Lord of the Wolves

by Heather Graham

  “Nothing happened?” he demanded, arching a golden brow.

  “Nothing. You may ask Gregory to swear so before God. Gregory is a Christian noble—”

  “How applaudable. I"m quite sure that he is many things I am not!” She didn"t like the cool tone in his voice. He was still absolutely furious, and she was painfully aware of it. “Speak with him if you so desire.”

  “Ah, but I"ve no intention of asking that poor besotted boy a thing.”

  “Then if you"ve doubts—”

  “If I"ve doubts, I will still them myself, milady.” Jesu, if he came any closer, he would be on top of her! She wished fervently that she had realized he was coming, that she had been in Eric"s house, that she had stood with his family to greet him. Anything to take him away from her now. She was too keenly aware of his heat and vitality, his height and breadth.

  The fury in his eyes …

  And that simmering of tension within him. He stayed very still. He didn"t touch her, didn"t reach for her throat, and didn"t begin to threaten to strike her.

  But still, just looking in his eyes and feeling the great warmth that seemed to spill from him, she realized ever more fully just how angry he was. His temper was under control, but just barely. His shirt sleeve had fallen back when he leaned against the tree over her, and she could see the taut bulge of muscle within his arms, the sinew, the steel of it.

  She stiffened her spine, wishing that she were not finding it so hard to speak.

  “No true marriage, eh?” he said suddenly and very softly. She realized that he had come upon them when she had been telling Gregory that she didn"t consider herself obliged to Conar in the least. If the tree hadn"t been behind her then, she might have fallen. But she wouldn"t be able to bear having him so very near her much longer. She wanted to scream as it was, strike out against him.

  “You"re extremely rude to listen to other people"s conversations.”

  “No true marriage, and I am merely a guardian?”

  A rush of color made its way to her cheeks. “You shouldn"t have listened.”

  “You shouldn"t have spoken.”

  She inhaled, wishing she could run from him now, and it didn"t matter where. If she took a step, he would drag her back, and once he had moved, once he had touched her …

  “I didn"t say anything that I didn"t mean,” she informed him in a brash rush.

  “The land is mine. You"ve no interest in me, that has certainly been evidenced over the years. An annulment could surely be had easily enough, if we were both agreed upon it. You could move onward wherever you liked, you"d be free—”

  “Ah, yes. The property is yours. I"m the one who risked my life for it, but the property is yours.”

  “The inheritance—”

  “No.”

  “Damn you—”

  “No.”

  He was a tyrant. Standing here condemning her for a silly tryst in the woods with Gregory when he kept mistresses by the scores, not to mention his precious Brenna. He was too close, he was suddenly denying her all her dreams.

  It was perhaps the most foolish thing she had ever done, but she lashed out at him with fury, her fingertips catching his cheeks before he had a chance to lash his fingers around her wrist.

  “No!” she cried, trying with all her strength to wrench free. She tore away from the tree, whirling before him. Her nails clawed at his hands but he didn"t seem to feel them, his eyes were so hard upon hers.

  “I gave you playtime, Melisande,” he said, his voice still raw, his tone husky.

  “Time to grow. Time to live. I was told so very often that you were old enough to be a wife, but I still gave you time. Well, my love, that playtime is over now.

  You"ve wanted to enter the real world, milady, you shall do so now.” She managed to wrench her wrist from his hold. “I want my world!” she cried to him. “My home, my land. I do not want you!”

  “Your home and your land come with your husband, Melisande.”

  “With or without your help, I will get an annulment!” she swore to him.

  He was silent for a moment, his jaw locked, his eyes like ice.

  He stood with his foot resting upon a rock. She didn"t know what stupid demon possessed her then, but he always managed to make her behave wildly, rashly. She suddenly rushed toward him, hurling her weight at him. He was falling, she realized triumphantly. The great Prince Conar had fallen into the cool bubbling brook, and his very handsome mantle was sodden. She spun around, ready to run at long last, but she gasped instead, for his fingers were wound tightly around the hem of the blue linen tunic she wore over the deeper blue full-sleeved bliaut beneath. “Let go!” she cried, grasping at her hem.

  “I"ll never let go,” he promised her.

  The next second she was down in the water with him, her clothing drenched, her hair soaking down her back. She gasped for breath, then realized that he lay at her side. In a split second she was up, and running once again.

  She tore downstream in the shallow water, inhaling deeply, wishing just to escape him for a while. She needed some shadowed sanctuary now, somewhere to still her racing heart, to calm her spirit.

  She paused, jumping upon one foot as she rubbed the other, for she had hit hard upon a rock in the stream. She thought she heard someone in pursuit and spun back. He wasn"t there. The trees, dense here, surrounded her with their green darkness. Rays of light shone between the swaying branches in delicate flashes of brilliance. She narrowed her eyes, searching for him, then turned to run again.

  And there he was. He had mounted Thor and ridden the crest of the stream to come before her. She grit her teeth and turned to run back. The war-horse slammed through the water, spinning to cut her off. She turned, and he was there again. Once more she ran, once more the horse followed her, cutting off her route of escape each time.

  “What!” she cried. “The great Lord of the Wolves cannot catch his own wife on foot?”

  She panted, playing for time. He leaned down to her, blue eyes acute. “I use whatever is at my disposal, milady, to gain what I am after. And I repeat, milady, I will never let you go.”

  He dismounted from his horse, water spraying from his boots as his feet hit the water. She was nearly out of breath, but she backed away from him. In doing so, she tripped upon a stone. She cried out, falling backward into the water. He reached out for her, catching her before she could strike the ground.

  In a second she was swept up into his arms, and long strides quickly brought them from the water to the pine-laden floor beneath the towering trees. She was shivering wildly from the cold of the stream, from the feel of his arms.

  He set her down and straddled her.

  “Let me go!” Melisande whispered.

  “I told you, milady, I will never let you go.”

  She brought her hands up to slam them against his chest. They were captured within his grasp. She stared into his eyes, seeking something in their blue depths. She bit her lip, still staring at him as he leaned low against her, pinning her hands to the ground just above her head.

  She had felt such ice when she had first seen him. Now she felt as if all the fires of hell had invaded her. Her breath came too quickly, mercury seemed to leap through her. Despite her great heat, she shivered suddenly, looking at him, at the hard lines of his face, at the startling color of his eyes. At the breadth of his chest, at the ripple of muscle within his arms as he held her.

  She had hated him forever, so it seemed. Yet to her great dismay, she realized now that she didn"t actually hate him, she hated what he had done to her. Not only was there her anger against him, there was something else, too.

  She didn"t know exactly what it was. He was a challenge, she had always enjoyed defying him.

  Even though she had meant to win.

  Now, having him atop her, she was frightened of him in a way she had never been before. Because she wasn"t really frightened of him, she was frightened of herself, of the way that he was making her feel, of the sudden long
ing within her for something that she really didn"t understand. She moistened her lips, shaking her head. “An annulment would make so much sense. Your heart always seems to remain in your father"s country, you would always fight there first. There is so much else that you want!” she told him breathlessly.

  “There is nothing else that I want,” he corrected her. “At this moment there is nothing else in the world that I want.”

  “We"ve got to go back,” she said desperately. “They"ll miss you, your family will miss you.”

  “Now you"re worried about returning to the fortress!” he exclaimed softly.

  “Please, milord, if—”

  “Ah, lady!” he murmured, and it seemed his cool blue eyes raked her face, her heart, and soul. “It"s far too late for „Please"! Alas, I"m afraid that I must convince you that an annulment is entirely out of the question.” She stared at him, his meaning slowly dawning upon her.

  “No!” she protested.

  But her protest was quickly swallowed by his lips.

  Chapter Eleven

  He hadn"t known what he intended when he came to the stream to find Melisande.

  He might have been so angry at first that his inclination might have been to drag her back by the hair.

  But then he had seen her, and everything had seemed to stop.

  She had been changing, subtly, as time passed them by. He had known when he had left her that she was swiftly leaving youth behind and becoming a woman.

  Still, he had not imagined the creature he met today.

  She had grown very tall, lithe, supple, graceful. She moved effortlessly and with a gentle sway. She had grown into exquisite curves that added a mesmerizing sensuality to her slightest movement. And her face, her beautiful, exotic face …

  Her cheeks had become slimmer, adding a fascinating maturity to her. Her lashes had grown richer, her wealth of silken ebony hair even longer. And her eyes, when they touched upon his at long last …

  Their violet was open, compelling. In his life, he knew, he had never seen more beautiful eyes. Indeed, in all his life he had never seen a more beautiful woman. And this one was his wife. The pretty, precocious child had grown into a stunning adult.

  It hadn"t surprised him that she didn"t come to greet him. Or that she hadn"t been within the fortress walls. She would always do whatever was within her power to defy him.

  It had stunned him to see her with the youth, Gregory. Watching her, seeing her earnest conversation, he thought back to the day when he had watched her with one of the young guards in the courtyard of her father"s fortress. The feelings of anger and jealousy that stole over him shocked him. He could scarcely catch his breath. His heart slammed within his chest, and it was all that he could do to control his temper.

  She was incredible, Melisande. More than willing to defy him, she was determined to go much further. When he walked to her, he saw that she was willing to fight him forever, her chin high, her eyes blazing, meeting his, determined that she had done nothing wrong.

  And determined that she would have an annulment.

  He had to have her now, he thought. He had to have her now quite simply because she had to forget that thought. He had taken her as his wife, he had taken Count Manon"s place, the land was his, the fortress was his, and she was his. He had discovered, looking at her today, touching her, even waging war with her, she was his. Their destinies had been locked together for a long time now. Now she was his.

  He wanted her, with a fever such as he had never known before, with a desire that blinded him to all else. She lay beneath him, cool and wet from the stream, her flesh like marble, her lips like a rose.

  Warm when he touched them, full, sensual. He touched them with the fullness of his mouth, pressed inward with his tongue, seeking the play of hers.

  She lay still a moment, and he seemed to taste all the haunting sweetness within her, touched a wealth of fire and heat. She tried to twist from him, gasping, and he raised his head from hers, meeting her eyes.

  “Please!” she said. “We"ve all this time between us. I don"t know you anymore, I"m not accustomed to—”

  “Kissing?” he asked softly against her lips.

  “Ah, but it appeared you were adept at it when you were kissing the young Saxon boy!”

  She tried to shove against him. She couldn"t budge his chest, nor twist away from beneath him.

  She stared into his eyes again, angry. “You"ve absolutely no right—”

  “Indeed?”

  Blazing violet eyes met his. “You spend years neglecting me, milord, and becoming quite adept at all manner of things yourself.”

  “I"m ever so sorry I"ve neglected you. I intend to rectify that now.” His mouth descended hard upon hers, his hand easing from her wrist to hold her cheek. He stroked its exquisite lines, feeling the softness of her flesh. Her hand pushed his shoulder. She writhed and twisted, but he granted no quarter, not moving in the least. She tasted of sweet wine and mint, and he kissed her ever more deeply, fascinated, exploring, hungry, his tongue pressing hers. A pulse came alive within him, hammering, demanding. A whimper left her throat, and he lifted his lips from hers at last, fascinated then by the sleek wetness upon them, the way they parted slightly as she gasped for breath, those violet eyes now condemning and seething.

  “You can"t mean to do—this—here. In the woods.”

  “I"m quite partial to streams, milady. And woods. The sway of the branches, the kiss of the breeze. And, I might remind you, you were quite willing to be here with another man.”

  She shook her head wildly. “You came upon a moment"s warmth—”

  “I am partial to warmth, too, milady,” he assured her, his voice hard.

  “It was a gesture of friendship—”

  “Indeed, I am waiting for such friendship.”

  “It was a tender kiss—”

  “It was scarce a kiss at all,” he replied with a disdainful snort.

  “And you are so much better!” she cried.

  “Indeed, I am,” he murmured, “and I"m damned sure that you know the difference!”

  “Your Viking sword is going to rust!” she warned him.

  “My Viking sword will soon be sheathed.”

  She went so pale that he was suddenly convinced that nothing had ever gone further than the kiss she had shared here today, but even that had to be rectified.

  As long as she continued as she was, she lived with the hope that she would acquire an annulment from him.

  His temper soared suddenly. What had she wanted out of life? He had come at the right time, he had slain the man who had murdered her father. Marriages were arranged, and hers should have been no great hardship.

  But that didn"t matter. Wanting her did.

  Yet, despite himself, despite the great anguish of his desire, he suddenly felt a welling of pity within him. He didn"t want to rape his own bride.

  And maybe there was just a little bit of guilt mingled with that emotion. How had he ever managed to neglect her so?

  Easily, he reminded himself. She had been hostile and superior from the very moment they had met. And perhaps he had even known from that moment that one day he would be paying this price, wanting her with a haunting desperation, falling prey to the violet in her eyes, her exquisite beauty.

  “After all this time!” she whispered, sensing his hesitation. “Not here, not now, like this!”

  For once her eyes seemed to be nothing other than pleading. They captured some small piece of his heart, and he finally felt the chill of the water that soaked their clothing.

  “If not now … ?”

  “Please …”

  He shook his head slowly, wondering what would be gained from this delay.

  “What do I gain?” he asked her softly. “You are too eager to escape me, Melisande.”

  “I will make it up to you. Tonight,” she promised swiftly, “as it should be.”

  “Ah,” he said softly. “So you would barter for time.” There was a sizzl
e in her eyes once again when she reminded him, “I have had years of it, milord, I cannot see what a few more hours can matter.”

  “Melisande, with you, it might well matter greatly. I wonder if it will be worth my while to take the chance! Surely there is some other hapless lad you might find along the way …”

  “How dare you—” she began furiously, but a quick look in his eyes seemed to remind her of just what she had been doing when he had come upon her this evening. “There is no one else to come upon,” she said frigidly.

  “Hmm. I do have brothers here.”

  “Your flesh and blood,” she murmured bitterly.

  “I think,” he said, a taunt to his words, yet the taunt against himself, “I think I shall die a thousand deaths if I leave you now.”

  “You"ve never had difficulty leaving me before.”

  “Ah, but things have changed. You have changed.”

  “I"ll see that you are not disappointed,” she promised rashly, pushing against him then. She"d had her victory, she sensed it.

  But it wasn"t going to be that easy for her. He leaned low against her. “I want a willing wife, my love,” he told her. “Bathed and perfumed, waiting and willing.”

  She was silent, staring at him, waiting for him to move away from her, he was certain.

  “Your promise, Melisande.”

  “Yes!”

  He would die just a little bit if he let her go now, he thought, fiercely gritting his teeth against the longing that still assailed him.

  But the promise she had made him …

  It was too intriguing. He had to see if she would willingly keep it.

  He leapt up and reached a hand down to her. When she stood before him, her lashes quickly fell over her eyes. She started to turn away, but he caught her arm.

  “I"m just going for my horse—”

  “I think that you can ride with me. Your horse can follow.” She wanted to argue the point, he knew. Melisande wanted to argue anything that he suggested. But she kept silent, and he realized that she was shivering as he lifted her onto Thor and leapt up behind her. She was stiff as she sat before him, and they dripped together as he guided Thor from the stream. He found her horse tethered at the water"s edge, and grabbed the white mare"s reins to lead her back to the fortress.