Chapter 2

Melisande…

Mounted upon his huge war-horse, Conar MacAuliffe returned her scrutiny.

Ah, he thought, at last!

There she was, the little vixen, in all her fantastic glory.

He couldn’t wait to get his hands on her!

In the midst of the melee that was dying around him at long last, he could finally set his eyes upon her. Smoke from burning oil and fiery arrows was lifting now, and she appeared on a high step to the parapets, staring down at him. He had never seen anyone look upon him with such contempt, and he wondered that she would dare do so now, when the stone of the castle had come to mean nothing, when he had proven his right to the fortress, and when it seemed that he must be the victor.

She did not tremble. Perhaps she thought that the distance between them was her safety, though he could have reached her easily with just a few steps. All he had to do was dismount from his stallion and leap upon the stone stairway leading to the tower.

But it seemed that his proximity did not matter to her. She continued to cast that superior stare down upon him, and he found himself studying her. It had been some time since he had seen her. She was an extraordinary woman. He knew that if he were on a level with her, she would still be tall for her gender. Tall enough that she wouldn’t have to look up very far to meet his eyes. She was blessed with a glorious head of ebony hair. As rich as a moonless night, as sleek and burnished as the wing of a bird, it swept and waved and cascaded down the length of her back. In contrast, her face was as fair as fine ivory, tinged at the cheeks with a beautiful, natural shade of rose. Her lips, too, were wondrously shaded, beautifully defined, and tinted to a dusky beauty. Surely no goddess or Christian angel had ever been more glorious.

A goddess, perhaps, for such creatures were known to have tempers and whims. But she certainly could not be an angel, not from his understanding of the creatures. Despite her great beauty, there was nothing forgiving about her, nothing that hinted of surrender. No, this beauty was no angel, not with that look in her eyes.

And not with the pride that stiffened her spine. But then again, he knew well, humility was not among her virtues.

She hadn’t changed. She was not so very different from the child he had met here so long ago. That day she had been so victorious!

Because of him, he reminded himself with an inward grin.

Ah, but that had been a different day. Then they had joined forces, and she had gained her victory.

Today she had taken his help—and then closed the gates on him!

But he had broken the wall, and she had been beaten.

She would never escape him again, he thought suddenly. Never use guile, strength, or anger against him, never twist or wriggle her way out of anything!

He smiled, determined to see the color of her eyes. He knew it well. As he knew her.

He lifted the visor of his helmet, wanting her to see his face and wondering if the defiance would at all leave her gaze. It did not.

He dismounted smoothly from his trusted stallion and took the first step. He had not realized that he still held his sword in his hand until he felt its weight. It didn’t matter. She had shed the mail she’d worn on the battlefield, but she still held her elegant blade. He paid it no heed as he took one step and then the next, coming closer and closer to her.

She shifted her stance slightly so that she could watch him come. Her gown was a soft mauve, a shade that enhanced the luster of her hair.

She had shed the mail she had been wearing when she had been out with her troops he thought with some amusement. Had she imagined that he had not noticed her there?

It would not happen again.

But that she would be made to understand. There was quite a lot she was going to have to be made to understand this time.

He studied her gown again and the way it looked upon her. It seemed created of a liquid fabric, one that shimmered and swayed with her each subtle movement. She swirled just enough to keep him easily within her view as he approached her. He leapt from one step to another, then faced her across a few feet of broken stonework.

Her chin arched higher.

She was a creation of even greater glory than he had remembered. She had matured extremely well. Her bones were fine. Her face was a perfect oval, the cheekbones high, her chin delicately and exquisitely molded—even if it was set irritatingly firmly. Her lips, so beautiful a rose, were as cleanly drawn and defined as her bones, yet they were generous, even taut as they now were. Everything about her was beautiful. And yet more stunning still than her bones or her coloring or even the perfect proportions of her face was the startling loveliness of her eyes.

They were large, set apart within the fine lines of her face. Ah, he could see them so clearly now!

He’d never seen eyes quite like them. They surpassed blue. They were not the mauve of her gown, but something deeper. A violet that now seemed as wild as a night sky when the ancient gods would have their way, when storms threatened, when lightning flared and thunder crashed. Indeed, they were eyes to challenge even the mighty Wodin, eyes that knew no threat of mortality, eyes that defied and dared, and cried out their own victory.

But she was not victorious.

He was the victor.

And she…she was nothing but his prize. No matter the look upon her face.

He grit down so hard upon his teeth that he heard their grinding. Being this close was suddenly painful. She’s always had the power to compel men—old Ragwald had been no fool, sending her out to lead troops that long ago day. Conar was convinced he had seen no woman more beautiful in all Christendom—or outside Christendom, for that matter. She had something greater than beauty. Something that had made him determined to send her to a nunnery when they had first met, something that had made him dream of her by darkness and by day, something that had bolted him from sleep too many times, leaving him bathed in sweat.

Something that had made him long to take a switch to her when he had learned that she had come here.

And something that now made raw desire burn in him like wildfire. Perhaps something that had always blazed deep and rich between them, something he had touched once and been damned for ever since in the aching nights that had stretched out since he had seen her.

Something that made anticipation very, very sweet now.

Perhaps it was the defiance in her eyes. Perhaps it was something she didn’t see herself, that simmering sensuality that touched her every movement, her gaze, even the hatred within her eyes.

Perhaps it all had to do with the fact that he had touched her, that he knew every fascinating subtle nuance of the woman. And knowing was a fever, one that lived with him, leaving him hungry all of the time.

She would never forgive him for being what he was!

That didn’t matter. Not tonight. Not ever again.

“Ah, Melisande!” he said softly. “What a warm way to greet me when we have been apart so very long!”

“’Tis a pity I did not manage to greet you more warmly still, my lord Viking. There were so many burning arrows about! What a shame we lacked one to heat your cold Norse heart!”

“I am wounded, Melisande. Deeply wounded.”

“I only wish it were so!” she whispered.

“Melisande, one would think you might consider pretending to be courteous! After all, think on it, lady! Think on all that you have done. Why, I should not be hesitating here, but rather I should have my fingers wound tight upon you—”

“There’s been a battle here today!”

“—baring your sweet flesh to my ever blistering touch. Why, by all my laws, by your laws, I would certainly have the right to do so! Perhaps you’d like to rephrase your greeting?” he suggested.

She smiled sweetly, but a violet fire continued to rage within her eyes. “I said, ‘Your every wish shall be our command.’”

He laughed loudly, leaning upon his sword. “Oh, I don’t think that is what you said, Melisande!” he murmured. His eyes raked over her. “But I do promise you, milady, that it will be so!”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Viking.”

“Melisande, when I make a promise, I always keep it. And I might remind you, I was born in Dubhlain.”

“Your ships are Viking ships—”

“The very best,” he agreed. His eyes narrowed. His tone became hard. “I understand that you were about to offer yourself to our old enemy Geoffrey.”

She stiffened. She didn’t realize how easily her men were willing to speak with him, believing in his power.

“I—” she paused, seeing his fury. She shook her head. “I didn’t really mean to go. Damn you, can’t you see? I wished to save lives—”

“Even think of it again, milady, and—”

“And?”

“There will be no hesitance. I shall strip you naked and flay you half dead.”

“You would never dare.”

“Would you dare tempt me?”

“And what if Geoffrey had me?” she inquired coolly, her eyes raging still.

“Ah, well, then I should have to think deeply of what rewards could be gained if I did or did not retrieve you. But then, you are my prize, never his. Perhaps I would have to come for you. I never let anyone take what is mine.”

“You needn’t do me any favors,” she told him, violet eyes still burning brightly. “And if you had but heeded my pleadings, they’d never have come so far!”

“Had you but heeded my warnings, you wouldn’t have been in the path of danger!”

“But this castle would—”

“This castle is wood and stone!”

“Wood and stone filled with people!” she cried.

“I arrived on time, milady,” he swore savagely, looking away. Once again he had almost been too late. He fought to control his temper. He had owed her nothing!

“Then,” she murmured, fighting to keep her voice level, “have you come to stay for a while?”

He smiled slowly. “Ah, Melisande! Not a ‘Thank you, milord. After all, you arrive at such an opportune time.’ Just ‘How long are you staying? Please don’t let it be long.’ Of course, I’m sure it would have been more fortunate had a blazing Danish arrow made it to my heart, but alas, I fear I have not availed you so.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Indeed, a pity,” she whispered, then quickly formed the right words. “Thank you for arriving at such an opportune time,” she murmured. Her eyes lowered for a moment, then rose to his. Truly they burned now! “Though, milord, I must ask, what difference does it make, one Viking or another?”

Damn her.

She would always ignore what she chose to, and she knew how to cut quickly to the heart.

He grit his teeth again, willing himself to control both his temper and any display of emotion. He forced a smile to his lips. “Well, then, milady,” he said softly. “If I find that I do need to negotiate with Geoffrey or some Danish jarl at a later date, I will know that I don’t offend you in any way if I offer up your glorious person in exchange for some other concession on their part.”

Ah! Now that one had cut, too! He saw the violet fire leap to her eyes. Her anger struck so quickly that she had no time to control her emotions. She was still carrying her elegantly engraved sword. She lifted it quite suddenly—and lethally—and it was only the speed of his battle reflexes that allowed him to quickly parry her blow. It had been a strong one, and his response had been strong as well. Their swords reverberated on the air for a moment, and his eyes met hers—filled with fury and promise. She cried out suddenly, losing her footing upon the broken step. She dropped her sword, seeking some hold on the wall. But there was only stone for her to touch. He dropped his sword, bracing his legs, reaching out for her just as she would have plummeted to the rough earth below. His arms curled strongly around her waist, dragging her hard against him. She gasped in a ragged breath, then her head fell back, and all the tempest he had remembered burned within the gaze she gave him.

He smiled slowly. No matter how many times he saved her, she hated him so!

Yet even as he held her now, he remembered. Remembered the feel of her flesh, the supple perfection of her form. Longing, hot as lightning, hard, aching, ripped into him. Rigid with it, he spoke to her quickly, all too aware that he hadn’t the time at this moment to deal with her as he so desired.

“You little fool! You’d kill yourself to get to me! Well, milady, I’m damned sorry, but today was just a skirmish in what is to come, and so help me God—”

“But you don’t believe in God, do you?” she taunted.

His arms tightened. Her fingers curled around them desperately, but she knew she’d never free herself. She gritted her teeth, going still, her hatred still smoldering in her eyes when he shook her to silence her.

“We are going to present a united front, my love. You’ve half ah hour to prepare yourself, Melisande, and then you will be down in the fortress yard to greet me so that we can both greet my men and your people. There’s going to be enough death. You will not add to it.”

“I have never sacrificed my people!” she retorted angrily. “Indeed, I have been the sacrifice!”

“Poor little martyr. Ah, well, that is the godly way, Melisande.”

“Let go of me!” she commanded.

“Ah, tempting! Let you fall down all those steps to the ragged earth below. Destroy such beauty—and such sweetness! Alas, Melisande, know it well now. I will never let you go!”

“Aren’t you afraid that I shall take my sword to you in the night?” she demanded coolly—still struggling against his rock hard hold.

Ah, but she was warm! Vibrant. The rise and fall of her breasts was extremely provocative. The huskiness of her voice so seductive as she struggled for breath.

He leaned nearer her, smiling still. “When I’ve finished with you tonight, milady, you’ll not be able to move a muscle, I swear it!”

She paled at that, turned white as a ghost, but recovered quickly—kicking him hard on his unprotected shin. He almost cried out, caught himself just in time, and leapt up the next step with her. To his rather bitter amusement she clutched him desperately rather than plummet to her death.

With a few more strides he reached her tower room. He tossed her down upon her bed and was once more treated to the ironic pleasure of seeing her leap quickly up, her pulse pounding frantically against the lovely white column of her throat.

“Can it be? Melisande, afraid. Of a Viking touch? Perhaps you remember it all quite too clearly. Is it fear then, or longing? Anticipation—or dread? Fear not, my fair lady! I haven’t time for your welcoming arms at the moment. But then again—don’t fret. The night will be long.”

“Fret!” she choked out. “You invite hell upon us both! You—”

She broke off with a gasp because he had come for her. Wrenched up into his arms, she was pulled hard against him. “Heaven or hell, lady. Maybe a bit of both. I don’t believe I will offer you such hardship, but then again, I am lord here, and will have my Viking way!”

“Oh!” she cried in fury. “You sea snake! You bastard, you—”

“I cannot wait to hurry back to your arms!” he assured her. “Tonight, Melisande, there will be no escape.” He released her. She fell back but quickly caught herself, leaping up and backing away from him.

“I didn’t mean to escape you!” she whispered frantically. “I was needed here, and you wouldn’t come. You claimed you were needed elsewhere—”

“In my father’s house!” he reminded her angrily. “For all that your only term for me seems to be Viking, I am a prince of Dubhlain, and aye, I have many responsibilities!”

“Well, I have just these here!” she cried passionately.

“And we are seeing to them now!” he told her, turning. “When the ceremonies are over, I shall require a bath. So shall you. You might ask your people to see to it.”

“I’ll not—” she began, willing her lip not to tremble. But it did not matter. They were interrupted. “Conar!”

They both started as he was called from the doorway. The man standing there was Swen of Windsor, always Conar’s man, at his side, at his back when needed. He was tall with fiery red hair and a pleasant freckled face that belied his great strength in battle.

Seeing Melisande, he bowed to her quickly. “Milady.”

“Swen,” she murmured softly.

“Conar, you are needed. We do not know how you would deal with the prisoners.”

“I’m coming now,” Conar told him, still watching Melisande.

“Wait!” Melisande cried. She hesitated, strange for Melisande. “What—what do you intend to do with them?”

“The prisoners?”

She swallowed hard. “You can’t just—kill them!”

He lowered his head for a moment. He didn’t want to have to do so. But they were dangerous. They remained enemies.

“Conar—”

“Half an hour,” he told her.

“Die a slow, lingering death!” she hissed to him.

“Half an hour—and if you’ve any love for your people, don’t even think of defying me this time.” He swung around, his mantle billowing out behind him. He clapped his hand upon Swen’s shoulder, leading him out.

The door slammed in their wake.

“Before all the gods!” Conar swore savagely. “That woman is the worst witch I have encountered in all the known world!”

Swen’s eyes slid his way. “Now, come, milord Wolf!” he said lightly. “You cannot feel quite so hostile—”

Conar shot him a deadly blue gaze.

Swen inhaled deeply. “Ah, well then, perhaps you shouldn’t have wed the lass,” he said idly. “But then again—”

“Then again what?” Conar demanded.

Swen grinned. “She’s also the most beautiful witch in the known world. And she can be quite delightful.”

“To anyone but me!” Conar muttered.

“Milord?”

“She came with a great deal of property,” Conar said angrily. He waved a hand in the air. “I accepted her when she was little more than a child because of that wretched Ragwald.” He hesitated, then added slowly, “And because I came too late to save her father. My uncle had promised I would fight with him. We came too late. Still”—he gazed to Swen, eyes burning—“she was little more than a child then, and I never imagined that—”

“That she could twist a wolf by its tail?” Swen suggested, starting to smile, then quickly wiping the grin from his lips. Conar seemed in no mood for this.

He hadn’t been since Melisande had managed to gain passage here on one of Conar’s kin’s own ships. It was her land, of course. Her birthright. But still…

She had lied to them all, of course, swearing she had Conar’s consent.

And when he had returned…

“She was a child!” he roared suddenly.

But she’d been a damned beautiful child, too, Swen thought in silence. With Conar’s present dark mood, he decided to keep the thought to himself. She had always brought about the deepest emotions within Conar—ever since he had discovered that his bartered bride was a wayward and independent creature, determined to manage herself and her inheritance.

Things had always been tempestuous between them.

They were doomed to more storminess now, but the time had come. Melisande was indeed grown up, but she didn’t seem to have realized yet that Conar had come to stay. He had to. A true tempest was brewing here, with the Danes amassing in the thousands to ravage the countryside.

Because of his Melisande, and their property, Conar was called upon to thwart them.

“Well, milord,” Swen murmured uneasily, trying to soothe his temper somewhat, “I must say you have always behaved with great restraint, sending her first to the nuns until she gained her years—”

“She considered that the worst of tortures!” Conar snorted.

Swen held silent for a moment. Conar’s motives might well have been missed. She had been young when they had met. But already she’d been more than stunning. She’d been alluring. He might have been putting her out of temptations way from himself!

Swen lifted his hand absently. “You have, er—like I said, always shown restraint.”

“No more!” Conar vowed suddenly, his blue eyes like daggers. “No more!”

For a moment Swen wondered which would be greater for Conar—his battle with the Danes, or his battle with his wife.

Whichever, it seemed that the days ahead would stretch very long. For there was one thing perfectly true that few men could see, and most assuredly, Melisande herself did not see it. For all that he was so constantly furious with her. Melisande definitely held a piece of the warlord’s heart.

“Find Ragwald. See that he gets his people gathered on the slope to the sea. I will see to the prisoners, and meet Melisande here within the yard, then we’ll go before them together.”

“As you wish,” Swen said, eyeing him speculatively.

Conar smiled suddenly. “She will be there, never fear. She would not risk her people. That is in her favor.”

Swen hurried off to do as he was bidden. Conar watched him a moment, straightened his shoulders wearily, and whistled for Thor. The ebony stallion obeyed his summons instantly, trotting to him.

“If only women were so well behaved, eh, fellow?” he whispered to the horse, then mounted it and rode quickly outside the wall.

His prisoners were an assorted lot, perhaps twenty-five in number, fifty percent Danes who stared at him with murderous hostility, the other fifty percent followers of the fool Geoffrey, who was so damned determined to take what did not belong to him.

He should have them beheaded, Conar thought. Not a one of them seemed worth keeping alive. But even as he stared at them, one of the Frankish men broke from the ranks and came rushing over, falling to his knees, grabbing Conar’s foot. “Mercy, great Lord of the Wolves! Mercy, I beg you. We were tricked, we were—”

“Kill him, Conar of Dubhlain!” one of the Danes cried out in his father’s language. “Or we shall do so ourselves!”

Conar looked down to Able, Brion, and Sigfrid, the three of his men guarding the group.

He felt tension seeping into him as he remembered his wife’s pleas not to kill the men. She never did understand that he despised such things. But she should have understood by now just how dangerous Geoffrey’s men—and definitely the Danes—could be. He sighed inwardly.

“Separate them for the time being. Have the smith make shackles for the lot of them, send the Danes to the east pit beneath the tower, and take the others to the long house east of the fields. Make sure they are well shackled, for we cannot afford trouble from them now. They must be guarded until we can decide what to do with them.”

“Some are injured,” Brion told him.

“Send some women to tend to them then, but keep a wary eye upon them.”

Sigfrid shrugged. “We should behead them, have done with it!”

“For the moment, they will live. When these men are attended to, we will gather at the sea slope. There’s much to celebrate. My lovely wife and I reunited and this fine land held firmly in our own hands. There will be much to fight for again, but for tonight I intend to enjoy the evening. I hope the same for all of you.”

He rode back through the broken wall, making a mental note that it must be repaired immediately. He’d come as quickly as he’d been able to manage, and still he’d nearly been too late. But maybe he’d needed the sea voyage to rein in the anger he’d felt at first.

Yet every moment of delay had been torture, his anger knotted with passion, his hunger for her eating away at him, his fury with himself for having been so easily taken by her growing with his fear that some ill would befall her.

At long last there was tonight. Nothing in hell or Valhalla would stop him!

When he came on through the courtyard, she was there, awaiting him. She was mounted upon her magnificent horse, Warrior. The animal was huge, adding to her remarkable dignity.

He thought the same as old Ragwald once had—men will followher!

“Come!” he told her.

Violet eyes lit on him. He smiled, nudging Thor forward. She followed, just at his heels.

They came to the strip of beach. As he had commanded, the people were gathered there. His seafaring warriors. Her guard, and the fanners, the smiths, the craftsmen, their wives, their children. The priest and his plump mistress, their little barefoot waifs. They were all there, a strange assortment, some speaking the Irish, Norse, and Frankish languages, and some understanding only one of the three.

He caught hold of Melisande’s hand. She longed to rip away from him—he could feel the tension in his arm. But she did not do so.

“We have joined together today as it was long ago destined to be!” he called out. “We have beaten back the foe, but greater battle is still to come, for our enemies would ravage this land straight to Paris! We must remain united here and fight them. As Melisande and I have come together, so shall you. Tonight we are triumphant! Celebrate with us.”

A cheer went up. The people all cried out, whether they had understood or not.

He repeated the words in his mother’s Irish, then began to speak to them in Melisande’s Frankish.

But Melisande was speaking already, fluidly, melodiously.

And determined that she was going to rule.

Not me, my love! Not me! he promised in silence. She had already led him on many a merry chase. She had stolen his damned soul!

Tonight it would all change.

She was staring at him now with daggers in her eyes.

“Smile, my love. Lift your hand in a gallant wave, and smile.”

There was a beautiful smile on her face. Angelic! he thought with some amusement. The people were shouting their adoration for her, as well they might. Her hair was about her like a cape, spread out over the cloth of gold that streamed down her back and over the horse’s haunches. Her face remained the fairest he might have imagined, eyes ablaze.

She looked at him, her forced smile quite near plastered in place. Her hand moved to encompass the crowd. Though she smiled incredibly sweetly, her words were hissed, and for him alone. “You are an unholy bastard,” she murmured, her expression never changing.

He smiled pleasantly in turn, his hand waving to encompass the crowd. “Your flattery will go to my head, Melisande.”

“I hardly think there should be room for it.”

“Pity your arrows aren’t as piercing as your words,” he informed her coolly. “You’d have bested us all—Danish, Norse, Irish, Swedes—for sure. But alas! None here is as talented with a weapon of steel or wood as you are with your barbed tongue!”

“Indeed,” she promised, smiling and waving to the crowd still. “You had best take care of those barbs. They might well undo your might and muscle and slice you to ribbons!”

He laughed. “I shall have to take my chances with your tongue, Countess.”

“I warn you, it will be dangerous.”

“I thrive on danger.”

“You thrive on command!”

“Be that as it may. I am victorious, I will rule this land, and you. So come, kiss me, my beloved witch,” he returned.

“I should sooner kiss a toad!”

“I don’t believe you!” Still they smiled, facing the crowd, waving to prove to all that the houses were united.

“Melisande, my love! I demand a kiss before these good people!”

“A kiss?” she inquired. “You’d best be daring, Viking. My barbed kiss could too easily slice you to ribbons.”

“But, Melisande, I am willing to be sliced, wherever you would set that tongue!”

Even over the roar of the crowd he could hear the grating of her teeth. She edged her horse closer. She offered up her ruby lips. “You truly belong in hell!” she assured him. He leaned over and touched her lips. Just barely. Breathing in the sweet scent of her. Assessing her anew.

The crowd went wild with cheers of approval.

“See how you please them?” he murmured.

“Charming,” she said, smiling into his eyes as if she adored him. “I absolutely despise you.”

“Careful, my beloved. I am evermore certain that my night would be far more pleasant were you gagged.”

“Ah, but you thrive upon the dangers of my tongue!”

“I do intend to,” he promised softly.

“You are a demon!”

“And you are a witch!”

Dark lashes fell over glorious eyes, then her violet orbs burned into his.

“Then perhaps, milord, having accomplished what you wanted here, you will be wise enough to leave me alone!”

“Accomplished what I wanted? Ah, beloved wife, I haven’t begun to do so, but I shall. Surely you’re not forgetting that we have wed. Vikings are supposed to rape and ravage all women, so surely I could not be a credible Norseman were I to do any less with my wife! Ah, look! There’s the clergy! Give them a nice and happy wave, Melisande. Let all know just how pleased we are to be together!”

She waved her hand, her smile still not faltering. “Lord of the Wolves!” she taunted. “You are none other than the Norse Lord of Dragons and Dung!” she said softly to him.

He sighed. “My brother is English, kin through marriage to Alfred the Great,” he said. He kept his voice very low, but he could feel the force of his temper rising. “And my maternal grandfather was one of the greatest Irish kings to ever live.”

“Ah, yes! And you deny being one of the butchers of the seas!”

“Oh, no!” he assured her, and Thor edged so close against her mare that he had to pull back on his reins to control his horse. “Butcher of the seas, milady? That is what you would call my other grandfather’s people. Alas, rest assured. I do not deny being one of them. They are great seafarers.”

“Great invaders, great butchers—”

“And conquerors, milady! Don’t forget that! I would not dream of denying that they, too, are a part of me.”

“You have conquered nothing!”

He felt his own smile deepening and nudged his ebony war-horse closer to her mount. “Oh, but I have, milady. I have. And you will find that out, my love. I swear it.” His temper flared and he reached for her, suddenly, fiercely. This time his lips burned upon hers. Seized them, forced them apart. His tongue invaded her mouth with a searing hunger, and when she would have protested, he pulled her closer. Their horses crashed together. He dragged her from Warrior to hold her before him. Her fingers wound in a frenzy around his arms as she fought him.

He did not let go.

He tasted her. Tasted her lips, and remembered. Filled her mouth with the force of his tongue.

And remembered.

Felt the furious, vibrant heat of her, the rise of her breasts, the sweep of her breath. She tried to twist from him. He held her still, his mouth hard atop hers, demanding that she give, while the roar of the crowd rose in his ears like the rush of his own blood.

Her fingers loosened their wild grip. Her lips gave way, she fought him no longer. He raised his mouth from hers and saw the violent tempest in her eyes. Her lips were wet and parted still. Fire seemed to explode within his loins.

“You will have me, lady, Viking or no!” he promised her.

He waved his sword triumphantly to the crowd once again. Then she cried out, clasping him as Thor rose high on his hind legs, then turned and raced back toward the fortress walls and the high tower above the keep.