Lord of the Wolves

by Heather Graham

  But the sword atop it was a real sword. The mail would fit her still. It was surprising that he had not seized both mail and sword from her.

  He would not leave her. She knew that.

  “There is no need to roll me in a sheet,” she said wearily.

  She felt his finger draw an arch down her spine, and she trembled despite herself. How strange. That touch suddenly made her feel as if she quickened inside with a strange warmth, a strange longing. She wanted to turn against him, hold on to him, keep him close. She knew now that she would hate it when he went away because she would hate being without him. She would miss his touch in the night. Miss his strength, his warmth. Miss that wonderful way of sleeping, knowing that she was held.

  She didn"t turn against him. No matter what she said or did, he would ride away to war. And he would not bring her—as he brought Brenna. He would leave her alone in a household that was not her own, no matter how gently she was treated within it.

  “Some wives,” he told her, “might be glad to be with their husbands.”

  “But I will not be with you.”

  “Aye, you will until we ride north.”

  “And then you will be gone.”

  “And will you miss me now, my love?”

  She was silent. He answered for her in a mocking tone. “Ah, indeed, you will. You will sleep with any demon or devil just to come home! You will be counting the hours until my safe return—just to come back here.” He rolled away, rising to his feet across the bed. Melisande turned, seeing the magnificent structure of his back, the breadth of his shoulders, the ripple of them, the sleek line to his hip, the hard, tight curve of his buttocks, the hard length of his legs.

  “And what happens if you do not come back?” she whispered.

  He spun on her. “Does it concern you?”

  “It is a reason not to go,” she murmured stubbornly, her lashes falling.

  He walked around the bed again, coming beside it, lifting her chin. “Would you have me turn my back on my father, Melisande?”

  She didn"t answer him at first. Then she sighed, twisting from his touch, her lashes falling over her eyes.

  “No. But you risk yourself, you risk me—”

  “Ah, indeed, if I were to fall, lady, what then? Would you mourn? Or quickly cast off the chains that have so tightly bound you and sail home to rule here with supreme power and pleasure?”

  She met his gaze, her lashes sweeping over her own eyes swiftly once again.

  “You are cruel to suggest such a thing, milord. I have never wished any man"s death.”

  “Any man"s? I did not see you mourn Gerald"s passing!”

  “Well, perhaps not Gerald"s—but only because he murdered my father,” she said.

  “Then again,” he murmured, “you have taken a sword against me yourself

  …”

  She rolled away from him, rising from the other side of the bed. She stood and started to walk away, but he was suddenly behind her, pulling her around to face him again. “I don"t care to discuss this!” she told him.

  “But I do.” His hands rested upon her shoulders. “Perhaps there"s nothing to fear. I will return, Melisande. I swear it. I will not die. I will never let you go, remember?”

  “My father never meant to leave me!” she assured him softly.

  A golden brow arched her way, blue eyes, fire and ice, sizzled upon her.

  “Does this mean that you"ve come to care for me in some small way?”

  “Don"t mock me, Conar!” she charged him.

  It seemed a strange shield fell over his expression.

  “I do not mock you,” he told her.

  “What of you? Has the tyrant come to care for his ward—in some small way?”

  “I have told you several times—and meant it more deeply each time—that there was nothing I wanted so much as you.”

  “Wanted,” she murmured, her eyes falling.

  His fingers tightened upon her arms. “I will return!” he promised her again.

  “I swear I"ll never leave you to Geoffrey. And I"ll not die until we"ve a child to keep any seekers at bay!”

  Tell him, a voice cried within her.

  But she could not. She still had only Brenna"s words and a suspicious passage of time as any proof. She didn"t feel ill. She hadn"t gained an ounce.

  By next week, she realized, she would have missed two months. And then she might be certain. Reasonably so.

  He had promised to return. When he brought her home again, she would tell him.

  “What is it?” he asked her softly.

  She shook her head.

  “Melisande! I beg you, don"t spend your life hiding from me!” he entreated.

  She stared into his eyes and saw fever there, passion. Did he care?

  He wanted her, aye. Unless he tired of her.

  His mouth slowly descended upon hers. His kiss was provocative, tempered, his lips forming gently upon hers. She found herself upon her toes, arms slipping around his neck, fingers moving into the golden length of hair at his nape.

  There was a sharp rapping on their door. They pulled apart, staring at each other.

  “Milord!” It was Swen. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “We must hurry and take the tide.”

  “Aye!” Conar called.

  Melisande had already turned. She washed and dressed quickly, not speaking with him again.

  At the shore he offered to have Warrior brought with them. She shook her head. “This is his home,” she told Conar. “He is not accustomed to your curious manner of transporting horses.”

  An unease filled her. She didn"t want Warrior with her, because she didn"t want to have to try to get him home later.

  When they sailed, when they waved goodbye to Ragwald at the beach, she realized that she had no intention of waiting for Conar.

  She"d be home long before him.

  She would pray for his safe return—and would do so from here.

  The seas were rough, but Melisande still did not feel a twinge of illness. She wondered if Brenna could be mistaken, if the tempest of her life lately hadn"t caused her to miss her time.

  Indeed, she felt Brenna staring at her now and then, and once, when their separate ships were near enough, Brenna asked Melisande how she fared.

  They stopped for water and supplies briefly off the southern coast of England, then made straightaway for Dubhlain.

  It would have been good to come here if she hadn"t felt such a great concern for her own home. Erin greeted her affectionately, demanding to know everything that had happened since she"d seen her last. Even Rhiannon and Eric were there, for Eric, too, had answered his father"s summons to come and fight for their uncle.

  Their first day in the walled city of Dubhlain was a wonderful one, but an exhausting one, and no matter how sweet the reunion with people she loved, there was an edge to it all, for they all knew that as soon as everyone had gathered, the men would ride out.

  Eric spent the day closeted with his father, brothers, brothers-in-law, and various cousins and uncles. Melisande spent the afternoon with Erin, Rhiannon, and her sisters-in-law in the grianon, or ladies" sun room, a handsome long room, well ventilated, that the Viking Olaf had built in to his home in honor of his wife—and his adopted country.

  Rhiannon was anxious, pacing the floor, and Daria, was, as ever, in constant, supple motion. Yet Erin and her older daughters sat calmly, working upon fine needlework. Katherine, Conan"s wife, read aloud from a beautifully crafted manuscript about the ancient peoples of Eire, about the formation of their social structures. She read about Saint Patrick, who had brought them Christianity and ordered all snakes from the island.

  Melisande listened awhile, but her mind wandered. She discovered Erin"s still beautiful emerald green eyes upon her.

  “How do you do it?” Melisande whispered softly. “Sit so calmly when they all ride away?”

  Erin smiled and passed her a needle.

  “Thread this for me, please. My eyes
are not what they were.”

  “Your eyes are excellent, Mother!” Daria charged her.

  “Melisande, as Daria is behaving like uppity baggage, would you please be so good as to thread my needle?” her voice remained soft. Daria stood behind her, linking her arms around her mother"s neck. “Take care, Mother. I am the most like you, so they say!”

  “Heavens! Was I ever so wild?”

  “Wilder, they say!” Daria replied sweetly.

  Erin shrugged. She looked at Melisande and smiled. “I am calm because I have watched them ride away so many times. I am blessed, for they always return. Mostly …” she murmured, then shrugged. “I have lost those I loved, too.

  And every time I have seen milord Olaf ride away, I have died a bit inside.

  Leith, the eldest, was the first to ride to battle with his father, and I thought that I could not bear it if he did not return. I was blessed. He did return. A little life goes out of me each time I watch a son ride. But I learned long ago that I could not protect the men in my life by forcing them to be weak. You see, my father was able to hold most of this island because he had the strength of my brothers, because he forged tight alliances among the people. When he could not rid the island of Olaf—he wed me to him. We will remain strong as long as we remain united.” She leaned close to Melisande, her eyes gentle. “Conar will return, you know.”

  “So he has assured me,” she murmured.

  He would come back—because he had not left her with an heir.

  “Do you resent his being called here, when you have so recently returned to your home?”

  “No!” she said swiftly. But she wondered if Erin saw the lie. She lowered her lashes quickly. She knew that even if she were expecting a child, there could be no motion within her as yet.

  And still …

  There seemed to be a fluttering. What of their child? Would it be a boy, would he be loyal, determined to fight for his father and home at all costs? She would have fought for her father, given everything for him!

  She looked at Erin and repeated her protest. “No, really. I—I am grateful to see you again, for I never really said good-bye.”

  Erin smiled and set her sewing down. “You are always welcome here. You are nearly as much mine as my own blood.” She stroked Melisande"s cheek. “I did raise a beautiful child!” she said softly. Then she spoke to them all. “Pardon me, for the house is full, and I must see to our meal this evening.” The house was full and lively. Bryan and Bryce were eager to see her, and she was glad to see them both, finding herself lifted off the ground and spun around by them one by one. There were so many people to greet. All the children of the king and queen of Dubhlain were here, and they with their children, and there seemed very little space to even walk.

  But the young ones were sent to bed by mealtime, and the hall was extremely well organized as the family took their seats. Food was ample, consisting of steaming summer vegetables, dozens of fowl, boar, deer, fish, eels. Plates were brought to the table and passed around. Wine, ale, and mead were served.

  The food was rich, but the entertainment that night was kept to a minimum.

  A lone musician played a lute while they dined, and Melisande quickly discovered why.

  She and Conar had been the last to arrive. The men would ride in the morning, and they would retire early tonight.

  Olaf himself was the first to rise, reaching down a hand to his Erin. The years had treated them kindly, touched them hardly at all. They were still a beautiful and glorious couple, he so golden, she so dark.

  Erin"s hand fitted into his, her gaze met her husband"s. Melisande found herself looking away, for she was suddenly certain that even after bearing all these children, after the passage of all these years, the two would retire tonight and hold each other passionately and tenderly through the long hours until the sun rose.

  “Melisande?”

  Conar was reaching down to her. She hesitated just a moment, feeling a fierce ache streak through her. She wanted something she could nearly touch, but not quite.

  She wanted what a Viking held.

  What the king and queen of Dubhlain shared.

  She bit lightly into her lower lip, then curled her fingers into his.

  Leaving the hall was not so easy with all those who were within it. There were all his sisters and brothers and their mates with whom to exchange good nights.

  As they left the hall, Conar had a final word with his brother Eric. While she waited for them to finish, Melisande noted a familiar figure she had not seen before.

  Mergwin.

  She cried out gladly, hurrying to him, throwing her arms around his neck. “I didn"t know that you were here!”

  “I will not stay long,” he told her. “I am too old to ride to war these days.

  Brenna sees with keener eyes than I now the warning signs that God allows us to see. But I had a craving to come home and so sailed here with Eric and Rhiannon. We"ll have time together,” he promised her.

  She kissed his cheek. “I"m glad.”

  “Your husband summons you,” Mergwin said, and she looked back. Conar did await her, sending a salute to Mergwin, and she realized that Mergwin had surely been closeted with them all day.

  “Good night, then. I"ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

  He held her just a moment longer. “Conar will return,” he told her.

  “So he says.”

  “It is true. The runes say so.”

  “Are the runes ever wrong?”

  “When I cast them? Seldom.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Melisande,” he murmured, just as she turned away.

  “Aye, Mergwin?”

  “It"s a boy.”

  “What?”

  “Your child. It"s a boy. Have you told him?”

  She paled. “I"m not even certain!” she exclaimed. Then she added softly.

  “Do … you intend to tell him?”

  “Nay, lady. It is—”

  “Aye, my place!” she interjected. Once more she started to turn.

  “Melisande,” he murmured again.

  “Aye?”

  “Wolves tend to mate for life.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Wolves,” he repeated gravely. “And their cubs. And the cubs of their cubs.

  They mate for life.”

  She smiled and wondered how he could so easily read her heart, and prayed that others could not do so.

  “I ramble now and then,” he said.

  “Umm!” she replied. But she smiled and kissed his cheek again and fled. She accepted Conar"s hand again as he escorted her to the room they were to share.

  It was large enough. A window opened to a view of the moon, which had diminished in the night sky. She fumbled with a tie at her back, then felt his hands there. She went still, allowing him to loosen her garment.

  “I know that you are angry,” he said softly. “But do you fight me tonight?” His mouth touched down, a liquid breath of fire, upon her bare nape.

  She held still for a moment, then turned in his arms. Her eyes met his. “No!” she told him softly. “No.”

  Tonight, nay. When she would lie alone so many nights to come.

  When she planned to defy him.

  When he would ride away with Brenna.

  Nay, not tonight. Tonight she would love him with all that he had taught her, with all that God had granted her. She clung to him, returning his kisses with hot, open-mouthed fire, disentangling herself from him to nuzzle against his body, brush it with the silk of her hair, tease and caress with her lips, teeth, and tongue. Sink lower and lower against him.

  His fingers wound into the ebony tangle of her hair and he let her have her way, his breathing ragged and heavy. She worked her way around him, on her toes to press her lips to his shoulders, sliding against him again with her body and breasts, pressing her kisses lower and lower. Sliding against him still, touching him, tasting him, having him.

  Indeed, he let her
have her way, until the point when he lifted her up and bore her to the bed, his eyes locked with hers. Yet despite the searing heat and energy within him, he did not take her then but made love to her very slowly.

  Tasting her as if he could never taste enough. Stroking her flesh as if he could memorize its feel with his fingertips. And finally, when she tossed upon the bed with a wild frenzy, he came to her, joined with her, and rose with her until the tempest swept them both.

  Later they met upon their knees. Their fingers laced together, their lips met endlessly. The fire built slowly, exquisitely.

  Then it raged again, and left them curled together, shaken and exhausted.

  Melisande could barely move. Yet she was glad of his touch. Glad of the arm that held her close, of the strong leg that lay haphazardly draped over her. She closed her eyes.

  When she awoke, Conar was nearly dressed. She could not imagine that she had slept so late when the courtyard was filled with such a din below, so many horses, so many men.

  “Hurry,” he urged her, “they are all but ready to ride.” She jumped up quickly, washed with a dab and a promise for later, and dressed.

  When she turned, he was completely outfitted for battle, mail upon his chest, sword at his hip, helmet in his hand. Still he drew her against him and drank deeply of her lips once again.

  “I will return. Wait for me but briefly, and I will return.” A shivering seized her. She stared into his eyes and nodded. He touched her cheek, as if marveling at her, then demanded, “Melisande, do you heed me?”

  “Aye! I must wait for you.”

  “Obey me in this.”

  “Aye!” she cried.

  “Is it passion—or hatred—that burns so fiercely within your eyes?” he demanded.

  She lowered her lashes, but he jerked her hard against him. “Melisande!”

  “I beg you—”

  “I beg you, lady. Heed my warnings.”

  “What choice have I?”

  “None,” he assured her curtly. And he turned to leave.

  She followed him. He paused, turned again, and took her hand. She walked out below with him where he found Swen awaiting him, Thor behind his own horse. Conar took the stallion"s reins, then paused, and drew Melisande into his arms once again. She grew breathless, afraid that she would not be able to stand when he released her.