Love's Captive Heart (Author's Cut Edition)

by Phoebe Conn

Mylan shifted his weight gradually, tenderly cradling the delicate beauty in his arms as he moved to possess her fully, to make her truly his wife. He called her name softly, and his desire drew her back into his dream of love. She lifted her arms to encircle his neck as he began to move within her, his strength tempered with such easy grace that she wanted all he could give of this new and even greater pleasure.

  Her whole body burned with the heat he infused, the flames of his passion searing her to him in an eternal bond she would never seek to dissolve. She moved with a graceful rhythm to accept his loving, drawing him ever deeper into the magic he had created so thoughtfully for her, until at last he buried his face in her flaxen curls, and she clung to him still, her heart too full of love to let him go.

  When the bright haze of passion had at last cleared his mind he covered her face with kisses as gentle as the summer breeze and drew her close to his heart. He had thought he had wed a young woman who was little more than a pretty child, but he had found her to possess an astonishing depth and spirit.

  "You fascinate me," he whispered.

  She drew her fingertips through his thick curls and along his cheek as she tried to imagine how she could possibly tell him the truth about anything. "You are fascinating as well."

  "I had not dreamed our marriage would be this good." He sealed his vow with a slow, deep kiss that left them both dizzy, entwined in each other's arms, too content ever to part.

  She snuggled against him, for she had found a paradise in his arms she had not imagined existed on earth and knew he had shared the very same exquisite joy. She traced his scarred chest with a seductive caress before sliding her hand down his flat stomach and encircling his waist to draw him near. When she lifted her lips to his he responded eagerly to her enticing affection, enveloping her once again in a passion-filled dream that left her glowing with the pleasure of his love. She was the most talented of pupils, the most loving of wives, and had learned swiftly how to please him as greatly as he pleased her.

  She felt truly loved lying in his affectionate embrace and prayed their marriage would last forever. Perhaps it mattered not at all what had brought them together when they were such a perfect match.

  Chapter 4

  Celiese awoke slowly from her beautiful dreams of love. She stretched languidly, pressing closer to Mylan's to savor his comforting warmth. He lay sleeping so soundly she did not want to wake him, but propped her chin on her elbow to study the planes of his attractive features in the dim glow that remained of the once bright fire upon the hearth. The scar on his cheek was faint, a wound suffered at an earlier time than the bear's attack, and she grew curious as to what had caused the mark he would always carry. Perhaps it had been no more than a boyhood game that had ended too roughly, the result of a brawl with his brothers or some boisterous friends. She would not ask though, she would wait until he wished to tell her, as it was so slight a flaw she would not make him think it disturbed her.

  Her glance swept his face with a loving caress. He had become so dear to her in the brief time they had shared, and he would be the husband she had not dared hope ever to have. She could not stop smiling as she watched him sleep. His dark lashes were as thick as her own, and she leaned down to kiss his eyelids sweetly. Her light touch did not wake him, although a slow smile came to his lips. He had a marvelous smile, so charming an expression she was tempted to wake him just to see it again, but it would be foolish, since he would surely smile at her whenever he chanced to wake. She laced her fingers in his as she moved closer to snuggle against the curve of his lean body, and yawning dreamily, she drifted over the edge of sleep filled with loving thoughts of him.

  * * *

  It was not yet dawn when a piercing cry of alarm brought Mylan swiftly from his slumber. He looked down at Celiese for one brief moment, then sprang from his bed and reached for the clothing he had discarded so carelessly upon the floor. "Stay here, Olgrethe, bolt the door and do not open it to anyone until I return."

  Celiese sat up, clutching a soft fur robe to her breast as she watched her husband dress with considerable haste before he withdrew a sharp, double-edged sword from the wooden chest beside the hearth. "Mylan, what is it? I heard someone call—a scream—what could be wrong? What terrible thing could have happened?"

  "Perhaps nothing." He turned to smile reassuringly as he reached the door. "It may be no more than a guest rousing from a drunken stupor, but I will make certain all is well."

  As he slipped through the door she saw only the ease with which he carried his weapon, as if it were an extension of his arm, and she brought her hand to her lips to stifle her own cry of alarm. Dear God, why had she not understood what he was? Did his mother truly believe her sons traveled the world as honest traders and merchants rather than as the bloodthirsty pirates Vikings always were?

  She sprang from the ample bed and dressed quickly, cursing her own folly as the sounds from the great hall below continued to increase in volume. Despite Mylan's command, she opened the door, hoping to discover what terrifying thing had transpired.

  The sounds of battle surrounded her with a sudden horror. The clang of steel as swords clashed with brutal blows echoed up the stairway with a deafening roar, followed by both male and female screams. Smoke from fires set below stung her eyes, and she quickly returned to the safety of her husband's room.

  She slammed the door shut, and threw the bolt. Blood-drenched scenes of battle and death raged through her mind with the indelible memory of her own dear people and how quickly they had died under Raktor's sword. Who could have attacked on this of all nights? Surely Aldred's forces combined with Raktor's could defeat any intruders, but the noise of the fighting continued until the rising sun spread crimson flames across the morning sky.

  When the door flew open with a mighty crash Celiese sprang back, certain of what a beautiful young woman's fate would surely be at the hands of any enemy warrior. "Raktor!" Her voice filled with hope. "Have you beaten off the intruders' assault?"

  The husky man threw back his head and howled with laughter. "It is my own attack, Celiese. Did you not understand why I brought you here rather than Olgrethe?"

  "It was a trap?" Horrified by his revelation, Celiese ran toward the door in an attempt to slip past the despicable brute. "Where's Mylan? Where is my husband?"

  "Husband?" Raktor's expression filled with glee. "We may do this again and again, Celiese, as my enemies are many. I may marry you off a hundred times, since it allows me such easy access to my foe's home."

  "You coward! What have you done with Mylan?" She slapped the villain's face with all her strength, but he grabbed her hand and twisted her arm cruelly behind her back to force her down the steep flight of stairs.

  "There is your husband, girl, bound with the other captives. Keep him alive if you can. I plan to demand a high ransom for his return, for him or his body, whichever I have!"

  Celiese rushed to the young man's side. His tunic was torn and bloody, but whether the blood was his own or that of his adversaries she could not tell. "Mylan!" She whispered a desperate vow: "I will save you, but you must help me, my dearest."

  Mylan opened his pain-filled eyes and hissed a venomous reply. "I'll see you dead first, you traitorous bitch!"

  Raktor gave a hearty chuckle as he approached. "Well, Celiese, your husband seems displeased with you for some reason." As he drew back his foot to kick the helpless man, she dove between them, taking the full force of his vicious blow in her ribs, and she fainted across Mylan's lap, the excruciating pain too great to bear.

  * * *

  More than an hour elapsed before a forceful shove jarred Celiese to consciousness. They had all been taken aboard Raktor's ship, where she lay wedged between Mylan and another prisoner she could not name. They had not thought to bind her hands and feet as they had the others. She tried to adjust her position to become more comfortable, but the pain that shot through her chest stopped her effort instantly. The sea had grown rough, the cloud cover low and de
nse, and a light rain splashed down upon the huddled group of captives, making their confinement all the more miserable.

  Mylan was asleep or unconscious, Celiese could not tell which, but she moved slowly, just ahead of the pain, to untie his feet before she reached for his hands. Brawny members of crew were laughing amongst themselves, drunk with ale as well as with the ease of their surprise victory, and they paid no attention as she freed her husband and then drew him into her arms. As the storm worsened, heavy cascades of water washed over them as the graceful ship continued across the fjord toward Raktor's land.

  Lightning burned fierce arcs through the clouds, illuminating the red dragon emblazoned upon the white sail seconds before the icy waves again crashed down upon the ship, this time shearing off the mast and sending the heavy sail down upon the hapless prisoners. The next wave covered them with a sudden rush that carried away the debris. Mylan was swept from his bride's arms, but she grabbed for the edge of his tunic with a desperate clutch and held on as they were hurled over the side of the ship into the storm-ravaged sea. Now fully awake, Mylan grabbed a length of the shattered mast and thrust it into Celiese's hands to keep her afloat in the mounting waves. They drifted together, unseen in the mist as the ship sailed on, her crew straining at the oars to control the vessel through the giant swells of the storm.

  Celiese clung to the wood until she was so cold her fingers could no longer grasp, but Mylan reached out to catch her as she slipped away. He drew her back and held her head above the bone-chilling sea until he could see nothing but the grim face of death hovering before his eyes.

  * * *

  Drenched by the rain, battered by the waves that had tossed her upon the rock-littered shore, Celiese had never been in such agonizing pain. She retched repeatedly, gagging again and again until all the salt water had poured from her shaking body. She crawled along the jagged shoreline until she found Mylan sprawled upon the sand, blood streaming from a slash above his left eyebrow. But his pulse was strong, and she was elated to find him alive. She pressed her palm against his forehead until the flow of blood had been stemmed, then lay down beside him and drew him close so they might share what little warmth their bodies still possessed. Exhausted by her ordeal, her sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, but even then she did not let her husband go.

  The sun broke through the thick gray clouds by late afternoon, and she awoke to find Mylan's amber gaze intent upon her. He was furious with her still, his anger undisguised. Bruised and sore, she pushed herself up slowly into a sitting position while she fought for a way to make him understand she was not his enemy.

  "What did Raktor call you? You are most certainly not his daughter, Olgrethe." Mylan was glad to see the young woman awaken, as he was filled with questions to which he intended to demand honest answers.

  "I am Lady Celiese d'Loganville, a Frenchwoman of noble birth. The Torgvalds slaughtered my parents and took me captive five years ago."

  "A slave?" His finely shaped mouth curled into an accusing sneer. "Were you Raktor's mistress?"

  "No! You were my first and only lover!" She straightened her shoulders proudly, disgusted he would even suggest such a revolting alliance. She longed to make him understand her plight was every bit as desperate as his.

  "Just as they did in your house, the Torgvalds and the band of rogues who run with them attacked my family before dawn. The fighting was so fierce the bodies of those who had fallen littered each passageway, their innocent blood splattered upon every wall. Raktor himself carried me screaming from my bed, and because he thought I'd be an amusing companion for his daughter, I alone survived that terrible night."

  Taking a deep breath hurt, and she winced before she continued, determined to relate the whole disgusting tale now that she had begun. "The Torgvalds camped at the mouth of the Seine for more than a month and used the river to raid ever deeper into my homeland. In the fall Raktor took me home as a present for Olgrethe, as if I were some exotic pet he had captured simply to provide entertainment for her."

  Shutting out those horrible memories, she continued in a soft, lilting voice, "I had been very gently raised, Mylan, and provided a suitable companion for Olgrethe. As I grew older, I avoided all contact with Raktor and his vile sons. Although the only time I ever felt truly safe in that accursed house was in the summer, when they took to the sea to pursue their bloody thievery. I have been no man's mistress, for that term implies a knowledge of pleasure, and I did not even know such a possibility existed between a man and a woman until I married you."

  "Married me!" he scoffed contemptuously. He had listened with rapt attention to her story and found himself thoroughly confused, for she spoke with such obvious conviction he knew she was either exactly who she claimed to be or the most talented actress ever born.

  He was inclined to believe the latter and snarled bitterly, "I have heard enough of your ridiculous lies. What did you hope to gain by telling me that pathetic tale? How can you expect me to believe you are French?"

  He laced his fingers in Celiese's tangled curls to draw her near. "Although I have no interest in setting foot upon the shores of France, I have seen enough of your countrymen to know they are dark, the women petite. You, however are tall and fair, obviously one of our own, most probably one of Raktor's many bastards. Your blood is no more French than mine."

  She yanked her hair from his grasp as she hastened to argue. "You are the one speaking lies—for I know who I am! You may have seen French peasants, poor country folk brought here as slaves to work the farms, but you know nothing of the d'Loganvilles and how we look!"

  Mylan was astonished by her show of spirit, for no woman, least of all a slave, had ever dared raise her voice to him. "You have more courage than the French king, for it is said Charles will soon give away a portion of his land as appeasement. Vikings cannot be defeated by so meager a defense as he is able to raise."

  "Never! The King of France would never be so weak. He would not give pirates so much as an inch of soil in the name of peace." She found his arguments as ridiculous as he found hers, and could not believe they could possibly be true.

  Mylan sat back and stared at the bedraggled young woman. She had fared no better than he on their perilous voyage, but he found her beauty not in the least diminished by her disheveled state, and it was with considerable difficulty that he returned to their present discussion. "The king will soon give the land to one of my countrymen, a Dane by the name of Hrolf, and whether or not you believe it will happen does not matter, for it surely will. Now as to your tale, if any of what you say were true, you would have warned me last night to save my family from the same gruesome fate yours suffered. Your silence shows clearly where your loyalty lies."

  She nearly screamed in frustration before she responded with an anguished plea, "Had I known he planned an attack, I would have told you when first we met. I would have warned you immediately and helped you in every way I could, but I knew nothing of his evil plot. I was never told what was planned, and I am as shocked as you are by what has happened."

  Realizing further argument would be pointless when she was being so obstinate, he rose slowly to his feet. After stretching to work off his stiffness, he looked down at her. "Can you rise, are you able to walk? We can prove nothing here, and I have wasted enough time listening to your endless lies."

  She waited for his hand, but he did not offer it, and when she tried to stand alone she could not. Her side was too sore, and she slipped back upon the damp sand, shaking with the sharpness of the pain her exertions had brought.

  He swore in a long string of bitter oaths, damning Raktor to the bitterest of fates. "Why did you let him kick you? That was lunacy, and now you're too badly hurt to be of any help to me. What possessed you to be so foolish?"

  "He meant to kick you!" Her pretty green eyes filled with disbelief. Her action to protect him had been instinctive. Why did he not understand her devotion was real?

  "So what? I am a grown man, and I do not need the protec
tion of some lying female slave. It won't make up for your treachery. Had you wanted to help me you would have warned me of Raktor's true plans instead of deceiving me as you did." His expression was bitter. She was a rare beauty, but he was thoroughly disgusted with himself for falling so swiftly under her spell. It was a mistake he would not make again, not ever.

  "But I knew nothing of Raktor's scheme!" she insisted once again, imploring him to believe her.

  "You knew you were not Olgrethe. If nothing else, you knew that. Now cease your lying or I will kick you myself." He stepped forward clearly ready to make good on his threat if she did not obey him.

  Celiese stared coldly at the hostile young man. How could he not believe her after the night they had shared? Did he truly think she could have returned his affection so joyously if she had wished him dead? The truth was so plain she did not understand why he did not see it. Hiding her anger, since displaying it was futile when he was in so obnoxious a mood, she asked calmly, "If you will please help me up, I can walk."

  "I should leave you here to fend for yourself after what you've done to me." He took a few steps away, then turned back. "Come, dear wife, I will help you stand, but if you cannot keep up with me I will leave you behind." He reached down to lift her, but drew back when she cried out in pain.

  "Just give me your hand, do not touch me again." She bit her lip to stifle a sob.

  "Here then!" He extended his right hand and waited as she took a deep breath and grasping his outstretched arm rose unsteadily to her feet. But she took no more than two halting steps before she fainted, collapsing in the wet sand at his feet.

  Mylan lifted his gaze to the heavens to implore the aid of the gods, but he knew they would be uninterested in the fate of a slave, no matter how lovely she might be. He cursed his own luck that continued to run so swiftly to tragedy, and, scooping up the slender girl in his arms, he walked slowly down the beach in search of some shelter before the gathering clouds could again drench them to the skin with freezing rain.