, determined that she had done nothing wrong.

And determined that she would have an annulment.

He had to have her now, he thought. He had to have her now quite simply because she had to forget that thought. He had taken her as his wife, he had taken Count Manon’s place, the land was his, the fortress was his, and she was his. He had discovered, looking at her today, touching her, even waging war with her, she was his. Their destinies had been locked together for a long time now. Now she was his.

He wanted her, with a fever such as he had never known before, with a desire that blinded him to all else. She lay beneath him, cool and wet from the stream, her flesh like marble, her lips like a rose.

Warm when he touched them, full, sensual. He touched them with the fullness of his mouth, pressed inward with his tongue, seeking the play of hers. She lay still a moment, and he seemed to taste all the haunting sweetness within her, touched a wealth of fire and heat. She tried to twist from him, gasping, and he raised his head from hers, meeting her eyes.

“Please!” she said. “We’ve all this time between us. I don’t know you anymore, I’m not accustomed to—”

“Kissing?” he asked softly against her lips. “Ah, but it appeared you were adept at it when you were kissing the young Saxon boy!”

She tried to shove against him. She couldn’t budge his chest, nor twist away from beneath him.

She stared into his eyes again, angry. “You’ve absolutely no right—”

“Indeed?”

Blazing violet eyes met his. “You spend years neglecting me, milord, and becoming quite adept at all manner of things yourself.”

“I’m ever so sorry I’ve neglected you. I intend to rectify that now.”

His mouth descended hard upon hers, his hand easing from her wrist to hold her cheek. He stroked its exquisite lines, feeling the softness of her flesh. Her hand pushed his shoulder. She writhed and twisted, but he granted no quarter, not moving in the least. She tasted of sweet wine and mint, and he kissed her ever more deeply, fascinated, exploring, hungry, his tongue pressing hers. A pulse came alive within him, hammering, demanding. A whimper left her throat, and he lifted his lips from hers at last, fascinated then by the sleek wetness upon them, the way they parted slightly as she gasped for breath, those violet eyes now condemning and seething.

“You can’t mean to do—this—here. In the woods.”

“I’m quite partial to streams, milady. And woods. The sway of the branches, the kiss of the breeze. And, I might remind you, you were quite willing to be here with another man.”

She shook her head wildly. “You came upon a moment’s warmth—”

“I am partial to warmth, too, milady,” he assured her, his voice hard.

“It was a gesture of friendship—”

“Indeed, I am waiting for such friendship.”

“It was a tender kiss—”

“It was scarce a kiss at all,” he replied with a disdainful snort.

“And you are so much better!” she cried.

“Indeed, I am,” he murmured, “and I’m damned sure that you know the difference!”

“Your Viking sword is going to rust!” she warned him.

“My Viking sword will soon be sheathed.”

She went so pale that he was suddenly convinced that nothing had ever gone further than the kiss she had shared here today, but even that had to be rectified. As long as she continued as she was, she lived with the hope that she would acquire an annulment from him.

His temper soared suddenly. What had she wanted out of life? He had come at the right time, he had slain the man who had murdered her father. Marriages were arranged, and hers should have been no great hardship.

But that didn’t matter. Wanting her did.

Yet, despite himself, despite the great anguish of his desire, he suddenly felt a welling of pity within him. He didn’t want to rape his own bride.

And maybe there was just a little bit of guilt mingled with that emotion. How had he ever managed to neglect her so?

Easily, he reminded himself. She had been hostile and superior from the very moment they had met. And perhaps he had even known from that moment that one day he would be paying this price, wanting her with a haunting desperation, falling prey to the violet in her eyes, her exquisite beauty.

“After all this time!” she whispered, sensing his hesitation. “Not here, not now, like this!”

For once her eyes seemed to be nothing other than pleading. They captured some small piece of his heart, and he finally felt the chill of the water that soaked their clothing.

“If not now …?”

“Please…”

He shook his head slowly, wondering what would be gained from this delay. “What do I gain?” he asked her softly. “You are too eager to escape me, Melisande.”

“I will make it up to you. Tonight,” she promised swiftly, “as it should be.”

“Ah,” he said softly. “So you would barter for time.”

There was a sizzle in her eyes once again when she reminded him, “I have had years of it, milord, I cannot see what a few more hours can matter.”

“Melisande, with you, it might well matter greatly. I wonder if it will be worth my while to take the chance! Surely there is some other hapless lad you might find along the way…”

“How dare you—” she began furiously, but a quick look in his eyes seemed to remind her of just what she had been doing when he had come upon her this evening. “There is no one else to come upon,” she said frigidly.

“Hmm. I do have brothers here.”

“Your flesh and blood,” she murmured bitterly.

“I think,” he said, a taunt to his words, yet the taunt against himself, “I think I shall die a thousand deaths if I leave you now.”

“You’ve never had difficulty leaving me before.”

“Ah, but things have changed. You have changed.”

“I’ll see that you are not disappointed,” she promised rashly, pushing against him then. She’d had her victory, she sensed it.

But it wasn’t going to be that easy for her. He leaned low against her. “I want a willing wife, my love,” he told her. “Bathed and perfumed, waiting and willing.”

She was silent, staring at him, waiting for him to move away from her, he was certain.

“Your promise, Melisande.”

“Yes!”

He would die just a little bit if he let her go now, he thought, fiercely gritting his teeth against the longing that still assailed him.

But the promise she had made him…

It was too intriguing. He had to see if she would willingly keep it.

He leapt up and reached a hand down to her. When she stood before him, her lashes quickly fell over her eyes. She started to turn away, but he caught her arm.

“I’m just going for my horse—”

“I think that you can ride with me. Your horse can follow.”

She wanted to argue the point, he knew. Melisande wanted to argue anything that he suggested. But she kept silent, and he realized that she was shivering as he lifted her onto Thor and leapt up behind her. She was stiff as she sat before him, and they dripped together as he guided Thor from the stream. He found her horse tethered at the water’s edge, and grabbed the white mare’s reins to lead her back to the fortress.

She was silent, trying impossibly to keep a distance between them. Yet when they reached his brother’s handsome fortress by the sea, entered the gates, and came before the keep, she had a question for him, violet eyes suspicious and narrowed. “Why have you suddenly come for me?”

He didn’t answer, and she twisted around to look into his eyes. “I’ll tell you tonight—my love,” he promised.

She swore softly, trying to dismount from the stallion, but discovering that she was caught because he would not let her down. He dismounted himself and reached up for her.

“I can get down on my own!”

“Give in, Melisande. Let us have some peace!”

She stared at him, shaking her head, her eyes blazing. “You seek peace, milord? Not with me. I have been too long neglected and abused.”

A smile suddenly pulled at the corner of his lip. Without her consent he set his hands firmly upon her, and her sodden body pressed close to his as he lifted her down without allowing her toes to quite touch the ground. Unwilling, her hands fell upon his equally sodden shoulders.

“The neglect I will cease,” he promised. “But you had best take care, else the abuse will have just begun!”

“Conar!”

His brother Eric was calling him. He set Melisande upon her feet.

She spun around to leave him. The long wet strands of her hair flew in the air with the vehemence of her movement, slapping him in the face.

He caught her shoulder, wiping his damp cheeks, pulling her back hard against him. Eric was coming to them, a frown knitting his brow.

“I see that you have found your wife, but are you two all right?”

It was certainly a fair enough question. They both still dripped.

Conar smiled, lifting a length of Melisande’s ebony hair, stroking it gently with his fingers. “Indeed, Eric, we are just fine. Melisande was so eager to greet me when she saw me that she cast us both into the stream.”

She shivered suddenly beneath his touch, rigid as steel, but she didn’t deny his words. She was very cold, he realized, and so pressed her forward. “Go in, milady, bathe. I will join you soon enough.”

She sped past them, and Eric clapped a hand upon Conar’s shoulders. “Come. Let’s indulge in some of that very fine wine you have brought me.”

“I’m afraid that I am dripping—”

“I’ll have the wine brought to your quarters.”

Together they entered the hall. Rhiannon was ordering the table seating, and they paused there for a moment, Eric explaining that his brother and sister-in-law had fallen in the brook.

“Aye,” Rhiannon said. “I sent your wife to her room with a tub and water.” She hesitated a moment, watching Conar curiously. “She is in the far room at the left of the stairs. I have had your things sent to the chamber beside it. There is a door beneath the tapestry connecting the two. Is that what you wish?”

He caught his sister-in-law’s shoulders and kissed her cheek, careful not to drip upon her beautiful blue gown. “It is perfect,” he assured her.

“A tub and hot water will arrive soon,” she advised.

“And—” Eric began.

“And wine, milord husband,” Rhiannon added with some amusement.

“Thank you, my love,” Eric said. He had no difficulty sweeping her into his arms, and did so, placing a tender kiss upon her lips. Watching them together, Conar felt as if something seared his heart, and for the first time he realized that he was jealous of this brother. Not because he had come here and so firmly established himself on the land, but because he had done so in such…happiness. He served a great king, he ruled a strong household, and he was loved by this elegant golden blond beauty. He had a fine strong son and an infant daughter. There was warmth here that seemed to radiate from the hearth, and the laughter spread to the coldest nook and cranny of the place.

He hadn’t really been looking for warmth, he realized. He hadn’t even known that he desired it, until this moment. He had been too busy to do so, fighting in Eire as he was obliged, then spending his time upon his land, determined only to keep his grasp upon it.

Melisande’s land.

He thanked Eric himself and started for the stairway ahead of his brother, gritting his teeth. She accused him now of neglect! What other choices had he had? She’d been so young, he’d had to let her grow.

When he reached the room high above the hall with his brother behind him, Conar discovered that Eric’s servants were pouring the last of a steaming caldron into a wooden hip tub for him. He cast aside his drenched clothing and stepped gratefully into the tub, sighing. Eric handed him a chalice of wine, and Conar grinned at his brother.

“You’d make someone a fine wife, Eric, cub of the Wolf!”

Eric frowned at him severely and then laughed. “Alas, brother, I think something is lacking in your life if you’re so easily pleased.” He took a seat upon a carved chair before the hearth, resting his feet upon a deerskin-covered stool, still grinning at Conar as he lifted his own chalice. “To your health, Conar!”

“And to yours,” Conar quickly responded, then fell silent for a moment. He shrugged. “There’s a lot lacking in my life,” he murmured. “But then, when I look back, there’s little I might have changed.”

Eric lifted a hand, comfortably leaned back, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t see the cause of your displeasure. They are already calling you the Frankish Wolf, the great savior from the house of Vestfold. You earned your reputation fighting with Father and for Uncle Niall. You apparently bested the Danes so well on the coast of France with your first encounter that they are still speaking about it.”

Conar leaned back in the water, soaking his face and hair, letting the steam sweep around him. He surfaced, and blinked the warm water from his eyes. “Having is one thing. Keeping is another,” he said wearily. He drummed his fingers on the tub and looked at Eric. “Ever since the day I first sailed to the coast of France at Manon’s invitation, when I fought the Danes there and won the land, I have been hearing reports of a massive Danish army that is gathering together to invade the Frankish kingdoms, straight to the heart of Paris.”

“I’ve heard these rumors, too,” Eric told him. “Alfred has done well here in the southern kingdom. Many Danes have grown weary of going against him, and so they are looking to greener fields. There is little that binds your country together, Conar. The Frankish nobles are too divided, as the land has been since it was all split between Lothar and his brothers, Charlemagne’s heirs. The power lies in estates, such as yours, and in powerful barons—such as yourself.”

Conar arched a brow, sighing. “Perhaps. I have formed an alliance with a man, Count Odo, and I believe that we will both defend the land until the end. But I’ve also acquired enemies.”

“Geoffrey, son of Gerald, neighboring count,” Eric said lightly.

Conar arched a brow. “What have you heard?”

Eric shrugged. “Jugglers, singers, lute players, all travel, brother. Not to mention that we have a large and talkative family. Still, there has been a very long poem written about you saving your wife from the arms of a fiend.”

“Umm. Is that how the poem goes?”

“Well,” Eric replied, rising to refill Conar’s chalice, “that’s how it goes, aye. But I saw Melisande watch a rendition of the poem, and it strikes me that she may think she has traded one fiend for another.”

Conar stared swiftly at Eric, only to realize that his brother was amused. His fingers gripped the edges of the tub as he willed himself to fight his temper. His first urge was to leap out of the tub and wrestle Eric to the floor—the whole lot of them had tussled enough as children. But they weren’t children anymore.

Besides which, his brother was goading him.

He leaned comfortably back in the tub, laying his white linen bath cloth over his eyes.

“If I should recall,” he murmured thoughtfully, “your wife was less than enamored of you when first you met. In fact—if I remember correctly from that very talkative family of ours, didn’t she once impale your thigh with an arrow?”

He felt a hand upon his head, ready to push him beneath the surface, and he laughed, ducking under, coming back up. He threw the linen cloth at Eric, managing to soak his handsome shirt and tunic.

“Alas! The trials of a large family!” Eric murmured.

Conar grinned but then sobered. “I know she thinks that I have been cruel to her.”

“It is difficult to know what she thinks. She is gracious and polite, but keeps her distance from me. She enjoys both Rhiannon and Daria—and Bryce, for that matter. She is quick to laugh with the children, and her eyes are very gentle and warm when she takes them. But despite her closeness with Daria and Rhiannon, I don’t believe she shares her true thoughts with them.” He shrugged. “Daria is, after all, your sister, your blood. A fool could see how close this family is, and your wife is hardly a fool. Indeed, she’s an extremely clever young woman—and a talented one, in many ways. I’ve seen her in the courtyard with Bryce, learning swordplay from him, and teaching him a few moves now and then, I’d warrant.”

Conar shook his head irritably. “The day I met her she was clad in gilded mail, having led her troops—and having fallen directly into the hands of the enemy! Can you wonder that I have tried to keep her safe?” He scowled suddenly, flashing Eric a quick glance. “She teaches more than swordplay, by the way, brother. When I came upon her by the stream, she had Rhiannon’s young kinsman well within her spell.”

“Gregory.”

“She was instructing him in love play.”

“Gregory?” Eric repeated, startled.

“You needn’t be alarmed. I am convinced she was making a last effort to seduce the lad into somehow saving her from me. I believe it was an innocent encounter on his behalf—he was quick enough to beg my pardon.”

“He’s just a boy—”

“Aye!” Eric sighed. “Yet at his age, you and I had already ridden with our father many times.”

“Father knew what we all must face. Alfred is now hungry for learning. He has fought and worked hard. He is due his time with musicians and mathematicians and learned men. I believe it is his wish that Gregory join the clergy, though he will leave the decision to the boy. However, I must beg your humble apology as well, Conar, for your countess has been residing beneath my roof—”

“At her own volition, Eric. She came here to thwart me, and truly, I know her far better than you can imagine. You have faulted me in no way, brother.” He hesitated a moment. “Again, I realize that she considers me a monster. A Viking monster. Yet, Eric, I never intended cruelty, though she has tempted me to much. There is so much at stake! Gerald was distant kin to her father, yet ready to kill him! I’m aware that his son covets both the land and Melisande.”

“Surely the church would never sanction a marriage between Melisande and this man, even if she were free to be wed!”

Conar shook his head. “I don’t know if you truly see the picture. In Ireland there are many kings, yet most of them recognize the authority of the Ard-Ri. Here Alfred has fought long and hard not only to rule, but to create laws for men to live by. You were right when you first spoke—the Frankish lands are divided. The kings are weak. The barons have created their own bastions against invasion, and it becomes a case where the strongest survive.”

“That brother, is the world,” Eric warned him.

“But if this man were to abduct my wife, he might well manage to find a way to keep her! And, well, if he thought he could prosper more by her death than her company, I don’t think that he would hesitate to cut her throat.”

“Surely he would not go so far!”

“I don’t know. I do know that he would seize her the very first opportunity he had.”

“But would the other barons allow it?”

Conar shook his head slowly. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve come for her now. I am taking her to Rouen as guest of Count Odo, and we are going to renew our marriage vows before some select guests. Odo believes that will strengthen my hold upon both Melisande—and the land. She is the heiress,” he admitted wryly.

“The heiress,” Eric agreed, “but perhaps you have paid more than you realize for your right to claim her fortress. And there is something you’re forgetting.”

Conar arched a brow.

“You are a power in yourself, grandson of a very great Ard-Ri of Ireland, son of the mighty king of Dubhlain, and also a prince of the Norse house of Vestfold.”

“And that means?” Conar inquired.

“That if the Danes do come upon you in hordes, brother, you might be surprised to discover the mass of fighting men you will have at your call.”

Conar smiled, leaning back very comfortably again. He looked at his brother. “Thank you.”

“Not at all. I take it, then, that you are not staying long here?”

Conar shook his head. “I think the time has come to lay claim to the fortress together. The sooner our union is sanctified, as Odo seems to think necessary, the easier I will be. I know that the real test is coming, that Geoffrey will align himself with the Danes. I mean to give him no added fuel for his fire of longing and revenge. Melisande must be indisputably mine.”

“I see,” Eric murmured. “Then you must sail as soon as possible, with the tides. Might I suggest something?”

“Aye?”

“An heir would be a fine touch to secure the land!”

“I’m well aware of that, brother.”

“You’ve tarried quite a while.”

“Trust me. I will tarry no longer.”

“Well, then,” Eric said, striding to the door. “If the night is filled with screams, I will try to assure my wife that you are not slicing the throat of yours.”

Conar groaned. “If you’ve nothing better to do here than torment me—”

“I am going, Conar. I’ll see you shortly in the hall below. We dine soon, so you might wish to make haste. I think it might prove to be an entertaining meal!”

Eric slipped from the room, grinning. Conar stared across the width of it to a tapestry against the wall. It blocked the doorway that connected the rooms, he knew.

He wondered if Melisande was aware of the doorway’s existence. He smiled slowly, certain that she was not.

He was tempted to rise dripping from his tub and test his theory here and now, but he had waited this long. And he had extracted a promise from her. If he bided his time but another hour, he could demand she keep her promise.

He rose soon, as his water was growing cold and his flesh was beginning to wrinkle. He dressed simply in a shirt and tunic and chausses, and by habit, even in his brother’s home, he buckled his scabbard about his waist.

He kept his sword with him always. Even in his own house. His sword and the knife sheathed at his ankle. Peace, even here, was not guaranteed. He had been trained well. He was ever wary.

Still, when he came downstairs soon after, he was comfortably dressed, as were his brothers, Bryce, Bryan, and Eric. His sister Daria, not quite so tall as Melisande, but elegant and dignified in her height nevertheless, was wearing a tunic and gown of buttercup yellow and deepest gold. Her eyes were brilliantly blue against the yellow. She chatted easily with Bryan and Bryce, and Conar noted that they were a handsome group, all of them, Bryan and Bryce dark like their mother, Eric and Daria and he as golden as their father. They were a close-knit family, perhaps because they had been like an island themselves at times, one against those who decried either their Norse or their Irish heritage.

Brenna and Mergwin were deep in conversation by the fire. It had been some time since the two had been together, and perhaps it was natural that they should have a great deal to discuss.

Planning all our futures, Conar thought dryly.

Swen was with him and joked with Bryce and Bryan. Rhiannon came to greet him, kissing his cheek, welcoming him again. She slipped a delicate hand beneath his arm. “I’ve arranged that you be at my side, my long-wandering brother-in-blood. Melisande can be at your other side, Bryce at hers.”

He lowered his lips to whisper against her ear. “Where is my dearly beloved?”

Rhiannon arched a brow to him. “I’m sure she’ll be down any moment now.”

But Melisande did not come down. Rhiannon delayed serving the meal, then nervously murmured that she would send a servant to see to her health. A young girl with plaited hair was sent up the stairs, then quickly returned. “Lady Melisande has suggested that you begin the meal without her,” the girl said, bowing briefly before Rhiannon. “She has quite suddenly been taken ill and asks if you will all please forgive her this evening, she is going to try to sleep.”

There was a vast silence within the hall. Conar felt all eyes rivet uneasily upon him.

“I cannot believe that she really wishes to miss this meal,” he said, forcing a polite smile to his lips. He bowed to Rhiannon at his side. “Forgive me, lady. I will attend to her myself, and see if she cannot be persuaded to join us.”

His simmering anger allowed him to take the stairs very quickly. He followed the hallway down to the heavy wooden door to her room, thought about throwing his shoulder upon it and bursting in on her, then took a deep breath. He knocked loudly and awaited her reply.

He heard a soft moan.

“It is me, Melisande. Open the door.”

“I cannot. I cannot rise to do so.”

He hesitated a moment, teeth clenched so tight, he wondered if they would snap. He didn’t want to break doors in his brother’s house.

If it had been his own, he would not have hesitated.

He was not going downstairs without her. He strode down the hallway to his own room, entered, and strode to the tapestry. He thrust it aside and found the small doorway there. Bending low, for the doorway did not permit his height, he slipped into the adjoining room, thrusting another tapestry out of the way to fully enter.

She did not see him, had not heard him enter. She sat at the foot of her bed, freshly, beautifully gowned in a silver tunic over blue, her brush moving through the waterfall length of her hair. She was staring at the door, as if she expected further action from him, prayed it would not come, and dreaded the next few minutes.

He stood still, arms crossed over his chest, watching her. After a moment she rose and crossed the room. She came to one of the windows and looked out to the courtyard below. The last rays of sunlight drifted in to set blue fire highlights to her hair and elegant shadows upon her face. He felt the same rise of hunger within him that had seized him earlier by the water. There was something within her that compelled the eye, something that haunted a man, something that seethed with a graceful compelling sensuality.

She was his wife.

And as hostile as ever, he reminded himself. Her promise to him regarding this evening didn’t seem to mean much to her. Her cheeks were pale, he admitted. But that was because she waited for his next move.

She turned and saw him standing there. A small, startled cry left her lips, and her eyes drifted quickly to the door and back. She bit her lower lip.

“I’m terribly distressed to see you so ill,” he told her.

The pallor in her cheeks was replaced by a crimson flush. “Perhaps it was the water. I’m so sorry. If you’ll just forgive me this evening…”

“Certainly.” He strode across the room to her, placing his hand against her cheek. “Aye, my love, I’m ever so grateful that you don’t seem to have a fever. Still, let me get you undressed. I shall send down and tell them that I intend to stay with you.”

“No! You musn’t! Join your family, enjoy their company—”

“And leave you—neglect you now—when you are ill?”

“You’ve neglected me for years!” she snapped, momentarily forgetting her ploy.

He smiled. “Ah, and there she is, my lovely wife, doing well enough, so it seems. Well, you’ve two choices, milady. You may take my arm and walk down to join the others, or you may disrobe right now and join me in my bed. Actually the latter is far more my preference.”

“You are despicable! You doubt my word—”

“Indeed, I do!”

“I tell you, I do not feel well—”

“I’m sure that you don’t. My appearance here has most probably caused you quite a headache. But I promise, I will tend to that later. Which will it be, Melisande?”

She swept by him, reaching the door, pausing when she saw the bolt she had slid across it. She stared at him.

“Naturally, my love, there is an entrance from my room. This is my brother’s house, remember?”

She slid the bolt and threw the door open.

“One moment, my love!” he called.

She paused, turning back to him.

He strode to the door, lifting her chin with his forefinger. She wanted to knock his touch away, he knew, but she held still, seething.

“What—milord?”

“You gave me your word, wife, that you would play the part this evening. Your word, Melisande.”

“I am not feeling at all well,” she insisted regally.

“Lady, unless you are stone cold dead, you will keep your word to me.”

She lifted her chin higher than his finger, eyes blazing. “You’re being extremely crude,” she whispered furiously. “You’re behaving just like a—”

“Viking?”

She held silent, staring at him.

“Perhaps. Yet it seems to me that I am acting like a husband—nothing more, nothing less.”

“Blood shows!” she hissed.

He laughed, a hollow sound, and pressed the door open for her, sweeping her a low bow. “Be that as it may. One way or the other, lady, I will see that you keep your promise.”