Chapter 12

Conar managed to catch up with Melisande before she reached the stairway. He caught her elbow, slowing her gait.

“Milady, we will arrive together.”

She bowed her head slightly, and her rich dark lashes swept low over her eyes. She kept silent for a moment—which he was sure took her a great deal of willpower. Before they had come halfway down the stairway, her lashes had risen, and her eyes, a violet blaze, were upon his.

“Because we are so close and tender a couple?” she challenged him, her voice both soft and mocking. “How curious. Those here know that we are all but strangers.”

“Some of those here know that we shall not remain strangers much longer,” he told her lightly. “My brother is even aware that he needn’t be alarmed by screams in the night.”

She colored at that, her lashes falling again. “You are compelled to discuss everything with your family?”

“You were the one assuring me they were all aware that we were strangers,” he told her, and smiled. Her eyes clashed with his again. “Behave,” he warned her, for they had reached the foot of the stairs, and straight ahead lay the great hall, where the others had gathered at their places, waiting.

“Melisande!” Rhiannon, concerned, quickly rose and came to her side. “Are you quite sure you’re feeling better now?” She touched Melisande’s cheek. “You’ve not acquired a fever?”

“Something by the stream seems to have affected her,” Conar said smoothly, “but she now seems determined to dine with us.”

Melisande cast him a quick, sizzling glance, then smiled for Rhiannon. “I am most eager for your company, Rhiannon.”

Conar’s fingers locked around her arm. “Well, then, they have been waiting on yours for quite some time now. Shall we sit, my love?”

It wasn’t much of a question. He guided her to their seats at the long U-shaped table. She sat, and he noticed that she was quick enough to smile for Bryce. It occurred to him with a startling pang of envy that she was close with this younger brother of his. He might even have felt a tug of jealousy, except that he trusted each of his brothers and sisters; he would do so with his own life and that of his wife.

She was quick to turn her back on him, discussing horses with Bryce, and history, and arguing certain points with him. Conar gave some attention to their conversation, but then turned to Rhiannon at his side.

“You must be patient,” she said softly, her silver eyes sparkling upon him. “From what I understand, dear brother, you have been quite a tyrant.”

He arched a brow to her, and her smile deepened. “You remind me so much of Eric, of your father. Outraged when you are determined you have done your best. Give yourself a chance, you might discover that you like your wife.”

He smiled slowly in turn and spoke softly. “I never said that I did not like my wife. Indeed, I am quite entranced with her.”

“Ah, entranced!” Rhiannon said, but she had been wed to Eric for a long time now and didn’t mind in the least being bold with her husband’s wild family. “I said nothing about desiring her, milord. A dead man might awaken to desire her. I suggested that you might like your wife. Don’t take offense, Conar. I speak with love for you both.”

He curled his fingers over her hand. “Fair sister, I would take no offense from you. But I don’t dislike my wife. She simply—” he paused, then shrugged. “Infuriates me at almost every turn. I’m a Viking to her, nothing more.”

Rhiannon reached for her chalice, sipping wine and studying him. “You have to imagine what it is like not to come from a household such as yours. Since Lindesfarne was raided in 797, we have all feared the fury of the Norseman! It is often hard to accept that one can become an ally.” He stared at her, and she continued. “Conar, you must admit, Vikings do raid, brutalize their dead enemies, plunder vast cities, rape, rob, and murder.”

Eric suddenly leaned past her, meeting his brother’s eyes. “Is she talking about me again?”

Conar shook his head. “No, I think it is me this time,” he said lightly. Rhiannon smiled quickly. Eric touched her lips with a gentle kiss, and Conar turned away, granting them their moment’s tenderness. He reached for the chalice set between him and Melisande, the one they were to share, as was the custom, and his fingers brushed his wife’s. Her eyes met his swiftly, but he realized that she had not been talking to Bryce, nor had she been paying any heed to his words with Rhiannon.

She had been staring down the table, watching Mergwin and Brenna.

But now, with her eyes on his, her fingers flew from the chalice as if it had burned her.

“Please, you must go first,” he told her.

“Nay, milord,” she said. “Always you.”

He lifted the chalice, handing it to her. “Drink the wine, Melisande. You may well need it.”

She took the chalice and drank deeply, so deeply in fact that she returned it to him empty. “I’ve decided I may well need a great deal of it,” she informed him.

“That you may,” he agreed. “I shall summon the servant to bring more.”

The young girl with the plaited hair was there quickly to replenish their cup.

Melisande turned away from him, but Bryce asked him what his intentions were. “Are you staying here for a while, Conar?”

He started to reply, then remembered how curious Melisande was on that very subject, and he answered evasively. “I’m not quite sure how long. You know, it always depends on the wind.”

Bryce knit his brow, aware that though, yes, the wind and the tides certainly controlled sea passage, Conar had learned to sail under any condition. He didn’t press the point, but told Conar it was good to see him.

“Aye, it’s good to have come. I know that Melisande is delighted, as well. She has been so—neglected.”

She looked from him to Bryce. “It’s an incredible pleasure,” she said, and Conar was instantly aware, of course, that it was anything but. He smiled, spearing a piece of meat with the small blade left at his side. The table was covered with boar, venison, rabbit, and several fowl. All perfectly seasoned and roasted slowly over a searing fire. This was how a household should be run, he thought, and felt an edge to his temper. Indeed, it would be something to see Melisande interested in the domesticity of her home. He was certain, though, that her main interest was in seizing the power to run the place, in dressing up in her gilded mail, in usurping him in any way that she could.

Perhaps that wasn’t fair. She had been away from home a long time. Away from him a long time.

He might like her, Rhiannon had said.

But he did like his wife, he realized. She infuriated him, but her hostility was open and honest. She defied him as few men dared. She had courage, and it was that courage that frightened him so badly in regard to her welfare.

She suddenly seemed aware of his eyes on her and turned to face him. She flushed, reaching for the chalice again. He swept it from her fingers. “I would like you pleasantly at ease,” he said softly, “not passing out before you are able to carry out your promise.”

“I will never be pleasantly at ease with you!” she promised him vehemently.

“Then you will learn the pretense of being so,” he returned, again willing his temper to subside.

There was a sudden hush as a young man arrived in the midst of the U of the tables. He bowed low to Eric and Rhiannon. He spoke in the Saxon language of his hostess’s people, yet there was an accent to his words that indicated his native language was that of Eire. He introduced himself as William, son of Padraic, and seneschal, storyteller, now, in the household of Eric MacAuliffe.

Tonight he would honor another MacAuliffe, Count Conar, who had come to them so recently from the sea.

Far behind him a lute player began to create a background of soft music for his words. He spoke of Conar’s stand for his father and family, of the wealth and richness of Eire. Then, as any good storyteller, he began to recount Conar’s deeds, his excellent swordsmanship—and his excellent timing in coming upon a maiden in dire need upon the coast of France. He spoke of how Conar had avenged his host’s death and rescued the man’s daughter, and now held her dear to his breast. When he was done, he turned his eyes on Melisande and said softly that a brave warrior had found great beauty. He bowed deeply once again and was rewarded with applause from all those around the table.

Except for Melisande. She didn’t do anything. Her hands remained in her lap, fingers laced together. Her eyes remained on the young seneschal.

Suddenly she rose and came around the table, softly asking the man if she might borrow his lute player’s instrument.

“She must be welcoming you in her own special way,” Bryce said softly. Conar frowned and Bryce quickly smiled. “She entertains us often. She has the voice of an angel, you will see. Truly, Conar, you have been away too long.”

Indeed, he had. That quickly became apparent. Melisande did have the voice of an angel. Strong and sweet, she sang as naturally as she spoke, and her fingers moved with ease upon the lute. Her song was so beautiful that it took some time for him to begin to listen to the words.

She sang of a hapless warrior, one born to sail the seas—and die upon them. The raider found himself raided upon the windswept waters.

The song, he realized in time, was about Alfred’s seizing of Danish ships, and so for all outward appearances, there was nothing wrong with it. But she didn’t refer to the invader as a Dane each time, merely a Viking, and the song was therefore about a Viking who received his just due.

Himself, he knew well.

The hall burst into applause once again when she finished her song. Naturally, Conar thought. She’d sung like a lark, and she was the picture of beauty, her hair caught by the firelight and shimmering with blue-black lights, her violet eyes wide, surrounded by ebony lashes. She smiled, and the curve of her lip was haunting, compelling.

She returned the lute to its owner and paused at the end of the table to speak with Daria. Conar saw that Mergwin was watching his wife, his old brows knit in perplexity.

And then Melisande went into her true performance for the evening. As she spoke, she suddenly cast the back of one hand to her forehead, clutching her stomach with the other. She groaned softly. Conar leaned forward, studying her.

Bryce was already on his feet, running to her side. Daria was up, making her sit, calling for cool water to press against her forehead. Rhiannon was quick to reach her side, too.

“It’s nothing, really!” Melisande assured them all, her wonderful smile in place.

Indeed, it was nothing. He was damned well convinced of it. But they were all around her now, so concerned as to her welfare.

Conar stood, eyes narrowed, and watched her from a distance. She suddenly stood. “If you’ll just please forgive me, I think a night’s sleep is all that I need. I’m so sorry, this being Conar’s first night here…”

“Conar?” Rhiannon spun on him, her eyes wide, concerned—condemning him if he thought to bother his wife in any way.

“Oh, I think she must go to bed. Immediately,” he said politely. He walked around the table, not coming close to Melisande but pausing behind Mergwin’s chair instead.

“I’ll take you up, Melisande, and Conar can remain here,” Daria assured her. Jesu! How could his own sister believe that Melisande was seriously concerned with his whereabouts. All she cared for was that they were distant from her.

He set his hands upon Mergwin’s shoulders. “Is she sick?” he demanded softly for the old Druid’s ears only.

“Perhaps she is weak from excitement—” Mergwin began.

Conar’s fingers tightened upon the fantastic old man who had helped raise them all. “Is she ill?” he repeated.

“No,” Mergwin admitted.

“Thank you,” Conar murmured.

He strode through the others and saw the alarm in Melisande’s eyes as he swiftly swept her into his arms. “If you are ill, my love, I wouldn’t begin to allow you upon those stairs alone! You could fall and injure yourself, Melisande, and I would be desolate should such a thing happen!”

“But you’ve just arrived!” she cried. “You scarcely see your brothers now, or your sister. You need time with them.”

“They’ll understand, I’m certain.”

“Of course, Conar!” Rhiannon said quickly. “Is there anything that I can send up, anything that we can do?”

“I think that Melisande is right,” Conar said firmly, his eyes locking with his wife’s. “I intend to see that a good night in bed cures this fever of hers! Our deepest thanks, and good night!” he said swiftly, carrying her from the hall with long, quick strides. She was silent on the stairway, but her fingers held tightly the fabric of his shirt upon his arm, her eyes radiating fury as they met his. He didn’t give a damn. She’d made him a promise. She would keep it.

He reached the heavy door she had blocked against him before and cast it open with his shoulder, his eyes never leaving hers. She cried out when he dumped her none too gently upon the bed, then turned back to bolt the door himself. When he turned again, she was on her feet—and obviously seeking the way he had managed to enter before so that she might exit quickly now.

He strode across the room to her. “You gave your word,” he reminded her.

She backed away, moistening her lips, allowing her lashes to fall over her eyes.

“I am ill!” she protested. “Too frail—”

He snorted his disbelief. “You’re as frail as a healthy ox, my love.”

“How dare you!” she spat out. “How can you begin to think that you know me, anything about me. You’ve no right to me. If you so much as come near me again, Conar, I swear that I will scream—”

She did scream, a scream that was choked off with speed when his hands suddenly wrenched her against him. She was lifted up and off the floor and thrown hard upon the bed, where he braced himself over her. “Scream, Melisande. Scream long and hard. Let the entire household hear you. No one will interfere with the union of a legally wed husband and wife. Let them all hear. They will know then that you are mine, and that I will never let you go.”

She was pale, stricken. She lay against the bed gasping, but not moving. She lashed out at him in an anguished whisper. “That’s all that you want! The consummation, the guarantee that you are count, that the property is yours.”

Damn her! He was irritated with his family, that they should so easily fall prey to her! But there was something in her voice, something that drew tenderness if not pity from him, despite his anger, despite his desire, and despite, even, his resolve.

He brought his knuckles down over her cheek, noting its marble beauty against the rough texture of his huge, battle-worn hands. Her eyes were so very wide, so liquid in their violet shimmer.

“I tell you, Melisande, you are mistaken. There is nothing I want so much as you.”

Her lashes swept over her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“When I am done this eve, you will.”

Her eyes rose to his again.

“You gave your word, Melisande. When you give it to me, you will keep it.”

“I cannot!” she cried out softly, her lashes falling again. He could feel the fierce pounding of her heart. Could she be afraid? Melisande?

“How strange!” he said softly. “I would have thought that Manon’s daughter would keep a vow.”

Once again her gaze was upon him. He had struck upon the perfect words to reach into her soul, he saw, and realized then that she trembled violently beneath him. How odd. She had drawn such a fury from him today, and even in the hall tonight. He would have taken her swiftly, and with a certain violence, if he had been forced.

But now he wanted to draw her to him. Gently. “Bathed and perfumed, waiting and willing,” he reminded her softly.

She didn’t reply, and he rose from her, keeping his eyes locked with hers. “I’ll give you a few minutes, Melisande. When I return, I expect you to keep your promise.”

He turned, departing her room by shoving the tapestry aside, opening the small connecting door, and entering his chamber.

He closed the door thoughtfully behind him. “You fool!” he charged himself aloud. He walked to the hearth and spread his hands out before the low flame. What would happen now? Was she already tearing through the door, ready to disappear downstairs and give Rhiannon a tale of some terrible illness that required the soothing hand of a servant through the long hours of the night?

“Ah, lady! It must be done, it will be tonight!” he whispered to the flames. And still he waited, weary and aching, wishing that this particular battle could be over.

His face grew warm with the heat from the flames. He pushed away from the fire at last and headed for the connecting door. She would be gone. And he would be forced to retrieve her. He didn’t know what he would do then, only that he couldn’t allow her to escape him.

But his heart seemed to shudder and then stop when he quietly reentered her room. Melisande was there.

She had changed into a soft, sheer gown that was very nearly the color of her eyes. Her back was to him, for she, too, faced the fire. Her hair was loose, just brushed, and like the finest silk he might find for trade anywhere along the Mediterranean. It curled and waved in a glorious black tumult down her back while the sheer gown gave away everything and nothing at all. The elegant curve of her back could be seen, the curve of her hips.

He found himself striding swiftly to her, his hands falling upon her shoulders. He lifted the length of her hair, and felt the fierceness of her trembling. He placed his lips against her throat and felt the speed of the pulse beating there.

A soft mauve cord was tied just below her neck. He pulled it and stepped back as the flimsy garment fell with a soft whisper to the floor. A small sound escaped her, yet she remained with her back to him. He pressed his lips to her shoulders, his fingers easing down her back, tracing the shape of it.

“I thought you’d be gone,” he said huskily, spinning her into his arms.

She gasped again as the tips of her breasts were crushed to his chest, as she felt him with the naked length of her beauty.

“I always keep my word,” she murmured.

“Do you? Or did you think, perhaps, that I would find you, wherever you were to go?”

Her eyes rose to his, deeply, richly violet with wild emotion. “Could we please…get this over with?”

“As you wish, my love. As you wish.”

He lifted her again, feeling the fierceness of the hunger she so swiftly awakened within him. He stretched her out on the bed and lay beside her, still aware of the way she shook. She longed to leap up and flee and fought the wild desire to do so, he knew. She did not close her eyes, but stared at the ceiling, avoiding his. He smiled slightly, seeing her start as he touched her, the tips of his fingers running softly down the valley of her breasts to her waist, then circling the flesh of her belly below. By all the gods, she was glorious. Her flesh was as pure as cream, silk to the touch. Her breasts were large and firm and beautifully shaped, the nipples a deep dusky rose. Her waist was slim, her hips delicately curved. Down the soft expanse of her abdomen, a soft display of ebony temptingly triangled about her sex. He let his fingers wander there and heard the sound she tried to choke back too late.

He smiled again and leaned over her, capturing her lips with his own. She tightened against him for a moment, but he forced her lips apart, his tongue plunging deeply into her mouth, demanding a response. He lifted his lips from hers and her breath came in great ragged gasps.

“I cannot breathe.”

“You don’t need to breathe.”

His mouth descended upon hers once again, raw now with its hunger and need, giving excitement as well as demanding it. Her hands lay at her sides, fingers curling. They fell upon his shoulders at last. He didn’t know if she had intended to push him away, but it didn’t matter. Her fingers went still. He kissed her until he had his fill of the sweetness of her lips, then parted from her mouth at last and met the dazed look in her eyes. He kept his eyes upon hers, then lowered himself against her body, capturing her breast within the palm of his hand, cradling it, stroking it, running his thumb erotically over her nipple. Her breath caught, she froze, swallowing hard as she stared at him.

And still he kept his eyes locked with hers even as he closed his mouth over her nipple, teasing it with the tip of his tongue, surrounding it with the fullness of his mouth, sucking upon it until the bud hardened like a pebble beneath his liquid touch.

Again a sound escaped her. She closed her eyes, her face pale once again. She still trembled, ceaselessly, but she was no longer rigid against him. He brought his lips to her left breast, teased and tarried there, and while he did so, he began to move his hands upon her again, cupping and stroking her hip, her thigh, her belly, and once again her thigh. At first he touched her everywhere but that sweet, tempting triangle. And then he began to stroke it lightly with the tips of his fingers, with his palms. He rose above her again, capturing her wild gaze as he wet the length of his fingers with his tongue, then brought them back to that silk and ebony triangle, delving within it to find the pink petals of her sex.

She gasped, her knees rising, her head twisting. He lay the pinioning weight of his body half atop her again, leaving him free from her protest to have his way. He parted her, stroked her, sought out the most sensitive of places, then delved more deeply within her with his sure, demanding stroke. She was incredibly tight. Sweetly damp, but tight.

Touching her, feeling her warmth, her movement, seemed to create all of the fires of hell within him. She had instinctively tried to close herself, yet had whispered no protest. Still he found himself fighting the strength of his hunger for her, the ache in his loins. He had demanded her bathed and perfumed, waiting and willing. Perhaps that had not been quite what he had received, but she was definitely bathed and perfumed, her own sweet scent mingled with that of lilacs, enticing, tempting. “Look at me,” he demanded, and when she did, her eyes huge, shimmering and challenging still, he smiled slowly, still touching her, and lowered his lips to hers, tasting wine and mint. She did not twist from him. Indeed, her lips parted slightly. He felt the rush of her breath before his mouth devoured hers.

He began his descent down her body once again, stroking her breasts, her thighs, rubbing his palm over the ebony triangle, slipping his fingers within it, dipping deeply into her. His mouth touched her breasts, her belly. He watched her face as he descended. Her eyes had closed again. She did not touch him. Her fingers were wound into the sheets. He stroked her thigh, lifted, then slowly slid his tongue upon the tender flesh his touch had so recently awakened. She did cry out then, trying to turn. His hand was firm on her leg, his weight strong against hers. A “no” formed upon her lips, but the desperate whisper didn’t quite reach the air. He slid his tongue very slowly over her once again, felt the wild pull of her body, the trembling, the arching. Then his touch was not so light. He stroked and delved, tasted, plunged.

Her fingers moved, tearing into his flesh, his hair, the sheet again. A searing heat shot through him as he felt the response of her body, tasted its sweetness. Mercilessly he continued his seductive assault upon her, ignoring the thundering in his skull, the agony of tension and desire that gripped him.

A cry suddenly burst from her. She writhed and went as taut as stone. A wave of victorious pleasure swept over him, and in seconds he felt the hot burst of her body’s sweet release. He had longed to arouse her, seduce her, and he had done so. She was incredibly wet and warm now, and that very fact seemed to goad him to a greater, white-hot desire.

He rose, kicking off his boots, stripping down his chausses. Even as he did so, she tried to curl within herself, turning from him, drawing her knees to his chest.

“Nay, lady!”

He drew her back, heedless that his shirt remained upon him. He straddled her, fanning her hair out in an ebony arc. Her eyes closed, she sought not to see him, not to meet his gaze.

Not to face the truth of just how swiftly and surely he had touched her.

But he brought his lips to hers again, forced them apart, forced his tongue within.

“Taste our love,” he whispered, then wedged his weight determinedly between her thighs. His sex throbbed with a fury, and she swallowed hard, feeling it against her. He touched her, carefully thrust the smooth tip of himself just against her. She was as pale as the sheets. She bit into her lower lip. He pressed farther. She gasped, and bit her lip again, determined not to cry out. He moved as slowly as he could, but his next movement at last drew a ragged cry from her. He wrapped his arms tenderly around her, aware that she reeled with the pain. “It’s over,” he assured her, and held her against him. He felt the pulse of himself inside her, the desperate need to be assuaged. He held her close, caressed her buttocks. She buried her face against his shoulder, fingers gripping like steel into his arms. He could no longer bear it. He began to move.

She was slick, warm, yielding. Her body closed around his like a fitted sheath, each stroke driving him to new heights of searing desire. He held her achingly tight against him, thrusting himself more and more deeply, his rhythm growing with his need, with his thirst for release. He filled her again and again, impaled her, held her, began his storm anew. He kept his hand firmly upon the smooth beauty of her rounded buttocks, molding her to him, forcing her to meet his thrust, to come, to arch against it.

To writhe.

To seek something herself once again, the sweet surcease she barely knew.

Hot, slick, wet, their bodies met and melded. Then Conar felt the heat of a thousand flames burst forth within him. He climaxed wildly, thrusting, thrusting again, filling her with the burning rush of his seed from his body, once, again, again. His climax was volatile, exquisite, a storm. It swept over him, shook him, riddled him. He nearly fell atop her with the full bulk of his weight, yet caught himself in time.

And in time to feel the arch and trembling of her supple form against him, the proof that he had reached her, touched her.

He eased himself swiftly to her side, gasping raggedly for breath. Long moments passed before he gazed her way and saw that her eyes were open, dazed, and fixed upon the ceiling once again. She must have felt his gaze, because she lowered her lashes swiftly and turned away from him.

He clamped down hard on his jaw, amazed at the pleasure she had brought him, bitterly disappointed by the hostility she still seemed to bear him.

“Was that too barbaric, my love?” he mocked softly.

“You told me I must be willing!” she hissed in return.

Her back was to him. Incredibly tempting. He stroked his fingers up and down its length. “I’m ever so delighted that you were.”

“I had no choice.”

“No, of course not, you gave your word. Yet I truly thought you might run again, denying me.”

She swung on him suddenly, her eyes a tempest in violet. “And if I had? What then? Would you have let me be?”

He smiled, leaning upon an elbow, fascinated anew by the view he was now receiving of her fall, dusky crested breasts.

“Perhaps.”

She let out a strangled oath of fary and tried to turn away again. He caught her, encircling her in his arms even as she struggled. He laughed. “But probably not. I am Viking. I would have found you and ravished you one way or the other. Is that what you want to hear?”

She clenched her teeth hard in fury. “Is it what would have happened?” she demanded.

“We’ll never know, will we? Because you were here, bathed and perfumed. Waiting…and at least pretending to be…willing.”

Her lashes fell again. “Well, then, milord, you are well served. All is yours. The marriage is legal—and consummated. Perhaps now you will be good enough to let me be. You’ve everything that you wanted.”

He stroked one of the magnificent tresses of ebony hair that fell over her shoulder and lay tangled between them. The touch against his flesh was as soft as silk, sensual, enticing.

He smiled. “I told you, Melisande, that I wanted you.”

“And all that goes with me.”

“You,” he said firmly.

He sat up, ripping his shirt from his shoulders at last. Her gaze fell upon the breadth of his chest, the ripple of muscle within his arms.

Then it fell lower upon his body, down the length and strength of the shaft bulging there once again, growing even as she stared.

“No!” she murmured, starting to draw away.

“Yes,” he returned, and slipped her beneath him once again.

Her hands strained against his chest.

But her lips…

Her lips parted sweetly to his kiss.