Lord of the Wolves

by Heather Graham

  The simple fact that he demanded, took what he would, gave orders.

  Among other things, she reminded herself, was the way he must feel now.

  Now, when she had so defied him. Now, when he so nearly had his hands upon her again.

  Warmth assailed her. She closed her eyes, promising herself that she would not think about him, that she would not consider what was to come.

  Impossible. He was here. Memory was flooding the length of her as if her blood had become molten steel.

  She inhaled deeply, mentally straightening, seeking strength. She was the countess. She had become so upon her father"s death. The land was hers. The fortress was hers.

  And, so help her God, she would keep them!

  “Jesu, lady! How many has he with him?” Philippe demanded at her side.

  Mounted, the men were as striking as they had been in their dragon-prowed ships. They were men trained by Satan himself, so it seemed. Huge fellows, trained with axes and maces, knotted with muscle, reckless, fearless, dangerous.

  They had saved her once. She knew how they fought!

  And at the head of them … him!

  “I must take you to the tower,” Philippe murmured, watching the action. It was evident that Geoffrey"s men must surrender or die, but there was still fighting in the yard. It did seem the safest course for her to be out of harm"s way now that she was no longer needed to rally her men.

  “I can take care of myself, Philippe,” she assured him. “Hurry, see to our men.”

  Philippe did not look comfortable with her decision, but Melisande did not give him time to argue. She hurried to the steps leading to her tower and began running up them as swiftly as she could with the weight of her mail upon her.

  She desperately needed some time. How did she greet him? Did she actually have to greet him? Wasn"t there any possibility at all that she could just run away?

  Did she really want to? Maybe their time had finally come.

  Some of the steps were broken. A battle-ax had fallen against the stone with such strength that it had cracked and broken. Melisande leapt across the gap and hurried onward to her tower room.

  She paused, then ripped the mail quickly from her body.

  It was a cowardly thing to do. But she thought that perhaps he hadn"t seen her on the battlefield and then wouldn"t think that she had intentionally closed the gates against him.

  Fool! she charged herself. Coward! She was countess here! He was just a younger son of a king, seeking his fortune, and trying to make it from her rightful inheritance! She need show him no fear, and certainly no humility!

  She had dropped her sword with her mail. Now she clutched it again and looked uneasily about the room. Her eyes fell upon her bed with its cool, clean linen sheets and bear fur rug. A shaking seized her and she swallowed hard.

  She didn"t want to be caught here! She hurried back out to the parapets and looked to the yard below.

  Her heart seemed to stop completely. The shivers took hold of her again, hot and cold, fire and ice. She stood dead still and met his gaze.

  Chapter Two

  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 stoneway 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 an hour to prepare yoursel
f, 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!”