Lord of the Wolves

by Heather Graham

  “Neither. I am convinced that there are a dozen things which must be done here—”

  “Perhaps you should go first,” he said softly. “I have the strange feeling you are longing to escape me. Maybe you would not be quite so quick to run along the parapets naked. But then again, as you"ve told me, one Viking is the same as another. If you were to provoke another attack by one hungry just to seize you, you might not care.”

  “Rot and die, Viking!” she told him, lifting her chin.

  “The solution?” He stretched out his arms to her. “We bathe together!” She cried out, but too late; his hands were upon her. They ripped the elegant cloth of gold she wore from her shoulders. He lifted her up and cast her down upon the bed, while she struggled up, he grabbed her shoes and then her hose.

  She wriggled like a worm, making things very difficult.

  But he was very determined. And the softness of her bare flesh against his fingertips definitely gave him incentive to strive more valiantly.

  She went still suddenly, her eyes huge. “Please!” she whispered softly.

  He felt his lip curl, and he moved his thumb tenderly over her lip and cheek.

  “Ah, I remember your saying that word just so once before …” The pallor that hit her cheeks assured him that she, too, remembered the occasion. Her manner changed instantly.

  “Get off me, you wretch!”

  His grin deepened. “As you wish, milady.”

  He was up instantly, with her upon his knee. In seconds he had wrenched the beautiful mauve gown over her shoulders, ripping the soft linen undershift she wore beneath it in his haste.

  He didn"t give a damn. She was suddenly naked in his arms, naked and perfect with her tiny waist, flaring hips, long limbs, full, rouge-crested breasts, and seductive black triangle. The waves of her hair were entangled around them both in a web of softness. For a moment the feel of her was more than he could bear. He felt the thunder of her heart, the gasp of her breathing. The fire within her. He wanted to hold her forever.

  Her fists slammed against his chest. He lifted her, remembering that he had no choice.

  She could no longer do the things she had once done. She couldn"t escape him, fight him, or keep her distance from him. It could mean death, or capture.

  He could not afford to have to bargain for her.

  “I can"t be wed to you!” she cried to him, her nails digging into his shoulders right through the thin leather vest he wore. “I can"t!” she whispered. “I will not be so dominated in my own home! I was just a child, I didn"t do it, I never meant—”

  “Ah, Melisande! How innocent! You never meant any of the things you did to me, did you?” he taunted.

  Oh, she had meant many of them! She"d had so many emotions regarding this man, Melisande thought desperately. He was too powerful, too muscled, too quick; his mocking words came too quickly, his iron fist of command too ruthlessly.

  And the way that he touched her was far too seductive, demanding, compelling.

  And there were far too many others in his life. Too many women too eager to please him. And it would be far too easy to love him. Never, never, she vowed to herself.

  He was a Viking. It didn"t matter where he had been born, and it didn"t matter what he called himself. He would always take what he wanted, and when he was done with it, he"d simply discard it.

  She drew in a shattering breath, growing dizzy. Dear God, it had been like this before. Heaven and hell, all in one, just as he had told her.

  The things he had done …

  The things she had tried to forget …

  “I swear, I shall scratch your eyes out!” she promised him. “Let me down!” He did. Right into the steaming water. It enveloped her. She closed her eyes for a moment, praying for strength. She opened her eyes.

  He had stripped. Quickly.

  Her mouth went very dry and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. He was formidable in his mail.

  He was more so stark naked.

  He might be any of the things he claimed to be, but in appearance, he was all his father, all Viking. He stood well over six feet, nearly a head higher than most men, and every bit of tedious training for war he had ever undertaken showed in the muscle-hewn structure of his body. His shoulders were incredibly broad, his arms bronzed and hard, his chest rippled and corded, his stomach dead flat and lean, his legs long and shapely and heavily muscled, as well. His chest was covered with red-gold hair that swirled to a thin line that ran almost invisibly across his waist, only to thicken richly again well below it. The hot and cold shivers that so easily overcame her when he was near came bursting upon her. He was only too ready to fulfill all his promises. His sex seemed as muscled and hardened and long as the rest of him, as arrogant as the man himself.

  And no matter how she despised it, she felt the swift rise of a fire deep within herself. She tried again and again to swear that she would never give in to him.

  But she had.

  Because the fascination was just as great as the anger. Because he had drawn her from the beginning. Because she wanted him even more desperately than she loathed him.

  Now he intended surrender. This night.

  She dragged her eyes up to his and lifted her chin. “You know that you can force me,” she managed to inform him coolly. “But you"ll not seduce me.” His lip curled slowly. An amazingly sensual gesture in a man of his stature.

  Blue eyes framed by the wealth of his golden hair blazed upon her with amusement as he stalked the tub, coming behind her, leaning over her.

  “That"s all right. Vikings don"t mind force. We"re very good at it.” The warmth of his breath touched her throat. She gasped as he stepped into the tub, toes touching hers, knees rising high as he sat. Water splashed over the rim of the tub. His eyes fell hard upon hers.

  “Ah! Wedded bliss.”

  She grit her teeth, splashing water into his eyes, determined to rise. In a second he was up with her. She stepped from the tub, but he caught her in his arms. In seconds she found herself flung back upon the bed, the wired strength of his body atop hers. His fingers curled around hers, pinning her arms to the bed. The sleek muscled wetness of his body was a brace around her. Then his lips touched hers.

  Much as they had before. She tried to twist her head, but his strength was overwhelming. His mouth was forceful upon hers, his tongue parting her lips.

  Entering her. She moaned deep within her mouth, protesting.

  Praying for the fire to go away.

  His tongue found hers. Drew upon it. Entered more and more deeply into her mouth, slick, hot wet. She felt his hand, cupped over her breast, the palm easing over and over her nipple. His hand was large, his fingers long, encompassing her body as he explored her torso, cupping her hip, her buttocks. She gasped, but he was kissing her still. She did not realize that her hand was free, winding into the linen sheets on the bed.

  His lips lifted from hers. He caught her eyes. Then his mouth touched her throat, his tongue bathing the pulse there. The tip of it slid down the valley of her breasts. The pressure of his face eased over to her breast, his mouth captured the nipple, tugging upon it, the tip of his tongue laving it. She cried out, her hand flying from the sheet to his hair, her fingers entangling within it.

  He slid down the length of her, hands sliding around and beneath her hips, stroking and encircling her buttocks, lifting them. She felt the lick of his tongue against her thighs and cried out, tossing, writhing to escape his grip. He had promised no mercy, and he granted none. She felt the intimate thrust of his tongue, stroking, demanding.

  Arousing. Sliding deeper, withdrawing, teasing, evoking, hungry.

  She cried out his name, so seldom uttered from her lips, the entreaty deep and rich. She felt the length of him atop her again, caressing her arms, finding her lips again, then held above her by the great power of his arms.

  The blue of his eyes seared into her.

  “Force? Or seduction?” he whispered.

  She closed
her eyes against him, trembling, aching. “Force!” she lied.

  He laughed. The laughter so triumphant. Yet despite it, his arms were infinitely tender as he swept her within them, taking her then, denial or no.

  She shuddered violently as the fullness of his sex sank deeply within her. She wrapped her arms around him, her teeth catching her lower lip. She felt she died a little. Felt as if he touched and caressed her from her womb to her heart. He moved very slowly at first, taking her with him. And he did so easily. Within seconds she was slowly writhing to meet him, aching for him a heartbeat before he moved again. Suddenly the slowness became a tempest, waves seemed to crash and cascade around them, and hers was as rampant as his own, her longing as fierce. He moved that magical time within her, and a startling, shimmering climax burst upon her, like light against darkness, stars tailing from the skies. She nearly cried out, caught the sound, and lay shivering against him, the taut slick feel of his bronzed body exquisite against hers. She felt the incredible constriction of his body, then the easing of it, and in seconds he fell beside her.

  She sprang up, furious, ashamed, hating him, and hating herself. Before she could move far, his hand, with its startling long fingers, curled around her wrist.

  “And where do you think you"re going, Countess?”

  She tried to tug free. “I need to bathe now,” she informed him, trying not to meet his eyes.

  To her surprise he released her instantly, inching up on the bed to the nest of goose down pillows by the carved headboard. He laced his fingers behind his head, watching her. He was angered by her words, she was certain of it. But Conar was always in control, so it seemed. He gave no sign of his anger.

  “Please, my love,” he told her. “Go right ahead. Be my guest.” She turned away from him quickly, her hair a sleek cloak down her back.

  She sank into the water, eager now for the warmth, but it was fading. Shivering, she drew her knees to her breast.

  “Can"t you at least go away now!” she demanded.

  She heard him rise, felt his soundless movement to the back of the tub. He knelt behind her, lifting a tress of her hair.

  “You are cruel, Melisande. Cold and cruel. I thank all the gods—and your God, too, of course—that I do not love you. Even your great deity would pity me were I to fall in love with you, for you do so easily tread upon men"s hearts!

  All of your men—all of my men, for that matter!—are so willing to die for you!

  They trip over one another to serve you. Even my foolish sister and brother fell to your wiles.”

  “They are more courteous—”

  “For Vikings?”

  “It is possible to detect that they have some Irish in their blood.” He laughed softly, yet there was a bitterness to the sound.

  “I am not the cruel one!” she exclaimed. “I am not cruel at all! I am not the one who commands and demands and orders—”

  “And conquers?” he suggested softly.

  “I keep telling you!” she whispered. “You have conquered nothing.”

  “But I am determined that I will.”

  “All that you survey!” she whispered. “But not me!” She felt his finger streaking down her neck. She seemed to feel that touch with the length of her body, feel its heat against the cold of the water, feel it down to those intimate places he knew so well, touched so deeply.

  She bit her lip. She would not desire him, she could not, it was impossible to fight him.

  “Please go away!”

  “Alas, I do have to go away now. There are some things I must deal with.

  But don"t miss me too dearly. I will be back. I don"t think you"re really weary enough to be trusted through the night—yet.”

  “Cease your taunts! You"ll not best me— Viking!” He stepped away, reaching for his clothing, his skintight chausses, his linen shirt, leather vest. His mail he left where it had fallen, but when he"d pulled on his deerskin boots, he reached down for his sword.

  She was startled when it fell upon her shoulder. The point of it reached beneath her chin, forcing her eyes to his.

  “This is it, Melisande,” he warned very softly, blue eyes seeming to impale her. “I taunt you no longer. Playtime is over. For all that you have seen in your young life, my love, there is nothing like what is to come. I will need all my strength, and I will not have time to deal with you as I have in the past.”

  “Deal with me?” she snapped angrily. “You don"t understand! I had to come here because you could not! This is my land, my fortress—”

  “I beg to differ, milady. You and the fortress and the land were given over to me on a battlefield long ago. And since then—”

  “You have been an odious tyrant! A—a Viking. A—”

  “Need you say more?” he taunted her. The sword shifted suddenly, causing her to catch her breath. The point lifted a long lock of her hair from her breast, easing the damp mass down her back. “No more, Melisande. No more disappearance, and above all, no more appearances in golden mail! You might very well have been taken by Geoffrey today.”

  “And if I had—”

  “We all would have had to die for your honor, milady. All those fine men out there you claim to hold so dear to your heart. Even if you feel that one Viking is the same as the other, I regret to inform you that I am the Viking you have wed.

  And for that matter, Geoffrey is no Viking, but one of your own.”

  “He might as well be a Viking!” she cried.

  “Ah, yes, for that term covers all that is wretched and evil, is that it, Melisande?”

  The point of his sword hovered at her breasts. She grit her teeth suddenly and shoved it aside. “I thought you were leaving.”

  He knelt beside her. “I want you to know that I will be back.” Was his elegant blond rune reader with him? The jealousy she so hated in herself surged through her. What did he want of her when he brought the other girl with him everywhere he traveled? Oh, she hated it! But he had already touched her again, and she felt, despite herself, terrible pain in wondering if he would touch another in like fashion, even here.

  “Are you sure you wish to spend the night here?”

  “What?” he demanded.

  “What of—” she broke off, unwilling to say the name.

  “What of who?” he demanded.

  “Never mind. Just leave—”

  “Who?” he seemed to roar.

  She hugged her knees more tightly to her. “Brenna! Your Viking rune reader—”

  “She is half Irish, too.”

  “Damn you all!” Melisande cried furiously. But that brought about his laughter.

  “So you are still jealous, my love!”

  “Never. Relieved when you are led in different directions,” she lied smoothly.

  “Ah, well. Have no fear. I am going in no other direction tonight, Melisande.” The mocking tone suddenly left his voice. “Melisande, listen to me. Battle is just engaged. You cannot imagine how rough the future shall be.” He didn"t seem to realize just how rough the past had been.

  “Melisande!”

  She tossed her head back and stared at him with cold fury. “So come back!” she hissed. “I haven"t the strength to throw you out.”

  “No, you haven"t,” he informed her.

  “So go!”

  “Just be aware,” he said softly, “that I sleep lightly. If I were to awaken to find a knife at my throat, I would definitely act the Viking.” Her lashes swept over her eyes. “You have already acted the Viking!”

  “With the greatest pleasure. We face incredible odds, Melisande. So from this moment forth, I warn you. You are my wife. And so help me, Melisande—

  by your God, by all my father"s people"s gods—you will not risk yourself again! Geoffrey covets you as he does this fortress. I fear his efforts to have you as I fear nothing else about the man. Heed me, Melisande. You will do as I command. Listen to my words, obey my orders!”

  Her eyes opened, glaring into his. “I cannot be your wife no
w! Too much stands between us! I—”

  “You may start by getting out of the water!” he snapped. His sword fell, and his hands were upon her, pulling her up. She pummeled him viciously but only found herself on the bed again, Conar straddled above her. “You"re pruning, my love. You wouldn"t want that!” he assured her, eyes narrowed. “And,” he added more softly, “you are shivering like a toad in a frost.” He was silent for a moment, then the tip of his thumb moved down over her cheek and rubbed her lower lip. “Like it or not, Melisande, this is what will be. Loathe me as you like, Countess, but I am here to stay.” He moved close to her, whispering softly.

  “And I will return, your husband, to sleep with you, lie with you, from this night onward.”

  “Don"t count on my being here!” she cried passionately.

  “Oh, but I will,” he warned her.

  She clenched her teeth, feeling the rise of desperate tears to her eyes. She would not shed them. She bit her lower lip, looking away, determined to keep silent so that he would leave.

  At last he lifted himself from her. She curled quickly away from him and didn"t glance his way as he caught hold of his sword once again and left the tower room.

  She clasped one of the furs on her bed and sat shivering there, afraid to think of what had been, afraid to think of what was to come.

  He was coming back tonight. To sleep here, to make the marriage incredibly real again. To take what was his, to have it, hold it. She shuddered. Thank God I do not love you! he had said. Dear God, dear God, dear God! Don’t let me love him. Please, God, don’t let me love him!

  She would not! she promised herself.

  “I hate you!” she cried out loud. It was childish, but she suddenly felt very young and forlorn. “I hate you, hate you, hate you!” She buried her face in her hands. It was true, it wasn"t true. She hated him, wanted him, feared him …

  Wanted him.

  Loved him, too.

  But so much lay between them.

  The battle was about to ensue, he had said. He was here, to lie with her, sleep with her.