Chapter 22

A greater space was cleared around the two men.

Geoffrey lunged instantly and wildly. Conar immediately parried his blow.

Geoffrey fell back. He turned around and faced those grouped around. “A champion. I demand a champion. You, Horik!” he called to one of his men. “Jon, send that berserker forward! Let one teeth-gnashing sea raider fight another. Winner takes all, Conar of Dubhlain, the woman, the land, the battle.”

Melisande’s eyes shot to the one they called Horik. He was nearly as tall as Conar, heavier, bulkier. She felt fear streak into her system. “No!” she whispered.

But to her astonishment Horik was shaking his grizzled, platinum head. “This is your battle, Geoffrey. The fight is yours and—his.”

Geoffrey started to walk from the circle in a rage. “You’ve been well paid, you bastard—”

“Paid to fight a battle with men. Not to stand in your place against such a man as this Norse wolf.”

“He killed your companions—”

“He came for his wife. It is your fight.”

Geoffrey looked wildly from one man to another. He suddenly seized a knife from his ankle—Melisande saw the motion.

“Conar!” she cried. “Conar! He has a knife!”

In time, in time! Pray God! The treacherous Geoffrey was just turning, hurtling his missile expertly toward Conar’s eyes.

Conar ducked, and the knife sailed past his head. He stared at his enemy and drew his sword.

“Come at me, wolf dog!” Geoffrey shouted in a rage. His own sword at the ready, he entered into battle. He was not a weak swordsman.

But he did not compare to Conar.

Melisande remembered the way she had fought her husband, how he had kept her moving.

He fought Geoffrey just so now.

He calmly parried each blow that fell his way. He struck again, and again, and again. Geoffrey’s blade met his, clashing, clanging in the moonlight. That was all that could be heard, the awful sound of steel screeching against steel.

The circle widened and widened. Conar leapt backward over a tree stump in his way, Geoffrey nearly fell over it in his haste to reach Conar and offer another blow.

He was weakening, weakening fast, Melisande realized.

“Please…” she whispered in a soft sigh to heaven—or Valhalla.

The warrior gods were with him, great Wodin, mighty Thor. Conar raised and lowered his sword again in a mighty sweep. It caught Geoffrey’s. The man’s weapon flew.

And Conar’s blade rested against his throat.

“Kill him!” went up a cry.

From the Danes. From the man’s own allies.

Merciless when their leader proved his weakness.

Conar kept his blade tight against Geoffrey’s throat. “If you ever glance her way again, Geoffrey Sur-le-Mont, I will slice you like a spitted boar, dismember you piece by piece, and feed you to the vultures.”

He turned, and seeing his father and his wife, started in that direction.

Melisande saw his eyes. His incredible blue eyes, impaling as they settled upon her. Her heart seemed to cry out.

But then, from the corner of her eye she saw Geoffrey begin to move once again. Hunching down at his ankles, reaching to the tight sheath above his left boot.

There was a second knife inside it. Within seconds his fingers had fastened around it.

And once again Melisande saw it coming.

“Nay!” she shrieked. “Nay!” Not now, not after all this.

“Conar, he has another knife!”

This time when Conar flew around, he reached down to his own ankle and drew his knife.

And threw it with an even swifter speed.

Geoffrey’s blade just grazed Conar’s shoulder and neck, with little space to spare.

Conar’s blade found its mark, flying straight into Geoffrey’s heart. The man stared at him for one moment, then keeled over in a smooth motion, dead before he hit the ground. His eyes remained open. He stared at Conar even in his death.

But Conar turned away. The battle was over for the evening. The Danes would go off on their own, with Geoffrey no longer there to guide them. Some might join up with other groups terrorizing the people here.

Some might sail home.

But the battle was done for the night. Conar’s numbers were the superior ones, the Irish line of the house of Vestfold had linked its mighty arms together.

They had left many slain and injured. They had done their damage.

Even Odo could be pleased with the night’s work.

For Conar it was time to go home. He slowly approached the line of horses, reaching up to grasp hands with each of his brothers. Only Leith had not come, for someone must remain behind. Eric had been safe enough to leave Wessex, for Alfred’s law extended well over his land.

He came to Mergwin and shook his head with slow astonishment. “You’ve mounted a horse to ride into battle.”

Mergwin shrugged. “I try to read the future for you and your siblings, I cast runes, I foretell great things. Once I have done so,” he said with a deep sigh, “I find that I must sometimes give destiny a hand.”

Conar smiled slowly.

He came to his father at last. Melisande still sat before Olaf on the great white horse.

“It seems the trial is over here, as well,” Olaf told him.

Conar nodded.

“And you are free.”

Count Odo had ridden up from behind. “The trials here are just beginning. The Danes sail the rivers, they head for Paris, for Rouen, for Chartres. Our fight goes on!”

“Aye,” Conar agreed softly. “The fight goes on.” For him it would. Eric would sail back for Wessex, his father, Conan, Bryan, and Bryce would return to Eire.

For their fight never really ended either.

But tonight’s battle was over.

“Thank you,” he told his father. He felt Melisande’s eyes on him, felt the tears within them. Had she cared so much, then? She might have saved his life twice tonight—her cries had alerted him to Geoffrey’s treachery each time. She looked so beautiful before his father, even if dirt smeared her cheeks and her ragged cloak. Her hair fell around her like ebony rain, waving, curling. The cloak draped around her slender form. Her eyes, their huge violet depths so haunting, remained steady upon him.

“I believe I’ve something of yours here?” Olaf murmured.

“Aye, indeed,” Conar agreed.

He stepped forward, stretching his arms up, reaching for her. He was careful to keep the cloak about her as he lifted her high, then slowly down against him.

“What a husband!” Olaf murmured. “Is that the best you can do in gowning your wife?”

Conar smiled slowly, looking back up to his father. “No, milord, I swear, I customarily keep her clad in a finer style!”

“We shall see,” Olaf said. “There stands Thor. Perhaps you would be good enough to mount him and escort us all to your home. We’ve come a long way, it’s been a wearying night, and we’re most eager to sample your hospitality.”

“Aye, Father!” Conar agreed.

Eric, smiling, brought Thor forward. Conar deftly wound Melisande in the cloak, set her atop the stallion, and leapt up behind her.

The remaining Danes watched as they turned and rode away.

Melisande closed her eyes, leaning back against her husband’s chest. Her heart had not ceased its frantic beat. She had never been so exhausted.

Nor so awake…

So weary yet…

So very alive. They were going home.

Together.

The ride took time, but it didn’t matter. She was content to remain against him, feel his heartbeat, his warmth, his arms around her once again as they rode, tight, secure.

“So you keep me finely clad!” she murmured to him, as they rode.

“I don’t?”

“Nay, milord, it seems to me that you are forever making havoc of my clothing!”

His lips nuzzled her ear as he spoke. “Then we must thank God that the fortress can be filled with able seamstresses!”

She leaned back again, smiling. They rode in silence.

In time they came to the fortress.

Melisande was newly amazed to discover that Erin and Daria had come as well.

There was complete chaos when they returned, so many people filling the hall, so many people demanding to know everything that had happened. Erin had been quick to remind them all that Melisande had endured a great deal through the night, it was daylight now, and surely she needed a long bath and a cup of warm sweet wine.

And perhaps something more substantial than the cloak to wear.

It was with Erin that she came to her room, and though Marie was there to cast soap and oil into her bath, to enclose her fiercely in her arms and whisper her delight that she was back, Erin was the one to stay with her, to warm the wine over the fire and pour it into a chalice for her.

Sinking into the hot water and sipping the wine felt delicious. Knots eased from her body, she seemed to wash away some of the terror of being with Geoffrey.

Geoffrey would never bother her again.

Erin stood across the room, and Melisande saw her studying a trunk. The gilded mail lay across it.

Erin lifted it and brought it to the foot of the bed. “I had mail like this once…” she remarked. She looked over to Melisande, smiling. “In fact, I still have it.”

“You?” Melisande murmured.

Erin nodded, lifted the garment, folded it over her arm, and returned it to the trunk.

“Was it a gift?” Melisande asked her.

Erin shook her head. “I was very determined to fight the Vikings,” she said. “So I did it in disguise.”

Melisande found herself hugging her knees to her chest, staring at her mother-in-law. “You fought the Vikings?”

“I fought Olaf.”

Melisande gasped. Erin came around the tub and began to work suds through Melisande’s hair. Melisande tried to twist to look at her, but Erin commanded that she stay still, in the same voice she might have used when Melisande had first come to her house as a child.

“But then—”

“But then I found myself wed to him.”

“But…”

“Aye?”

“You’re so happy!” Melisande exclaimed.

Erin tapped her head, and Melisande ducked beneath the water, rinsing her hair. She emerged again, staring at her mother-in-law. Erin nodded, a small smile curving her lip. “Indeed, if I could wish a blessing on any lass, it would be to live as sweet and rich and full a life as I have shared with him. We have had our times of tempest. To this day we are both willful and stubborn, and he does have a fearsome temper. As do my sons…But, as Mergwin will tell you, wolves are wild creatures. They hunt, they thirst, they prowl restlessly in their quests. But most often…”

“They tend to mate for life,” Melisande filled in. “They are fiercely loyal. Creatures who band together, care in a strange way for one another.” She looked up at Erin, and Erin smiled again. Melisande felt a snowy linen towel set atop her head, felt it rubbing her hair. She felt a gentle kiss upon her cheek.

“I’m very glad that one of my wolves has you, Melisande. His growl is rough, but remember the creature beneath!”

Erin left her then. Melisande stepped from the tub, rubbing her body dry. She found a soft clinging gown, and sitting before the fire with her brush, finished drying her hair and easing the tangles from it. She was thus engaged when she heard the door open again, and when she turned, Conar stood there.

He leaned against it, watching her. She paused, watching him. He crossed the room, his hands falling upon her shoulders for a moment. “Continue, my love, I like watching you so.”

She tried to continue, but she discovered that her fingers were trembling, and she didn’t want him to see that it was so. He stood by the mantel, stripped of his helmet and mail, striking in his linen shirt and tight chausses.

“Conar,” she murmured softly.

“Aye?”

She looked up at him, suddenly fighting a wealth of tears again. “I’m sorry that I came here. I never did so just to defy you. I truly felt that one of us must be here; the Danes were ravaging us as well as Eire.”

He came to the chair where she sat, lowered himself to one knee, and stilled her hands in her lap. “Melisande—”

“I was wrong.”

“Aye! You were wrong, and I was wrong. And I was furious and acted like a wild dog. But it doesn’t matter now. When I discovered you missing, I had never known a greater fear. When I thought of Geoffrey with you, I wanted to rip him to shreds with my bare hands and teeth.”

She shook her head, her eyes wet. “I was so afraid that you wouldn’t come for me! That you might think that Geoffrey made the mistake, seizing me.”

He laughed softly. “Nay, lady, never. But come to think of it now…”

She lifted the brush as if she would give him a good whack. He snatched it from her, coming behind her to pick up long tresses and pull the brush through them.

“The Irish put aside their wives if they choose to do so,” she reminded him.

“Ah, does that mean you recognize I’ve Irish blood within me?”

“A trickle.”

He grunted. She fell silent for a moment, feeling the gentle luxury of his hands upon her hair. “Conar, they were wonderful!” she said suddenly. “They sailed here, all of them, coming to our aid.”

“Aye.”

She turned and met his eyes. “Your father is quite incredible.”

“Aye.”

“Of course, so is your mother.

“Of course.”

Again a silence fell. She could hear the sound of the fire crackling and that of the brush moving through her hair.

“Odo wants you to ride with him again immediately,” Melisande told him. “We won tonight, Conar, but you cannot imagine. The Danes cover us, seeking Paris, invading the rivers, the isles. We are in dire trouble here.”

“Aye, I know.”

“I don’t want you to go with Odo.”

“I will have to,” he reminded her.

“And I—”

“You will be an obedient wife for once,” he told her.

Her heart skipped a beat. “You’ll send me away again—”

“Nay, not if we shore up the walls to an extent where I am happy and if the fortress can be made battle-ready. I don’t believe the Danes will tarry with such a difficult position now. Geoffrey is gone.” He was silent a moment. “And my son should be born here.”

She felt a burst of happiness within her. Her fingers were trembling again. She knotted them in her lap.

“Hmm,” Conar murmured suddenly.

“What is it? Are you thinking of the battles to come?”

“Nay, lady,” he said softly. “I was thinking of this ebony tress of hair. I was thinking of stroking it over my own bare flesh, watching it create a tangle of black silk around us both…”

Once again her heart seemed to skip a beat. She inhaled sharply as he came around, dropping down on one knee before her.

“Does such a sweet vision have possibilities?” he inquired, eyes as endlessly blue and piercing as a sunlit northern sky, a gentle curve to his lip.

“You’re asking?” she whispered.

The smile deepened, and he shrugged. “I’d hate to give up all my Viking tendencies, but aye, love, at the moment I am asking.” His voice went hoarse. “You did have a difficult evening. But then again, so did I, come to think of it. Imagine, my mother worries so about you! Does she give a care to what injuries I might have sustained in the rescue?” He sighed. “The world is not always fair.”

She laughed. “Milord, I could have told you that years ago!”

“Well, milady?”

She rose smoothly, drawing him to his feet before her. “Bathed and perfumed,” she whispered softly, and she brushed his lips with a kiss, then walked before the fire. In an easy movement she loosed her gown from her shoulders and let it drift to a soft white puddle at her feet, then stepped from it.

“Charming,” he murmured.

“I am running out of clothing.”

“How intriguing.”

“Your shirt, milord.”

“Pardon?”

“Your shirt.”

“Oh.” Swiftly it was over his shoulders, tossed atop her gown.

“The rest.”

“As you wish it.”

In seconds he was naked. Golden, gleaming muscles rippled handsomely in the firelight. She surveyed him fully, her breath catching at his loin, finding it just a bit difficult to force her eyes to rise coolly to his once again.

Arms crossed over his chest, arrogant in his nakedness, he watched her now with keen interest.

“And now?”

She came toward him. He would have caught her, but she eluded his arms. She came behind him, palms working over his back, lips delicately falling upon old wounds and scars. “Bathed and perfumed…” she repeated. She came on tiptoe, kissed his neck, teased his earlobe. “And ready and willing…”

Her hands brushed upward over the hard muscles of his buttocks. She pressed against him, the tips of her breasts rubbing erotically against his back, the ebony hair at her triangle mercilessly teasing his flesh. Then she slipped around him once again, arms rising around his neck, body flush to his, lips just a breath away from his.

“Ready, willing…hungry, aching, eager…”

His mouth ground down upon hers, his tongue plunging, plundering, seeking, passionate, fierce. She found herself swept up into his arms, both weak and exhilarated with excitement. She met his eyes again as he carried her to their bed, kept her gaze locked with his as she landed hard, he atop her.

“Dying!” she whispered. “Entreating, needing—”

His kiss cut away her words. His fingers curled into hers, driving them high against the bed. The length of his body seemed to meld to hers, then his hands were over the length of it, large, bold, creating fierce blue fires where they would roam. His palm ground against the downy triangle, fingers slipped in it, found its cleft, rubbed, stroked. She moaned, twisting, crying out his name.

Again his mouth covered hers. Then rose just above it.

“No sane man, Irish or Viking, would ever set aside such a wife!” He assured her passionately.

Her eyes widened. She laughed at the teasing smile that curled his lip.

Then her laughter was cut short, her breath stopped, for he was suddenly plunging within her, deep, deeper. A gasp escaped her, she shivered and trembled with the sweet impalement of her body. After a moment he began to move, and in time the movement became a wild ride, rocking her, sweeping her. Her arms clamped around him, his hands were upon her buttocks, kneading, rousing her to greater heights. She arched, writhed. His mouth closed over her breast as he loved her, his hand slid down to press against her mound even as his body thrust hard with hers.

Her climax swept her, sweet and shattering. She clung to him, lips upon his shoulder, teeth lightly biting. A low moan escaped her even as rigor seized him and he held himself fiercely above her, then thrust so deeply, it seemed that they must indeed be one, the liquid mercury of his body searing and sweet as it entered hers.

He fell to her side. Seconds later she felt the light, tender touch of his fingers moving gently over her arm. “Could I possibly hear those words once again?” he murmured. “Eager, hungry. Wild. Indeed, and all from the same lovely witch who loathed me not a full day’s time ago!”

“You test your luck, Viking!” she warned softly.

“Ah! And there’s my vixen again.”

She rolled, straightening upon her arms, to stare into his eyes. “Truly, Conar, for many things I am sorry.”

His hands slid along her arms. “Truly, Melisande, you must not be. I would not love you so deeply were you any other than the vixen you are!”

She gasped, lowered her lashes in a great sweep over her cheeks, and met his eyes again. “You…love me, milord?”

“Only a blind man could not see it,” he answered solemnly.

“Nay, my lord! You might have deceived the most far-seeing of men—and women!”

“Do you think so?” he inquired lightly, lacing his fingers behind his head to study her.

“Indeed. Perhaps…”

“Well, you have never spoken those words before. You are surely aware that I sometimes need to hear things more than once!”

He rose, sweeping her into his lap and stroking long damp strands of ebony hair from her face. “I love you, Melisande. Deeply, dearly. I thought that if I were to lose you, I would long for death, for the sweet harbor of a Christian heaven, or the halls of Valhalla. I was never quite sure where it all began, for you were so wild and independent and hostile—and disobedient! Yet always there was within you that sweet simmering of courage, that endless spirit, that sensual beauty, sweeping around me, seducing me, capturing my heart. I love you. Have you heard me now?”

“Oh!” she breathed softly. She touched his cheek, the hard, handsome planes. “I’ve heard you.”

“And what of you, milady?”

“I love you!” she whispered.

“Ah, so simple! After such a declaration!”

She smiled, a small smile at first, then a sweetly wicked one. “Nay, never so simple!” she cried. And she pressed him back upon the pillow, her lips touching his, his throat, his fingers, his chest. “I love you…” She inhaled deeply. “Need you, crave you, seek you, adore you—”

“Ah, lady!” he cried, and took her into his arms.

The day had dawned, yet those gentle words were repeated over and over again, and day or night did not matter, for there, then, in that room, they clung together.

And loved.