Chapter 15

Leaving people she had come to care about had been difficult, but the sheer joy of coming home definitely made up for the pain of parting.

Conar’s ships remained a distance from the beach, but she could wait no longer. She started to leap out, then felt his grip upon her arm.

“Lady, we are nearly there! Don’t ruin your gown!”

She lifted her chin. “You can tear one, but I must not wet one?”

He let out an angry oath, but suddenly swept her into his arms, leaping from the vessel himself and carrying her through the seawater to the shore of her home at last.

They had been seen arriving from the fortress, and a group met them upon the shore. The second Conar set her down upon the sandy beach, she was flying in a hard run to reach Marie de Tresse, who stood waiting, her arms outstretched.

“Melisande, Melisande, milady, all grown up, now!”

“Ah, Marie, how I have missed you!”

But she couldn’t linger with Marie long, for Philippe was there, and Gaston, and all her father’s fine men. Swen was there, too, and she greeted him cordially, but with a reserve, wondering just what he had been doing with her property in her absence. She didn’t dwell on that long, even as she refused to dwell on the fact that even now, Brenna was stepping upon the sand, having sailed with them, as well.

“Where is Ragwald?” she demanded of Philippe anxiously. Philippe grinned and stepped aside, and there was her old mentor, tears in his eyes as he crushed her to him.

“The fortress has been empty without you, child,” he assured her, crushing her to him again.

She smiled. “And I have been empty without you all!” she assured him.

“Come, let’s return there,” Ragwald urged, shivering, for despite the season, there was dampness in the air, and the beach was cold. “We have brought another old friend for you to bridge the distance,” Ragwald told her happily. He turned back, and one of the servant boys, clad in rough wool, came forward eagerly, leading Warrior.

She cried out softly, hurrying forward to stroke the stallion’s nose. He whinnied once, backing away, then seemed to recognize her. He pranced closer to her then, nearly knocking her over. She cried out again with delight. “Ah, Warrior, you have not forgotten me!”

“Indeed, it seems that he has not,” she heard.

Conar. He was at her back again. Always. She grit her teeth, remembering his words at Rhiannon’s banquet table that night, that she would have no need of a war-horse.

Tears stung her eyes suddenly. She was not up to a mighty battle with him at the moment. She had just come home. She wanted peace. After everything, he had no right to deny her a horse!

Her lashes lowered themselves over her eyes. But she was startled to hear his words again. “Come, milady, I’ll give you a boost.”

She gazed at him, grateful. “Thank you,” she murmured awkwardly.

A moment later she was upon Warrior. She waited impatiently for the last of Conar’s ships to arrive behind them, the ships he had had especially built to carry his trained mounts, for as he didn’t travel without Brenna, it seemed, he did not travel without Thor. Perhaps that was one of the differences that had come with his father’s landing upon Irish shores, for the offspring of Olaf, the Wolf of Norway, plucked their sailing, fighting, and living customs from whatever society they chose. And Conar had chosen to fight his battles upon Thor; it did not matter how difficult the transport from shore to shore.

But his crews, composed of so many peoples, were well trained and efficient, and the ships were quickly beached and unloaded. In a very short time they were riding hard for the fortress.

So little had changed!

The stone walls, her father’s stone walls, still guarded the castle and keep. The fields outside the walls were growing richly, and all manner of inhabitants from within the walls themselves, the laundresses, the smiths, the artisans, were eagerly waiting at the open gates, waving their welcome. She greeted those she could, dismounting from Warrior with the help of Father Matthew as they rode into the courtyard. There was such a bustle of activity! Dear God! It seemed forever since she had been home. Almost six long years.

Then at last she was climbing the stairs to reach the great hall of her own castle, and she was soon seated before the fire, Ragwald insisting she must warm her feet, though he seemed more determined to warm his own! It didn’t matter, it was so good to see his old, worn face! Marie quickly brought her a chalice of sweet warm wine, yet there was little conversation between them because the men were soon entering the hall and more servants were called, and everyone was speaking while the wine and ale flowed freely.

She stared about and noted the absence of the little touches that had so graced Rhiannon’s hall. The rushes strewn upon the floor were not so fresh as they should be, several windows were left without tapestries to keep out the chill of the nights. She was home now and determined that she would bring her father’s creation to full glory.

But then, she mused, the inner workings of the fortress were not as important as the outer defenses. First things first. She wanted to circle the walls, speak to the carls, or guards, assure herself that they were strongly defended from within.

She looked up. Conar was staring at her. It was almost as if he read her mind, and his gaze upon her warned her that there might be harsh battles ahead.

She looked away from him. “You must tell me everything that has happened in my absence,” she told Marie and Ragwald, extending her gaze to Philippe and Gaston beyond them. “Do the tenants fare well? Who have we lost? What have we gained?”

“William from the south fields passed on to greater glory just last planting,” Gaston said, crossing himself. “He was a good farmer, and a fine man, but his son, another William, swore his fealty to you and Count Conar through yonder Swen, for you were in Eire, and Count Conar about with Count Odo.”

She nodded, lowering her eyes. Swen! Her husband’s man. Yet she bore Swen no great hostility, other than that he was her husband’s man.

There was still so much to say and so much to be done. The day passed swiftly. Soon after their arrival the tenants and serfs began to arrive, to greet her, to renew their homage. It occurred to her again that the very Viking menace the Christian world feared had created their feudal society—these people served her, or Conar, for the strength of the fortress. They owed her homage, their work for three days a week, their loyalty and service. They lived upon her land. She granted them their livelihood, they gave her themselves. In turn they were owed protection.

By nightfall the tenant farmers, artisans, smiths, and other servants had all paid their homage. The hall was filled only with those who lived within it, and the banquet table in the great hall was laid out with a feast to rival any she had enjoyed elsewhere. She was pleased to view the fortress with new eyes—Dubhlain was a great city, huge, walled, wondrous. Perhaps her fortress did not quite compare with it. But, though it lacked some of the finer points of Rhiannon’s hall, she thought its structure to be stronger and saw the wonderful strength of its defenses with great pride.

The fire had burned low and the hour grown very late when Melisande realized that she was very weary. “Perhaps, Marie, you will assist your lady to bed now,” Conar said suddenly, and she looked to him quickly, startled again that he had been watching her without her knowledge.

“I am not so tired—” she began, aware that he was seated amid Swen, Gaston, and Philippe, and that the men intended to talk far longer on the affairs of the fortress. But she broke off. He had not argued with her over Warrior. She would begin to assert her own authority tomorrow, when she was not so weary, when she would have greater strength to do so.

“Perhaps I am,” she said, her lashes sweeping low, and Marie was quickly up with her. She was so glad to be home. She once again bid good night to the men who had served her father and her so faithfully, hugged Ragwald, and started to leave the hall for the stairway. “Melisande!”

She heard his soft call and turned back, biting her lower lip. She had purposely ignored him. Stiffening her spine, she came back into the room and managed to set a light kiss upon the top of his golden head. His eyes rose to meet hers. “I will not be long, my love.”

“Please, milord, take all the time you wish! Take the night, if need be!”

“Ah, lady! I could not bear it. I shall be along shortly.”

She clenched her teeth, smiled, and fled.

She came to her father’s room. It remained as huge as she had remembered it, as warm, too. A warm bath awaited her by the fire, and a soft gown lay ready on the bed. She sank into the water with Marie’s assistance and found that she was telling her all about the distant places and foreign lands where she had lived, avoiding any mention of Conar.

But she could not avoid thinking about him herself. Her things had all been brought here.

As had his.

She rose from the tub at last. Marie offered her a soft linen towel and she wrapped herself in it, then donned the exquisitely soft gown that had been left for her. She’d never seen it before. “Where did it come from?” she asked Marie.

“Count Conar acquired it in his travels, Melisande,” Marie said.

“Ah,” Melisande murmured and stood still as Marie helped her don the garment.

Marie kissed her cheeks and hugged her, Melisande promised that they would be together from then on, and then Marie left her. Alone in her father’s room, she stared at the fire and wondered when Conar had acquired the gown, and if he had really intended it for her.

Or for Brenna, or some other woman. She almost wrenched it over her head, but then she heard his footsteps outside the door and dived beneath the covers of the bed instead, closing her eyes to feign sleep.

But he soon stood over her. He was silent and still for long minutes. Then she heard him moving about, discarding his clothing.

The sheets were pulled back. Naked, he was at her side. “Look at me, Melisande.”

She didn’t move.

“I know that you are awake.”

He crawled atop her and she felt his warmth suffuse her. Her eyes rose to his, flashing. She tried not to view his hard, muscled body.

Or the other hardness that seemed to rise all too easily the moment they were alone.

His eyes tonight were not mocking but dark and brooding as he stared into hers.

“Why do you do this? Turn away from me? Fight me in your wearying way so endlessly?”

“I don’t fight you—”

“You do. And I don’t understand it, for I know I don’t hurt you. I have been pleased, aye, astounded by the beauty with which you respond.”

The ease with which she responded, she thought.

She swallowed hard, returning his stare. “I fight you,” she said softly, “because you have taken everything that is mine.”

He shook his head. “I have taken what you cannot hold!”

“You are a Viking!” she taunted. “Accustomed to taking!”

“Alas, then I must take you again, willing or no!”

She did struggle against him that night, twist and fight him and yet to no avail. He never really forced her. He just held her.

And touched her and stroked her.

Kissed her.

Until her fingers ceased to knot against him, until her arms wrapped around him.

Until he won, once again.

Being home was wonderful. Hearing her own language spoken daily, watching the fields grow, spending time with Ragwald and Marie, Philippe and Gaston and the others, all delighted her. It was easy enough to avoid Conar by day—he seemed to be occupied continually with the fortress, worrying about weakened positions, one in particular that, he assured her curtly one evening, was about to crumble.

She staunchly defended her father’s wall. He informed her impatiently that her father had never been at fault, time itself had done the damage, and that they would need to begin work shoring it up as soon as they returned from Rouen.

He hadn’t informed her as yet when they were going. In fact, he never informed her about anything.

If he ever felt the need to simply speak with a woman, it was Brenna with whom he chose to speak.

On their fourth night home Melisande left the hall early. Hours passed, and he did not retire.

She came halfway down the stairs, curious as to what was going on below that would keep him awake so late.

Then she knew. Brenna. He sat before the fire with her, talking. The firelight played on both golden heads. She thought about striding in on them and sweetly stating the need for a cup of wine or ale, but withdrew instead, hating them both.

She feigned sleep when he came up at last. It did her little good. He disrobed with his customary speed and climbed beneath the sheets. Several moments later he spoke coolly. “If you feel the need to listen in on my conversations, you should make yourself known. You would learn so much more.”

She didn’t reply, and he continued, “You needn’t eavesdrop upon us, Melisande.”

“I had no desire to eavesdrop,” she replied at last. “I had hoped that the hall might be empty, and that I might sit before the fire alone.”

“And where else but the hall might I have been, milady, since I was not here?”

“God alone knows where you might choose,” she said.

To her amazement he sniffed and turned to his side.

And did not touch her that night.

The following morning she found herself strangely restless and decided that she was going to take a long ride alone. She had discovered that she greatly enjoyed the stream that ran near Eric’s castle, and she knew of a similar run not far from the castle walls.

Conar was nowhere about, and in truth it did not occur to her that he might object when she left. She rode out alone, neglecting to tell Ragwald or Marie or anyone where she was going.

Only the young stable boy knew she had taken Warrior.

She never meant to be careless. She had simply awakened with a rare tempest in her heart, and had determined that she must find a way to understand it, to still it. She reached the water she had sought, leapt from Warrior, and walked with a swift agility over the stones that crossed it, leaving Warrior to nibble at sweet grasses. When she came to the far side, she slipped off her shoes and wiggled her toes in the water and wondered why she felt so restless.

She had come here with her father years ago, when she had been just a child.

There had always been a danger of Viking raiders. But they came from the sea then, and the ships could be seen from the fortress. They had never known that danger could come from within—until Gerald.

She had loved this place once. Maybe that was why she had so quickly found the stream in Wessex.

Her cheeks grew hot and she placed her hands, cooled by the water, against them as she remembered how Conar had come upon her by that English stream. She could almost feel the heat of his eyes as they had touched her where she stood with Gregory.

She dipped her head, soaking her face again, as she realized the source of her restlessness.

Conar, of course.

She had wanted to beg, barter, or steal a safe distance from him. Maybe she had always known that it might be possible to care too much for him, find herself dangerously beneath his domination…

Wanting him. Feeling fierce jealousy because of him.

Wanting other women to sink to the bottom of the ocean and be consumed by fishes because of him!

Falling in love with him.

She sat up straight, hugging her arms about herself, swearing inwardly that she was not falling in love with him, only a foolish milkmaid would be stupid enough to fall in love with such a man.

And yet she had hated last night. Hated the coldness. What could she do? She didn’t want him coming from Brenna to her, or from any of his more casual mistresses. Yet what help had she? What power? She would never give him her soul, never allow her heart to fall. Life would become unbearable then.

It seemed to stretch out very bleakly now, even here, even where she loved so many people so dearly and was loved in return. There was an emptiness in their lives. One that had not existed in either the walled city of Dubhlain or the Wessex fortress across the sea. Because there had been laughter there, and a different kind of love, that very rare and special love that could exist only between a man and a woman.

She didn’t dare love him, she must fight against it, fight bitterly and without quarter to retain her heart and soul—and self.

“Melisande!”

She heard her name spoken by a voice oddly familiar. She looked up and across the stream, and her heart seemed to freeze.

Geoffrey Sur-le-Mont. Gerald’s son, grown older, heavier, so much like his father now, dark-haired, hazel-eyed. Those same eyes, eyes that glittered with speculation and greed.

She straightened warily.

He stood across the stream from her, just watching her, making no move to come closer.

“Don’t be afraid,” he told her quickly.

“I’m not afraid,” she lied with equal speed. She stood in the cool water, suddenly wishing that her shoes were on, and that Warrior, too, was not on the other side of the stream.

“I heard that you had returned,” he told her. He didn’t make a move toward her. He was a tall man, like his father, well built, his face long and lean, handsome enough.

Except for that strange flaw within his eyes, within the curve of his lip. Something that made her feel very uncomfortable now, as if he undressed her completely with his steady gaze.

“Aye. As you can see, I have returned,” she murmured simply.

“You’ve changed greatly, Melisande.”

“Have I?”

“You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever seen.”

“Surely not, Geoffrey.”

“But it’s true.”

“Perhaps your acquaintance with women is limited,” she murmured.

He took a step toward her, balancing upon one of the stones, as she had done herself. “No,” he told her. “My acquaintance with women is vast.”

She reached for her shoes, heedless now as to whether she wet them or not. If it became necessary, she wanted to be ready to run.

“Wait!” he told her swiftly. “I’ve not come to hurt you. Just to speak with you.” She stood still, and he was silent for a minute. “You know, once upon a time it was to be you and me.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Geoffrey, but I can’t believe a word of that. Your father tricked mine, betrayed him ruthlessly, murdered him. Everyone knows the truth of that.”

“And he was murdered in return by your Viking.”

“He’s not a Viking,” she heard herself saying.

Geoffrey arched a brow to her, a small smile curving his lip. He came another step closer. “You cannot be happy with such a union, Melisande. Your husband’s father is from the house of Vestfold, and even if they pretend at times to have become Christianized and civilized, they are Vikings at heart, mercenaries to the highest bidder. Conar fought my father—to gain you. His people might turn at any time. You never know them, they can be like mad dogs.”

“Geoffrey, I’m sorry—”

“I have coveted you forever, Melisande. Once, your father did intend you for me.”

“The church would never allow it anyway, Geoffrey—”

“The church allows what the powerful demand!”

“Geoffrey,” she said flatly, “your father wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep me for himself, give me to you—or murder me outright and have done with it.”

“I’ve always wanted you, Melisande. And mark my words, I will seize you from that bastard Viking yet! Seize you—or rescue you. Which will it be, Melisande?”

“Your father murdered mine!” she cried. “I will never have anything to do with you!”

He took another step as if he would come across the stream. But suddenly they both became aware of the sound of horses. He stood still. In a second Melisande was relieved to see Conar burst through the trees on the opposite side, mounted upon Thor, accompanied by Swen and Gaston.

No armor adorned him. He sat atop Thor, his head glinting gold from the sun, his eyes a searing cobalt blue as he stared down at Geoffrey.

“Ah, the great Lord of the Wolves has returned!” Geoffrey murmured, undaunted. He offered Conar a deep bow, then his gaze rose once again, and he looked Melisande’s way. “I had heard that you had returned with my kin, Conar, and when I saw Warrior disappear by the stream, I was afraid for her safety. But—as you can plainly see—she is perfectly well, unharmed, untouched.”

“Aye, we’ve come in time!” Gaston said angrily.

“If I am guilty for my father’s deeds, Conar, then you must be guilty for your sire’s as well. King of Dubhlain he might be now, but it is my understanding he raided that land long before he ruled it! Ah, but then he gained recognition through marriage to the Ard-Ri’s daughter, did he not?”

“I should slice you through here and now,” Conar said softly.

Melisande was glad to see Geoffrey whiten beneath Conar’s cool scrutiny. Still he held his ground, smiling as if with some secret knowledge.

“Slaying an unarmed, innocent man?” Geoffrey demanded, lifting his hands to prove that he carried no weapons. “That, Milord of the Wolves Viking, would not endear you to the other barons of France, would it?” he asked softly.

“Go, then,” Conar warned him. “But if I catch you with my wife again—”

“Me with your wife, or your wife with me?” Geoffrey taunted him.

Conar suddenly nudged Thor. The great black war-horse pranced forward, and Gaston cried out with alarm. “Mon Dieu! Stay your hand, Count! He is not worth it!”

Conar reined in just as he reached the edge of the stream, not a foot away from the man. “Go!” he warned hoarsely.

Geoffrey leapt from the stone to the shore, turning back to bow deeply to Melisande only when he had put several feet between himself and Conar. Then he leapt atop his own mount and called out, “Good day, Countess!”

He spurred his horse and quickly galloped away. Melisande watched him, then felt Conar’s furious eyes upon her. She turned to him, stunned that he could be so angry with her.

“You’ve called this upon yourself, Melisande!” he charged her.

“Caused this?”

“Get on your horse.”

“But—”

“I’ll not discuss it here, now!” he snapped.

She looked at Swen and Gaston. Both the young redhead and the older graybeard looked keenly uncomfortable.

She determined that she was not going to have him issuing any commands to her in front of the two. She leapt across the stones and strode swiftly toward Warrior.

Warrior was a match for any horse. She nudged his sides, and he took off like a winged creature. She raced hard across the fields, back to the walls. Though Conar was close behind her, he could not catch her.

She leapt off Warrior at the entrance to the south tower, tossing the reins to a young groom. Hurrying up the stairs to the hall, she then rushed up the second flight to her room. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, but a thunderous weight suddenly shoved against it, and she jumped away as he opened the door. His gaze met hers, then fell to her breasts. They rose and fell with her effort to find breath, with the fierce pounding of her heart.

“What a place to come to escape me!” he mocked.

“If you wish me not to escape you, milord, then you must cease to speak to me the way that you did before others. I shall not be yelled at and ordered about and constantly condemned as if I were a child!”

He started to stride across the room, and she jumped back, frightened that he meant her some violence. But he strode past her, coming into the room. To her surprise he suddenly started tearing through one of her trunks, not one that she had brought from Wessex, but an old one, one that had been transferred here from her old room.

Garments went flying as he sought something. His effort didn’t stop him from speaking. “It is difficult not to speak to you as if you were a child when you behave as foolishly as one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Riding out alone like that, unescorted, without anyone even knowing where you were going!”

“But—” she gasped, stunned. “I am not a prisoner here!”

“You cannot ride out of the walls!”

She shook her head wildly, coming over to stand beside the trunk and stare down at him. “You’ve no right to tell me that, none at all! You made a prisoner of me for years in distant lands. I will not be told that I cannot ride in my own home—”

He stood suddenly, and she was so mesmerized by his eyes that at first she did not see what he held in his hands. “Melisande, you will not ride out alone again. I can and will tell you that.”

“But—” she began, but then her eyes were caught by a glinting from his hands, and she gazed downward to see that he held her coat of mail, the extraordinary gilded tunic that had long ago been the gift from her father.

“What are you doing with that?” she cried.

“Seeing to its disposal. I’m afraid I shall ride out and find you clad within it next.”

“No! No!” she cried. She suddenly pit herself against him with a wild vengeance, her fists flying against his chest, her vehemence such that he was actually forced back a step to keep his balance. “No!”

He dropped the suit of mail and caught her wrists, dragging her against him. She stared wildly into his eyes. “You can’t! It was his last gift to me, my father’s last gift. You cannot take it, I will hate you forever if you do, I swear it!”

“Ah, but you hate me already!” he taunted.

“You will never know such loathing!” she promised him.

His hold eased somewhat. He seemed to be thinking. “Then I shall leave the mail in exchange for a promise.”

She stiffened instantly, cursing herself for a fool. He hadn’t thought that she was about to ride out in the suit of mail. It was a bargaining point.

He didn’t make a bargain when she wished to, but he was very adept at forcing his own.

“What promise?”

“That you’ll not leave this fortress again without my permission. That you’ll do so only in my company, or that of someone I approve.”

“Some other Viking,” she said icily.

“Your promise, Melisande.”

“I break promises,” she reminded him.

“But not to me. I see that they are kept.”

Her lashes fell over her eyes. She wrenched her wrists free from his hold and knelt to cradle the mail in her arms. She walked slowly back to the trunk and laid it out within it.

“I’m waiting,” he told her.

She kept her back to him, her spine very stiff. “You have my promise, milord Viking,” she said softly.

He would leave now, she thought. He had had his way. But when she spun around, he still stood by the door. “In the next few days it will not much matter,” he told her. “We leave for Rouen in the morning.”

Her heart slammed against her chest. A small smile curved her lips.

“Ah, Rouen!” she said softly. “Yes, milord, now isn’t that the place where you’re expecting me to meekly repeat my vows once more for God and countrymen?”

“Indeed, that’s exactly what I’m expecting.”

“Well, we shall see then,” she murmured mockingly.

“Aye, we shall see,” he agreed, then bowed low and left her.

Again that night he stayed late in the hall. She lay awake waiting, wondering, her heart and soul in a tempest of misery.

She stared at the fire that burned low in the hearth. Her eyes began to close, and she dozed.

She dreamed, she thought. She felt the most tender of touches against her lips. Felt a soft, seductive stroke upon her shoulder, her arm. Her breast was cupped, caressed, a slow sure trail was drawn down the valley between them, drawn lower and lower until her legs shifted against each other. Then there was a forceful touch upon her, rolling her to her back. Her eyes opened, for it was no dream.

He was golden in the firelight. Golden, muscled, gleaming in the night, his eyes a cobalt blaze.

“I slept!” she murmured in feeble protest, determined to hide the wild delight that had filled her body, the excitement that seized her limbs.

The longing for him that had entered every part of her, heart, soul, being.

“I swear to you!” she whispered again, “I slept! I beg you, be a gentle lord, a civilized lord, and let me be!”

“Aye, tonight you slept. And indeed, lady, most often I would hesitate before rousing you from such easy rest. But then again, you recall, I am not a gentle lord, rather a Viking, and tonight I think it especially important that I remind you of something,” he told her.

“And that is?” she demanded imperiously.

“That you are my wife, lady. You are my wife.”

“Nay…”

“Aye!”

His lips touched hers. His hands molded her against the fire of his body.

And in moments she had no doubt at all.