Lord of the Wolves

by Heather Graham

  “How much she risks …” Brenna murmured.

  “What are you talking about now?” he asked in exasperation, suddenly frowning. “Why your worry about what I might have done? What else does she risk?”

  Brenna"s lashes fell quickly, but too late.

  “I want to know now,” he urged softly.

  “She"s told you nothing?”

  He threw his arms up in frustration. “Brenna, she did not welcome me with open arms—”

  “And I"m sure that you did not greet her with a tender kiss.”

  “She defied and disobeyed me, Brenna—”

  “Yet she tried to tell you it was desperate you come home.”

  “I couldn"t leave my father, my uncle, my brothers.”

  “She couldn"t leave her people.”

  “All right, Brenna, I want to know what you are trying not to tell me, why the concern, why the worry? I still might flay her to within a half inch of life. If there"s some reason that I should not—”

  “She"s expecting your child.”

  His breath left him. He was so stunned, he might have been blown over like a leaf. Aye, he"d always wanted a child, it was natural. And aye, children certainly did come from the one very thing that he and Melisande seemed to do so well together.

  But he hadn"t even begun to hope that she might be expecting. Perhaps because she battled him so, because she did not want it, did not want him.

  He swallowed hard. Nay, she had not told him, had not mentioned a word to him.

  Brenna seemed to read his mind. “Perhaps she does not feel certain as yet, perhaps she wants to assure herself that she will not lose the babe—”

  “And perhaps she simply hates me so deeply that she has no intention of telling me.”

  “She doesn"t hate you.”

  “Hate, loathe, despise—I think those are her words.”

  “And hatred, milord, is very close to love—and passion is readily its bedfellow!”

  Did Brenna know his own feelings when it came to Melisande? Aye, surely she did, even if others did not know how deeply his Frankish beauty ruled his heart.

  “You needn"t fear anything,” he said at last. “I never intended to beat my wife. What to do with her, I do not know. But I never meant to strike a blow against her. And now …” He paused, for a deep trembling filled him. A child.

  A babe. A handsome lad like his brother"s Garth. A beautiful girl like Eric"s infant babe.

  But his own …

  His own to raise, to teach. A child with so rich a heritage! One to touch, cradle, love.

  “What do I do with her?” he asked Brenna.

  “Love her?” she suggested.

  He grinned slowly, then slipped an arm around her. “I"ve tried …” he murmured, then shrugged. “Perhaps, who knows? Perhaps this great breach we"ve created now can be healed. We"ve the future, we"ve … a child!” His fingers closed, his hands formed white-knuckled fists. What were her thoughts on the matter? Why hadn"t she told him? She loved children, he knew it well enough, he had seen her with his brother"s offspring, with other nephews and nieces and cousins.

  But this was his child.

  “A Viking child,” he murmured. “Will she want it?”

  “Only a fourth Viking, milord,” Brenna reminded him. “A fourth Irish, and a full half Frankish.”

  “Indeed?”

  “On the other hand …”

  “Aye?”

  “The child I am about to have with Swen will be half Viking from both of us, and half Irish—from both of us.”

  “You and Swen …”

  “We"d like to wed. Have we your blessing, Conar?” He kissed her cheek, holding her to him. “Indeed. Blessing! I shall insist upon the marriage. My heartiest best wishes to you both.”

  “Thank you, milord. Mergwin will be disappointed, of course.” She wrinkled her nose. “He always thought my powers would be greater were I to vow myself to a life of chastity.”

  “Ah, but that old scoundrel gave no thought to the powers of love!” She smiled. He slipped an arm about her shoulders and led her back into the fortress. Swen was in the great hall drinking ale, talking animatedly with Philippe and Gaston. Conar immediately poured himself a goblet of ale and then poured more for those in the hall, passed the drinks around, and offered a toast to Swen and Brenna. Their health was drunk all around.

  Conar sat at the table, half listening as the men spoke about the situation in the Frankish kingdoms.

  Melisande lay above him. He wanted to go to her, shake her, demand to know why she denied him so much. He wanted to hold her tenderly against him as well, he wanted to touch her again, make love to her again, feel the fiery heat and vibrant force of her body against his, feel the desire, the exultation, the simple comfort of sleeping beside her.

  She had threatened that she would not be there. She had not come down to the hall. Did she fear him so at last then? Melisande … ?

  Did she pace the floor, waiting? In anger, dread …

  Anticipation?

  “Ah, but Swen!” he heard Gaston murmur. “Your troubles in Eire are vast, I agree. But look at our recent history here! "Twas just 860 when Vikings set upon Jeufosse, an island in the Seine a bit north of Paris. Charles the Bald tried to dislodge them, his brother Lothar fought with him to remove the menace.

  Then Charles"s other brother, Louis, invaded from the southeast, Charles had to leave to fight his brother, and the Vikings were entrenched. But the Vikings are enterprising, eh? Another group offered Charles to rid the isle of the wretches—

  for a mere five thousand pounds of silver! Plus food and sustenance, of course, the finest wines available, if you please! Charles was not fond of paying this danegeld, and so he began all that you see here, what you will see dotted over the countryside—fortresses such as this! The Vikings do not like to attack fortresses.”

  “Aye,” Philippe agreed. “You have your woes, and ours grow worse. When Alfred won his great victory in England in 878, the Vikings set to attack him, then set their eyes upon us! And Lothar"s kingdom was divided between one King Louis and another King Louis. Our King Louis of the western Franks went on to win a great battle at Saucourt, near the Somme, but went on to kill himself in the pursuit of a young girl! His brother, Carloman, died just last year, and so we are left to the mercy of Charles the Stout, who has already sold out to the invaders again and again. Only Count Odo stands strong against him, and so we stand strong with Count Odo!”

  Conar smiled a moment, curious at the manner these Franks had of referring to their kings. There was now Charles the Fat, before him there had been Charles the Bald. He was glad it was not so with his family. His grandfather had been, if anything, Aed the Fair. His father, and his father"s father, always the Lord of the Wolves, as he himself was called.

  Thank God. He would not want to be titled for his shortcomings. He smiled inwardly, thinking of a few Viking titles he knew. Rodir the Hairless, Hak the Limper. Raup the One-legged.

  Perhaps none of them was too kind. He would have to be careful not to lose his hair.

  And just what did Melisande call him in his absence? he wondered.

  The Viking. He would always be the Viking, he thought, and he could disavow his heritage, or a father he loved. Yet it seemed that he could not teach her that no matter what a man"s heritage, he had to be judged for himself, for the life he had come to live, for the ideals he embraced himself. Maybe it was too much to ask of a woman from a world that had been too long terrorized by a certain people.

  Ah, but he did ask it! He demanded it, he craved it! She had to be made to see, to meet him halfway, to obey him, aye, for she was in such great danger if she did not! She had to be made to …

  Love him? Did Brenna have the simplest answer of all?

  He realized suddenly that Philippe was looking at him, and that he had spoken. “Your pardon, Philippe. I"m sorry, I"m weary, and my mind wandered.”

  “We"re glad to have you home, milord. We have missed you
sorely. All of us, as well as milady Melisande.”

  “Thank you. I am glad to be here,” Conar said. His lip curled. These men were not fools. They had to know that though Melisande might of necessity have been glad of his arrival, she must have dreaded it as well.

  “It"s true, milord,” Gaston told him. “She has walked around here like a pale ghost these many weeks. I know she is glad you have come home.” Home. Aye, this was to be his home now. It was difficult to be torn so, to feel the bind to his native land, and now to this one.

  Melisande"s land.

  Nay, their land.

  Yet perhaps she had her point. If he was to claim it, then he needed live on it.

  He prayed the future would allow him to do so.

  Ragwald entered the room, looking strangely uncomfortable.

  “What is it?” Conar demanded, then sighed inwardly. Surely if Brenna was concerned about his treatment of his wife, Ragwald would be doubly so. Yet Ragwald had been glad of his return, Conar was very aware of that.

  Ragwald was glad of the firm grip he had upon Melisande—when he actually had that grip.

  “I don"t know …” Ragwald murmured, then shrugged. “Nothing, something.

  I don"t know, aye, there is something! It has haunted me for hours now!” He hesitated, then frowned. “Milord, where is Melisande?” Just then Brenna gasped and doubled over. Swen leapt toward her, as did Conar, anxiously.

  “Are you all right?” Swen cried.

  “Is it the babe?” Conar asked.

  She shook her head, her hand on Swen"s reassuringly. He sat, drawing her to his lap. “I"m fine, it was a feeling, a feeling such as Ragwald"s …” Suddenly the silence from the floor above seemed to shriek a warning to Conar. He leapt up and tore for the stairs, bounding up their length. He burst through the door to their room. And found it empty.

  Empty. Damn her! She should have been here! He had told her that he would come back, and she had said that he must not count on her being there.

  “Damn her!” he breathed. “Damn her …”

  He felt as if a knife pierced his heart. Jesu, had she really tried to flee him again?

  “Nay, nay, Conar!” Brenna cried. She had followed him frantically up the stairs. “Look at the bed, it is torn about, there was a struggle.” He strode swiftly to the bed and saw the truth of Brenna"s words. He wrenched the remaining sheet into his hand. His head fell back. “Melisande!” It was a cry that seemed to rip the night, to cause the very fortress walls to shudder and quake.

  He staggered back, sick with rage and fear. For a moment he didn"t feel he had the strength to stand, his terror for her was so great. He had to find strength.

  He could not falter now. Yet how? How had he come just in time. How had he bested his enemy, fought so long, so hard, touched her, held her again. He had feared that he would never do so, but she had been in his arms, fragrant, wild, sweet silk, Melisande.

  How … ?

  Ah, just as he had tricked Maelmorden in Eire, someone had tricked them all here. A single man. No, more—no one man could have taken Melisande from here! She would have fought like a wild thing.

  “She did not leave here of her own free will, I swear it!” Ragwald said passionately, his voice trembling with emotion.

  Conar lowered his head, fighting to control his fear and his rage, all dangerous when it was imperative now that he keep a clear head.

  “Geoffrey,” he said.

  “But how … ?” Philippe questioned.

  “The battle was over. People were milling about, the wall was broken, everyone was busy. He watched me leave the tower. And he went for Melisande.”

  Gaston crossed himself, tears in his eyes. “How do we fight him, how—” Conar whirled on Swen. “Get someone down to the Danish prisoners. Find out where he might have taken her. Slip someone in among them, someone who can be one of theirs. Quickly, now!”

  Swen hastened to do as he was bidden. Conar could not bear to stay in the room.

  To stare at the bed where he had so recently loved her.

  From where she had so recently been taken.

  Had Geoffrey touched her as yet? The rage swept through him. Nothing that the man could do would change his love for Melisande, but if he hurt her in any way, Conar would want to kill him slowly, painfully!

  His eyes fell upon the gilded mail. Upon her delicately engraved sword.

  He could not stay. He left the room and paced the hall below as he forced himself to patience, forced himself to wait for word to come.

  It did, quickly. His man Jute arrived soon with Swen, bowed, and spoke quickly.

  “The Danes will soon lay siege to Paris,” he said swiftly. “Their numbers here are huge, and they have been paid in silver by Geoffrey Sur-le-Mont to fight with him as well. They camp by the old Roman ruins, from where Melisande was taking her stones. Geoffrey has taken her there. There are foundations there, with deep hallways and pits in the earth. There are burial chambers, too. The place is quite a maze and does not need so many guards.”

  “I will go for her then,” Conar said.

  “Have we the numbers?” Philippe demanded.

  Conar shook his head. “I will go for her alone.”

  Philippe gasped. “What insanity, milord! Brave insanity!” he added quickly.

  “But to what avail?”

  “Geoffrey came for her alone, and so walked through us all. It is a ploy we quite recently used in Eire, and I don"t think Geoffrey will expect it to be used against him now. I do know something of these ruins. I met Count Manon there with my uncle when I was very young and have ridden near them since. I remember the layout … and the look of the land.”

  He strode to the table, knocking goblets from it with a sweep of his arm, then quickly replacing them to show landmarks. “The old tower lies here. There is a passage below, and it enters the burial vaults. There is another here, ending in what must have been a storage vault.” He paused and placed a goblet flat upon it. “Here!” he exclaimed. “Here is where they will have her. And here”—he paused, placing another goblet on the table—“is where his men will be gathered, behind this broken rubble of wall. They can camp and still keep their eyes upon the road. And there, my fine friends, is where you must wait for me with our numbers. When I appear with Melisande, you must be ready to charge.”

  “If you can appear with her, dear God, we will still be so outnumbered!” Gaston worried.

  But there was suddenly a loud exclamation. Conar turned to see Ragwald standing in the entry. He was breathless, and Conar realized that he had not followed them at first. His hair and beard were windblown. The old man had been outside. “Nay, Count Conar, nay! I do not believe we are outnumbered!” Ragwald turned and started up the stairs again. Curious, Conar and the others hurried behind him. He came to Melisande"s tower and hurried after Ragwald.

  The night was dark. They could still see the sea. It was dotted with torchlight.

  The torches illuminated a great army of ships. “Jesu, more and more Danes!” Philippe cried. But Conar smiled slowly. “Nay, friends. Ragwald is right. We no longer lack numbers!”

  “But what—?” Philippe began.

  “My family!” Conar said softly.

  When Maelmorden was beaten, his father had told him, they would all be free.

  And so they were.

  And just as he had always answered a call for help, now he was being answered, when he had not even thought to voice the call.

  “Aye! My family!” he repeated. “They have arrived!” He pointed to the ships, growing more and more visible as they drew closer.

  Again, as if he had asked the sky for help, the clouds lifted away from the moon.

  Aye, they came. Eric, his father, Leith, Bryan, Bryce, his brothers-in-law, cousins, uncles, cousins-in-law.

  He swung around suddenly. “Swen, greet them. I must make haste to reach Melisande before she does herself damage in her fear of Geoffrey.” Or of me, he added silently. “Tell them what I hav
e told you. They will know what to do.

  They have done it once.”

  He spun around, ready to hurry down the stairs.

  “Conar!” Swen called.

  Conar waited.

  “How will you slip through them, what disguise will you use?” He grinned. “One that I am very adept with. One that will blend in.”

  “Aye?”

  He sighed. “I will go as a Viking, Swen. I will go as a Viking.” He turned and left them once again, and in minutes he was riding into the darkness alone, even as a vast army arrived on his shores to help him.

  He was grateful. He needed help now.

  But he also had to reach her. Quickly. Alone.

  It was the only way to save her. He could only pray that they would follow.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Melisande could see nothing, not even a form in the darkness. What little filtering of light that had come when the door opened left as soon as it had closed. She stood dead still, listening.

  She could hear it. Deep, ragged breathing.

  Geoffrey? Had he come back?

  No, he would have brought a torch—he"d want to see the dismay on her face when he returned for her.

  The person who had come now brought no light. He had come furtively.

  “Where are you?” The soft question came in the Norse language, and she felt a cold wave of dread slip over her. Geoffrey had played with rapists and thieves. Now his thieves were wishing to steal the prize he had plundered himself.

  She remained perfectly silent, then felt movement from the door. The Dane had entered, come down the steps, and was now swinging heavily muscled arms from side to side to try to trap her.

  She ducked low just in time, feeling the whir of air as the hand struck the air, inches from her face. He crossed the room and started back.

  A rat squealed, just at her feet. She bit her lip as her blood raced, ducking and fleeing across with only a breath to spare when he started back again.