Chapter 8

Not until the next morning did Conar give much serious thought to his precocious young bride. It was Brenna who made him look at her through new eyes.

Brenna was the child of one of his father’s dearest friends and greatest warriors—and one of his mother’s favorite women. They shared a wild heritage, that of the fierce defenders of Eire and the determined seafarers of Norway. The closest of friends since they were very young children, born within the same week, they had never been anything deeper, and loved one another like sister and brother.

Not that he didn’t have enough siblings of his own. There was Leith, of course, the oldest, his father’s heir. Then Eric, who he seemed to resemble most. There were his brothers Bryan, Bryce, and Conan, and then his sisters, Elizabeth, Megan, and Daria. It had been a full household with vibrant personalities, but because of all that had been shared within it, Brenna had found a place there, too.

Brenna always traveled with him. She had no interest in warfare and always stayed far behind the fighting, but she was often his right hand in many ways. When she had been very young, Mergwin, his grandfather’s ancient adviser, very akin to a mystic, versed in Nordic runes and the ancient Druid ways, had touched her hand one day and declared her his pupil.

In recent years Conar had come to realize just what Mergwin had seen in Brenna. She had an ability to read men, she knew when they lied and when they told the truth. She could see into the hearts of people and know their motives. She could read runes, of course, but many had the ability to cast the Norse runes and read their message. As a Catholic prince—his father had embraced Christianity for his mother’s sake—Conar didn’t put great faith in the reading of runes other than as a greatly entertaining and sometimes intriguing form of amusement.

Maybe that wasn’t quite the truth. He had set great faith in Mergwin throughout his life, as had all of his family. Mergwin could see things, and they all knew it. He guided them all, steered them from danger when he could. He oft foretold the future, but warned them always that their own actions would forever influence destiny, and that they must remember that life itself called upon strength not only of the body, but of the spirit. In his heart Conar believed that there must be a heaven and a hell, and that it didn’t matter much whether it was peopled by one god or by Wodin and his hordes, whether men reached for the clouds or the halls of Valhalla. And just the same, it did not matter to him if Brenna read runes or looked to the stars and prayed to God for guidance—or even if she practiced the ancient Druidic rituals Mergwin had most assuredly taught her. He very often sought her counsel, no matter how she arrived at her wisdom.

On his first morning in the fortress he awoke still exhausted, which might have had some bearing on his future relationship with his child bride. His head throbbed, his muscles were sore from battle, his flesh ached from minor wounds sustained in the fighting. He awoke in Count Manon’s bed, which caused him some sorrow, for although he had met the man only once before, while learning sailing—and therefore fighting—with his uncle, he had earnestly liked and admired Manon. The count had been intelligent, strong, and fair, and with a pleasant sense of humor. In turn, he had seemed to admire Conar very much, and when Conar had received the invitation to come here, he had thought that Manon might sense some danger. Yet he had never imagined that he might arrive in time to fight it—but not to prevent the treachery that had seized his host’s life.

He saw Melisande instantly upon waking. Perhaps it was even her presence that had awakened him, for he had learned to be a very light sleeper. She stood in the doorway, staring at him, her face pale, violet eyes stricken. He found himself staring into those eyes. They touched him now, as they had touched him the first time he had seen them. Their color was unique, so very deep a hue, and they were large and fringed with rich and exquisitely long, dark lashes.

She had come to go through her father’s possessions, he thought.

She had not expected to find him here.

He pushed himself up, sitting on the bed, and she went a shade paler, then turned and fled. “Melisande!” he called, but she was gone. He realized that he had been sleeping naked, that the battle scars upon his shoulders might well be alarming, and then again, quite frankly, that she didn’t like him one bit—even though he had saved her from having her throat slit or from being raped and enslaved by the very man who had slain her father.

She didn’t give a damn about the battle scars, he determined. She didn’t like his sleeping in her father’s bed, and she had no intention of obeying a single word he had to say.

Well, she would learn. And soon.

He rose, sliding into tightly knit trousers that served as leggings as well, pulled on his boots, and donned a linen shirt and heartier tunic. There was no need for battle dress today, but he was never without the knife he sheathed to his ankle and seldom went without his sword, sheathed in the scabbard he wore about his hips. Just as he buckled his scabbard, a boy brought water for washing, and he drenched his face, trying to awaken more fully.

He left the bedchamber behind him, admiring the fortress once again. He liked the way the bedchambers rose just above the hall, and the way the hall was set above the ground and the storage. Air passed more freely here, so it seemed, allowing the scent of the castle to be a sweeter one. Thanks to Mergwin’s determination, he had studied the old Roman ways of building their fortresses, and he could see all the advantages in this one. There was no moat surrounding the works now, but there was a trench before it to set the fortress itself upon the motte or mound, and it would certainly be an easy enough matter to deepen it and fill it from the sea, if that ever seemed necessary.

When he came down the steps to the hall, he found Swen—Norse-named but extremely Irish with his red hair and fine flurry of freckles—sitting at the table, and beside him, Brenna. They were alone, but it seemed that the workings of the castle moved smoothly along despite the recent demise of the count. Handsomely carved wooden plates had been set out along with chalices and ale and trenchers of food, smoked eel, fresh bread, fish, fowl, and slabs of venison. He hadn’t realized the extent of his hunger until now. The long hours of yesterday had been so filled with events that none of them had thought about eating.

He sat down and Brenna quickly stood, reaching for one of the chalices, pouring him ale.

“So, milord, how did you sleep?” she asked him.

He shot her a curious gaze, accepted the ale, and looked to Swen, who shrugged.

“Well, you must admit, Conar, that we did not think we’d come here to stay.”

Conar shook his head. “We’ve not come to stay. I cannot stay now. There is too much at risk at home.”

“There’s grave risk here!” Brenna said. She continued to serve, piling a plate high with food, setting it before him. “And this is now your home. Look around you, Conar. You’ve managed quite well. Your father would tell you that you have acquired an excellent estate.”

“And my father would tell you that upon occasion, estates must manage themselves. I’ve not spoken long with this man of Manon’s, Ragwald, but I’m quite certain that he can keep things running smoothly in my absence. I’ll not be gone for very long.”

“No one will be able to manage things and protect this place—not with the girl here,” Brenna said.

Frowning, Conar set down the crust of bread he had chewed. Sitting back, he crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing Brenna. “All right, then, Brenna, just what is on your mind. What difference does it make where I leave the girl?”

“Have you gone blind?” Swen demanded, incredulous. He saw the glittering in Conar’s eyes and quickly amended himself, “I beg your pardon, Conar, but…” His voice trailed away.

“What are you talking about? Both of you?” Conar demanded, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

“Have you taken a look at the girl?” Brenna asked him softly.

“A good look?” Swen added.

Conar stared at them both. Brenna sat on one of the carved chairs at his side. “Manon sent for you because he felt danger increasing here, because of his daughter. She would be a prize if she were haggard and hairless because of this fortress. But word is going out about her, many men have see her, and she is growing older.”

“Manon’s daughter is not yet thirteen!” he exclaimed.

“Your bride is an exceptionally stunning girl,” Brenna told him.

Irritated, Conar slammed down his chalice. “To me, Brenna, she is a child. I agreed to this wedding because Ragwald was so insistent, because it seemed the best way to protect these people—and yes, because I have been handed an incredible inheritance. But the girl is to grow, we have all agreed on that.”

“Yes,” Brenna agreed. “She is young, but women do become wives at thirteen. You might wish to recall the time when you first discovered an interest in my gentle gender!” Brenna said.

“Now, Brenna, how would you know—” He broke off. Brenna was smiling. Brenna had known. How old had he been when he had first found himself in the fascinating arms of the young dairy maid?

Older than his new bride, surely…

Maybe not so terribly much older. But somehow that seemed very different. He had no patience for this situation.

“I’ve no intention of taking her with me as my wife at this time,” he said firmly. He gazed hard at Brenna. “Since you know me so well, you must be very aware that I’ve no interest in ravishing a child when—”

“When diversion and entertainment so easily come your way,” Brenna interjected softly. “But though you’ve no interest, milord, you must bear it in mind—others might. It is dangerous for her here, and her presence adds danger to the fortress if you are not within it.”

“I’ve wed her—wasn’t that the point of the ceremony, that she should have a husband and thus keep those who would prey upon her at a distance?”

“If a marriage is not consummated, it is too easy to dissolve. Even legally. Popes can be convinced—if one is eager to have Christian sanction!” Swen warned him.

“And what do you suggest?” Conar asked angrily. “That I ravish this hostile young orphan?”

“Of course not,” Brenna replied, tossing a lock of golden hair over her shoulder. “But I do suggest that you take a good long look at the girl. And that you bring her with you. Somewhere safe!”

Somewhere safe…

It was then that Melisande walked into the room, and it was then that he did study his bride at long last, really study her.

They were right. There was much to be seen about Melisande today that he had not realized yesterday. The chain mail she had worn had hidden certain things. Her body was long, lithe, slim…and beginning to grow curves. She was elegantly tall, with her stream of ebony hair cascading down the length of her back. Her face was young, but exquisite, and then there were…

Those eyes. Large, violet, passionate, and very, very beautiful. Brenna was right. The girl was going to grow to be exceptional, and he couldn’t take risks with her. She was a walking temptation as she was now. And there were many men not adverse to wedding—or bedding—young women.

The strangest tremor shot through him. Hot, hard. He had not come yesterday expecting to take property or a bride; he had come as a guest, to explore the future perhaps. It had all happened suddenly, but now this place was his.

As was the girl.

And though he did not want a child bride, neither could he bear the image of her being seized by any other. Her beauty was trouble. An immense headache with all that he already had in his life.

Brenna leaned toward him, whispering softly. “You can leave this place fortified with half our men. But you cannot leave her here without you. Warfare is constant. Raids come daily. Yet if the place were seized in your absence, it could be taken again. Unless she, Melisande, is seized with it, for though the wedding contracts make this fortress yours, she is the heiress, and the blood will speak. You must keep her safe, away from those who would covet her.”

The little minx was walking toward him now, and he was suddenly aware of the sway in her movement. She moved with grace, soundlessly, regally. She stopped before him, heedless of both Swen and Brenna, though Conar was certain that her eyes had touched upon Brenna with a sizzling hostility as well.

“You’ve no right to my father’s bed,” she told him, and though the words were sure and spoken with a chill dignity, there was a rasp within them.

“Indeed, milady,” he murmured, and his gaze fell over her again. She wore a soft mauve shift with a tunic in a deeper purple, and that color seemed to match her eyes.

“He is not even cold!” she hissed.

He stood, infuriated that she would so speak to him at all, much less in front of others.

“I slept with no disregard for your father, but with sheer exhaustion. May I remind you, milady, I did not seize and plunder this place, but rather set my own men to die in the defense of it—at your father’s request. And may I also inform you that when you have such matters to discuss with me, it had best be in private in the future.”

“May I suggest then, milord Viking, that you do not do things which might cause you public humiliation?”

That was it, the final straw. He set a hand upon her upper arm and swung her around.

“Conar!” Brenna said with alarm, starting to rise also.

“Sit, Brenna, please!” There was a moment’s startled silence, and Brenna slid back into her chair.

Melisande silently tried to tug free from his grasp. He ignored her, speaking to Brenna and Swen. “You will be so kind to excuse me, as the countess and I need to have a private discussion.”

“There’s nothing more I have to say to you—” Melisande began, but he cut her off quickly.

“Milady, there’s a great deal I have to say to you.”

“I’ll not—”

“You will!”

He heard the tremendous intake of her breath and was prepared when her nails tore into his hand. He was still smiling to Brenna as he tossed Melisande over his shoulder, ignoring her shriek of rage.

Best to have this over with now.

He took the stairs back up to the living quarters, down the few feet of hallway to the count’s bedchamber, and there sat upon the bed, bringing her face down over his lap.

He wasn’t sure what he intended. No real violence, for he had seen her in the chapel and knew that her heart was ruled by the anguish of her father’s passing. But no matter how she had been raised, how independent she had been taught to be, he could not be expected to tolerate this behavior!

He had to talk to her, and truly, that was all that he intended. She had to be threatened so that she understood. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words turned into a growl of pain as she sank her teeth into his thigh.

“Little witch!” he cried, and what he considered his very patient and tolerant determination just to talk with the girl fled his mind with the haste of a winter wind. It was not what he had intended, but it was her own damned fault. His hand fell hard upon her posterior, once, twice, and again, and then he caught hold of his temper, throwing her up before him. Her eyes were wide and wet as she backed away from him, but there was no remorse in them, only pure fury and hatred.

“How dare you, how dare you!” she cried.

“I dare again, milady, if you do not hush and do so quickly!”

“Milord!”

The call from the bedroom doorway came from Ragwald. He rushed into the room, hurrying to the girl, sweeping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her protectively close.

“She means you no insult—” he began.

“I mean him every insult!” she cried in protest.

Conar crossed his arms over his chest, disbelieving all that was occurring. This should have been such a simple thing! He had wed a child. One with a strange air of both sensuality and innocence about her. One too beautiful—and far too wild—for her own good. It really was a wretched situation. He shouldn’t be dealing with it now, he should be supervising the rebuilding of the wall, determining just how many men were needed to protect the property, and how long he dared leave it. Instead he was staring at violet eyes so alive with tempest that he’d be afraid to turn his back on her, no matter what her tender age.

She was his wife, he thought, and the irony of it suddenly seemed quite ridiculous. He was not going to argue with her. He was going to give the orders, and quite simply, they were going to be obeyed.

“She’s dangerous, Ragwald. Dangerous in her passion. Perhaps the kindest thing would be if you were to leave her with me now,” Conar said coolly, “and she will know how to behave in the world when I have finished.”

“Milord, I beg you, think on all that has happened here! Have tolerance, pity.”

“I don’t want his pity, I want him out of my home! Out—of my father’s bed, out of my inheritance!” she snapped.

He threw up his arms. Despite the way Ragwald tried to protect her, Conar found himself ignoring the man as he strode toward the girl, his temper worn ragged. He clutched her by the arms and lifted her off her toes, bringing her eyes up to meet his. “Mine now, Countess, do you understand that? Mine. Now, astrologer, take your delicate and innocent little beauty here, and get her out of my sight before I see fit to confine her, bound and gagged, to her own room!”

Even held so, she did not bow to his command. “This will be my room! It was my father’s room, and it will be mine.”

She had driven him to the brink. He was ready to toss her over his shoulder again and carry out his promise of binding her hand and foot and leaving her to think and fume within her own chamber. But something within her touched him then. Something in the glistening eyes, the knowledge that she was fighting her own pain as thoroughly as she was fighting him. She had dearly loved her father. She had just lost him, had not yet seen him interred in his final resting place. No matter how angry she made Conar, he had to admire her brash courage, too. But that, of course, might well be a part of youth. And stupidity. She’d no right to rush against Gerald in the way that she had. Had she been his concern then, he might well have raised a hand against her with far greater vigor than today.

He swore. Heedless of her innocent ears. He set her down, forcefully thrusting her back to Ragwald’s care. “For now, my man, you may deal with her. I warn you, talk some sense into your young pupil, astrologer, for I am weary of the effort!” He turned impatiently and strode out of the room, still seething as he returned to the great hall. Brenna and Swen had been joined by various members of the fortress household, the most important being Philippe, captain of the guard, and Gaston, his elder, righthand adviser. The plans for the fortress castle had been laid out on the table, and Conar quickly turned his attention to them, marveling anew at the care and detail given to the workings of the structure It could withstand quite a siege, Conar thought. The towers were placed so that approaching danger could be seen from all angles. The only weaknesses might be in the walls themselves.

Or in a treachery such as that which had been practiced yesterday.

“This is an exceptional prize!” Swen said softly at his side. Conar looked up. Philippe was looking at him with pride, nodding in agreement. Conar took in the look of the man and determined that he was a fine commander within the fortress, that he knew it better than any man. Perhaps he needed someone else here with the power of his name and homeland behind him, but he would do his best to leave the bulk of the power in Philippe’s capable hands. Gaston, too, seemed a sage fellow, and both knew the fortress inside and out.

“Swen,” Conar said, “I would like to study these plans at greater length. Perhaps you would look over all the workings with Gaston and Philippe, and report back to me. What has been damaged must be repaired. Quickly. I promised my father that I would not be gone long.”

Swen nodded. Brenna naturally rose to accompany him, and Conar was left alone with the plans on the table before him.

A few seconds later he felt a slight chill and looked up. Melisande was back, keeping her distance from him, remaining at the stairway landing that led into the great hall. He grit down hard on his teeth, startled that he hadn’t heard her the moment she had come.

“I do hate to disturb you from savoring your gain,” she said, those violet eyes so fierce and condemning, belying the soft and taunting tone of her words. “But—” She hesitated just a moment. “But—Father Matthew has come and has asked when he might say the funeral mass for my father. I assured him that now seemed an excellent time. I am leaving for the chapel.”

On the table his fingers flexed and unflexed. What was it? He longed to wrap his hands around her elegant little throat.

“You will leave, milady, when I say.”

“It is my father we bury.”

“It is your place now to obey my commands.”

“You’ve no right to deny my father a Christian burial.”

“I’ve no intention of denying—” He broke off. She was doing it again, pulling him into an argument as if they were both children.

He stood up. She wasn’t going to manage it. He bowed suddenly and deeply to her, sweeping out his arm. “You wish to bury your father now, milady? We will do so. Now.” He strode across the room to her. Before he could reach her, she turned quickly to flee. He stretched out an arm, managing to get hold of a handful of her hair. He tugged her back to him with that soft ebony mass, met her violet eyes again. “I will escort you, Melisande. In your haste, milady, have you allowed it to be mentioned to your father’s closest companions that the time has come for his mass?”

She clamped down hard on her jaw, tugging her hair free from his grasp. “Ragwald has gone to inform all within the fortress walls. He will call down from the parapet.”

“Fine. Then we will go.”

He took hold of her elbow. She detested his touch, but refrained from jerking away again, and from speaking. They strode in silence from the south tower to the north one, and the chapel on the second level there. The space was already filling. Conar saw that, indeed, the men had been informed, and Philippe and Gaston stood closest to the carved wood stone where Count Manon lay, now shrouded in soft white gauze. Ragwald knelt at the count’s feet, and Melisande broke free from Conar to join him there.

Conar let her go.

Father Matthew entered the chapel and began to speak. Obviously he had been as fond of his lord as Manon’s daughter, servants, and friends, and as he spoke of the count’s youth and goodness, the chapel began to fill with the soft sounds of tears. The stoutest, hardest of men stood within the chapel that afternoon, their eyes liquid with tears. Conar felt again the deepest sorrow for the man who had built this fine fortress, who had invited him here. It had not been so long since his own grandfather, Ard-Ri of Eire, had lain so before his funeral procession to Tara. He could remember the pain of losing Aed, and despite himself, he felt his heart go out to his child bride once again.

If only she would cease to fight him so, perhaps something could be worked out.

As the service ended, Manon’s closest friends came forward to lift him for his last journey, the one to the family crypt. It was below the storage level, deep within the foundation of the place. Double doors led to the blackness of the crypt, where, though it was day, only the torches gave light to lead the way to the stone bed where Count Manon might rest now for eternity, shrouded in his white mist.

Through it all, his young daughter had not broken. If she had cried, she had done so silently. But as Father Matthew spoke the last words and they turned to leave the crypt behind, Melisande stopped. “Give me a torch, Philippe. I would not leave him here alone so quickly now.”

Conar did not like it. The firelight barely touched the shadows here. The crypt was not heavily peopled with the dead, but he could see the shrouded figure that lay so close to Manon. The count’s wife, Conar was certain, and there were several other white-clad forms within the cold stone confines of the chamber. It did not seem a healthy place for the girl.

“Melisande,” he said. Those who remained within the chamber stopped at the sound of his voice. She turned to him, as if suddenly made aware of him. “It is not wise,” he told her.

Philippe quickly stepped before him. “I implore you, milord, let me abide with her for a while. I will see that she does not stay long.”

Conar hesitated, then sighed. “Nay, my good fellow. You go on with the others. I will abide here with her.”

Philippe nodded after a moment, setting a torch into the wall. He followed Father Matthew out, and Conar was left alone with Melisande in the crypt.

She did not kneel, but stood at her father’s feet. Watching her, he was struck again by her slim height and easy grace, the simple dignity in the way she stood. Her head was bowed, and he could not see her eyes, only the inky length of her hair, touched by the firelight.

He waited and time passed. The torch burned low, the hour slowly and surely grew late. Conar shifted his weight at last and strode toward her. “It is time to leave.”

“He will be alone in darkness forever.”

“He will ascend to heaven, if he was but half the man his reputation claimed.”

She was silent for a moment. Her eyes touched his. “Heaven? Or Valhalla?”

She goaded him. Even here. He would not be pushed, not at this moment. “Perhaps they are one and the same,” he replied coolly.

She was silent again. “Come,” he insisted. “It’s time to leave now.”

“Just one more prayer,” she whispered, and he realized then that tears were streaming down her cheeks, tears she had not wanted him to see her shed.

He found himself slipping his arms around her once again. And for once she did not fight him but sobbed into his chest, soaking his tunic. He carried her determinedly from the crypt, closing the heavy door behind him and looking to the light that filtered down to them from the stairway.

He was startled then by the way it felt to hold her in his arms. It was amazing after everything else, but she awakened something of tenderness within him then, and he suddenly wanted to hold and protect and soothe her. He sat upon a low step, stroking her hair, marveling at its richness and mass, at the softness of it, the sweet fragrance of it. He rocked with her, feeling her shoulders shake and tremble with the violence of her sobs. He whispered the same words over and over, that the pain would ease, while the memories would last forever.

“How could you possibly know?” she gasped.

“I lost someone I held very dear. Someone very like your father, loved by everyone.”

“A Viking?” she whispered.

“No,” he replied with some amusement. “The Ard-Ri, my grandfather. The High King, my mother’s father. He was one of the greatest kings ever to gather the lesser kings of Eire together. What peace we have had has come from his strength and wisdom.”

She fell silent, seeming to have no argument for that. Then she whispered, “But you see death every day.”

“Not every day. I do not seek it. In fact…” His voice trailed away for a moment, and she was surprised when she prompted him.

“In fact what, Viking?”

He sighed. “My mother used to hate it when we all practiced for war. She wanted her sons to find their destinies on Irish soil—peacefully. But my father warned her that peace could be won only through strength, and that her sons, all of her sons, had to learn the arts of peace—and those of warfare. And as it happened, when my grandfather died, and my uncle Niall was to take his place as the Ard-Ri, warfare broke out. We were all called upon to fight for peace in our own land. That, I think, was my grandfather’s greatest strength. He knew when to fight and when to negotiate. But he always knew that he could never sit back and have peace come to him.”

“My father knew that,” she whispered. “For all of his life, you see, the Danes invaded here. And the Norwegians and the Swedes!” she added quickly. “So he made this fortress very strong, and they would come and look at it, see its strength, and ride away. But then he was tricked!” she whispered. She suddenly seemed to realize that she was on his lap, that her hand lay against his chest, that her head had rested there, too, that her tears had wet his tunic.

She lifted herself away from him, struggling from his touch. “I’m quite all right now. I’ll not—I’ll not cry again!”

She escaped him, coming to her feet. She backed away from him, swallowing hard. Even in the dim light, her eyes were bright and beautiful. “Thank you for honoring my father,” she said, “but I feel that I must tell you this. I don’t agree with his choice, and I believe that Ragwald has behaved detestably. So have you, of course, but you are a Viking, while he is a Christian and—”

“Melisande,” he said, grating hard on his teeth, “Ireland is among the most Christian of places—”

“And my father’s man, his friend. And mine. He should have known better. I will let you know now that though I am grateful you slew Gerald, I am furious that this marital arrangement has been forced. I do consider you to be a Viking, one with the hordes who have descended upon us all for so long—after all, bear in mind, your father did invade your mother’s land!—and I do not forgive you for anything. If I’ve made myself clear, I shall excuse myself, and keep my distance until you at last feel that you are free to leave.”

He was so amazed by the arrogance of her speech that he only stared at her, eyes narrowing, for a long moment. She hurried past him and up the stairs. He could have stopped her, but for the moment he chose not to do so. He let her go.

“Damn me for a fool again!” he said softly to the cold walls around him.

Ah, but she would not rub his temper so raw again, he swore it!

Moments later he rose and followed her out to the light of day.

The count had been interred, his people had wept. They still wept, but they also went about the struggle to live, to survive. Children chased their geese, the blacksmith was back at work in his forge, and the rich scent of roasting meat wafted through the air.

Life went on, always, for the survivors.

He started back for the south tower, determined to go through the plans once again.

But he paused, for he saw Melisande standing by a well with one of the guards.

Not much of a guard, he thought, watching the pair. Rather a boy, certainly no more than sixteen.

Yet as he watched the two of them, he felt a heat flare within him. The boy was consoling her, he realized. Touching her hair, speaking to her softly. Melisande was staring at him with her beautiful wide eyes, bright still with tears, but her lips were curled into a rueful smile, and she was nodding. There was something intimate in the way that they stood. They were both so young.

And maybe both so innocent, and maybe not. He had seen the beauty within the girl, but perhaps not the fire that Brenna seemed to be warning him about. When she spoke with the boy, her voice was softly, sweetly melodic. Her every movement was lithe and sensual.

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides and strode back to the south tower. When he reached it, when he saw that food had been laid out once again, he sat down to eat, then found himself slowly joined by Philippe, Swen, and Gaston, who sat with him. He asked questions about the fortress, and they answered him.

Ragwald came in, hesitated, then took a seat. He stared at his plate, then looked at Conar, interrupting the conversation. “Milord, if I may ask, where is Melisande? She has not eaten, I’m afraid.”

“When she is hungry, she will eat,” Conar said.

“But—”

“I believe that she is not particularly eager to join me at the table. In fact, Ragwald, she is not eager to join me in anything. I do not foresee any mutual understanding between us in the near future.” The others could not see her yet, but he was aware that she had returned at last, and that she was upon the stairway, determined to escape them all and slip back upstairs to her room.

Or to her father’s room—his room.

It would be good for this conversation to continue now, and quickly.

“But, milord,” Ragwald was saying worriedly, “it is my understanding that you are returning to Ireland. Strengthening our position here and sailing away for some time. I will see to her, I have always done so—”

“Melisande sails for Ireland immediately. I have the perfect place for her.”

He had the distinct pleasure of seeing her go dead still as she tried to tiptoe past them.

“And that is?” Ragwald asked anxiously.

“I’ve an aunt who is a nun. Melisande will reside with her for the time being.”

Her gasp was audible to them all. She no longer had any intention of slipping by them. She hurried into the great hall, having the good sense to stop far out of arm’s reach.

That did not stop her tongue.

“You’re going to send me to a nunnery!” she cried.

“Indeed, I think it best. We’ve all agreed that the marriage shall not, as yet, be consummated. Yet I find myself somewhat afraid to leave you to your own devices.”

“I belong here!” she insisted.

“Alas. Didn’t you hear? The place I had in mind is in my homeland.”

She was still stunned, not grasping it all. “A nunnery!” she exclaimed, whirling around to stare at Ragwald. “You said if I married him, I wouldn’t have to see him again for years! And this is how I am to avoid him? I am to be sent away to a nunnery!”

Ragwald looked guiltily from her to Conar. “Milord, if you would only reconsider—”

“He need not reconsider,” Melisande declared firmly. “Oh, no, he need not reconsider!” Wild and exquisite, her eyes were on his. “I simply shall not go!” And with that she spun around and left them all.

Conar stared down at the table. Damn her! He inhaled and exhaled, then rose.

He could not lose battles with his own wife, and that wife a child!

A beautiful one with violet eyes and a quick easy smile for handsome young men nearer her own age.

“She goes tomorrow, Ragwald,” he said. “I need you to remain here.”

“But—”

“You, good friend, are far too easily influenced by her.” Both Philippe and Gaston stared at him. He needed them to serve him, not the young countess. “There is no one gentler, kindlier—or wiser—than my aunt, I promise you. Melisande will be tenderly cared for, but I must keep her safe, as Ragwald has so forcefully taught me. Else all might be lost. She sails tomorrow.”

He turned and left them, and they all knew that he was going to inform Melisande of that fact. He climbed the stairs and found that she had entered her father’s room and bolted the door.

He hesitated, then swore. He threw his shoulder against the door. It shivered but did not give.

He was aware that all within the great hall must be hearing his effort.

Well, there was little that he could do. He threw his shoulder against the door again and again. He knew the bolt was about to break when he heard her cry out.

The door shuddered violently, then flew inward. She was behind the great bed, and he realized that she had been preparing to run. She was dressed in a heavy cloak with a satchel clutched in her hands.

Standing in the doorway, he shook his head. She was truly a thorn in his side, a temptation straight from the gods.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Away!” she whispered. “Until you’re gone. Until I can return. I am the countess here.”

“You are going to Ireland, tomorrow.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He slammed the broken door shut behind him, then sank down before it, resting his hands behind his head quite comfortably.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching over you—until tomorrow. At first light I will either walk or carry you down to one of my ships. You may sail either sitting—or stretched out on a plank, I really don’t care which. You will cease to be a wretched pain in the nether regions to me!”

“You will not do it! I’ll scream and shout every step of the way. My men will rise up in arms against you!”

“We will see, won’t we?”

She would give in now, he thought. Surrender.

But she did not. He did not budge; neither did she. It was hours before she at last dropped her satchel, hours more before she sat herself against a wall.

Sometime in the night he slept. He heard her first movement, though, as she tried to find a way past his body—that obstruction blocking her way.

“I think not!” he said.

She backed away, her cloak swirling. She took her seat against the wall once again.

“I pray that you die a slow, lingering death somewhere and that the gods throw you right out of Valhalla—right on your nether regions!”

“Perhaps it will happen—but it’s doubtable. I’m an excellent warrior.”

“Any man can be killed.”

“Aye, that is true! If only any lass could be silenced!”

“Truly, you will be made to pay for this!”

“Countess, I pay dearly as it is.”

“Don’t do it!”

“My mind is set.”

“Unset it.”

“Never. I cannot wait until the dawn breaks!”

“I will not go.”

“One way or the other, you will.”

Much, much later, with the sun breaking high in the heavens, Conar stood and watched as four of his ships set sail and seemed to reach out for the pink-streaked horizon.

He smiled and shook his head.

Dear God, but she had a will of steel!

Indeed, Melisande had sailed.

But he imagined they were just now loosening the linen sheet he had wrapped her in so that he might get her to the ship!

She had so loved to taunt him for being a Viking! It seemed ironic justice, indeed, that he could use his very Christian Irish heritage to bend her to his will!

He laughed loudly and then paused, remembering how he had felt, watching her with the young man by the wall. A tremor shot through him, and he wondered suddenly, fiercely, what she would be like when he saw her next.

What would those fiery violet eyes hold when he met their gaze once again?