Golden Surrender

by Heather Graham

  But he walked up to them coolly, giving no sign of having heard their words. “My lord of Connaught,” he greeted Fennen with brief cordiality. Ice-blue eyes swept Erin’s only momentarily as Olaf slipped an arm through hers, drawing her from Fennen’s light touch. “Would you excuse us, please. There are things I must discuss with my wife.”

  Fennen stepped back, tongue-tied, but nodding. My hero, Erin thought with a flash of bitterness. Why was it that even proven warriors such as Fennen seemed to quail before the Wolf?

  She felt her husband’s arm upon hers as if it were a chain of steel. But as they walked up the staircase, her resentment toward Fennen faded, and she began to nervously wonder again just what Olaf might have heard. I should be grateful, Erin thought. I do not want Fennen hurt, and at least Olaf behaved with civility. But she wasn’t grateful. She was terribly nervous. Olaf ignored her so frequently, and now he was leading her toward their room.

  “What do you wish to discuss?” she demanded regally, walking ahead of him with a show of annoyance as he pushed the heavy door open.

  He didn’t reply for a minute and the shivering that had begun at the base of her spine seemed to riddle her body. She found that she couldn’t keep her back to him and she turned to face him, forcing herself to maintain an irritated expression.

  He leaned against the wood of the door, his arms casully crossed over his chest, his eyes searing into her, his lips a slender line of white, an arched brow rising sardonically.

  “I wish to keep the peace, Princess,” he said with a surprising quiet. “therefore I do not wish to come across you in the arms of an Irish king again.”

  “I was not in his arms,” Erin protested angrily, but Olaf waved an arm impatiently and interrupted with his voice absurdly sharp for its soft quality.

  “If you want your gallant Irishman to live long and healthy, I will not find you alone with him again.”

  Erin lifted her chin a shade. I should be careful, she warned herself, but she could not be when her anger was rising at a frightening speed. He kept his whore about the hall, and yet she was not supposed to exchange words with an old friend, a man who was a king in his own right. “I was of the belief that I was the queen of Dubhlain,” she said sweetly. “I would assume, my lord, that as such I should nurture friendship with the Irish lords as well as the Norwegians.”

  Olaf paused for a moment, his lashes sweeping over his cheeks, a subtle grin working into his lips. He met her eyes again and moved across the room to sigh and ease his body down on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head as he kept his eyes on Erin. “Irish,” he murmured, “you are slow at comprehension.”

  Erin remained dead still, her nervousness increasing with his smile and pleasantry.

  “Come here,” he ordered quietly.

  “As you wish,” she murmured, approaching the bed with what she fervently hoped was a bored shrug. She paused several feet from him and waited with regal expectancy.

  “Come to me, Erin,” he persisted quietly.

  She paused, pondering the steel beneath the pleasantry of his command, meeting the cool fire in his eyes.

  “I don’t care to come closer,” she murmured uneasily.

  He twisted on the bed, leaning on his elbow. She keenly felt his Nordic eyes upon her. “Ahhh … that is the problem, Irish. You don’t care to work at this … and you seem to continually forget that you are granted many concessions.” He kept smiling pleasantly. “My back is itching terribly, Princess. If you would just lend a hand for a moment …”

  She stood silent, wondering if she could run for the door.

  Olaf’s grin became more wickedly pleasant as he lifted his palms. “Is it such a great thing that I ask, Princess? Were I to behave in true barbarian fashion, I could jump from this bed and drag you to it.”

  His voice trailed away as Erin began a furious two-step stalk toward him, sitting beside him uneasily on the bed. He lifted a brow at the scowl storming her features, but slipped his robe over his head and offered her his back. He was ready when she started to rake her nails diggingly over its expanse, twisting to capture her wrists before she could draw blood, meeting the tense anger in her eyes with a caustic grin. “It is a wonder, wife,” he said softly, “that you dare to call me barbaric. But I have been pondering this situation, and I have heard that neglect makes the shrew of the maid and the adulteress of the wife. I sought nothing but peace, Erin mac Aed. It seems instead that I do you a disservice.…”

  Erin’s eyes widened with alarm as he pressed her down on the bed. “No!” she protested quickly. “You do me no disservice!”

  Her protest came too late. She saw the hard light in his eyes and then felt the bruising determination of his lips on hers. She twisted her head in desperation, but she could not avoid him. He threaded his fingers through her hair and secured her nape, holding her still. She pummeled her fists against his back; he caught her wrists, securing them with one hand, and held her hair once more.

  Never had she felt more touched by fire. His mouth was a brand against hers, and even as she struggled against him, the heat seemed to steal over her, robbing her of resistance. He was demanding and consuming, sweeping aside her futile attempt to deny him with subtle persuasion as he parted her lips and teeth to his plundering tongue, seeking the deepest secrets of her mouth. Erin found herself short of breath, unable to move, to protest, and whirling toward an abyss of faintness where she had no control over the trembling, mounting heat that swept through her. His mouth was firm, yet softly caressing, fiery and yet gentle. And she whirled ever closer to that abyss. He no longer entangled his fingers in her hair, but brushed them against her cheek, along her throat, and then insolently over her breast.

  Suddenly he drew away. She stared at him, stunned, as he offered her his cold, dry smile and touched her moist lips with the tip of his finger. “I think, dear wife, that you will listen well to my commands and dwell long on the wisdom of dallying with any man, be he Norse or Irish. For I would think once more that you pined with neglect and would strive to see that you were not neglected and left alone.”

  Erin realized with a rage of humiliation that he spoke coldly, dispassionately. His fiery kiss had been naught but a lesson taught casually by a man well versed in the acts of love. A taunt to remind her that he held the power, and that if she opposed him, there was much left for her to lose if he chose to twist the reins.

  He held her no longer, but his fingers hovered mockingly over her breast. A quaking like the earth began in her as her face flushed with the force of her rage. She raised her hand furiously to strike him. He caught it with a flash of his own, and any façade of pleasantry left his voice.

  “Irish,” he growled, “you are either the most courageous or most foolhardy woman I have ever had the cursed luck to come across. Do you never learn? Let us see. Madam, shall I ever find you deep in conference with the king of Connaught again?”

  “No,” she bit out acidly. “But you are the fool, my lord. There was never cause to doubt my full obedience to your … command. What you do to me is a cross I alone must bear, but I have no desire for others to suffer or men to die on my account.”

  With her words, Erin scrambled from the bed, lifting her chin with a haughty pride dredged up from the remnants of dignity remaining her. She spun to leave, but he caught her arm and pulled her around to face him. She returned his probing assessment rigidly, barely able to conceal the trembling that still wracked her slender frame.

  “It isn’t difficult, Irish,” he said quietly. “You are free to go now, but I would have you listen, and listen well. I do not wield a tight chain, but when it is constantly pulled upon, it is only natural to jerk it back. Perhaps we have an understanding?”

  “A compromise?” Erin demanded bitterly.

  “That’s right, Irish. A compromise.”

  She turned to leave the room, daring to speak only when her hand was on the door. “You understand, Viking, it is a compromise—an alliance. By Irish law I can
still seek a separation—or divorce.” She closed the heavy door quickly behind her, annoyed that she hadn’t the strength to slam it even as she hastened desperately to at least once have the last word without his assured and mocking dispute.

  Erin plunged into the work of making the massive household run smoothly, finding that she could enjoy the time spent with both Freyda and Rig. She was pleased to discover that she did have a talent for choosing the most tasty beef and arranging meal courses, and also for seating the numerous lords of Ireland and jarls of Norway so that none was slighted. The tension within the women’s sun room eased as the Irish ladies joined the Norwegian and Erin found herself not so alone. It grieved her to see that Moira hid in the shadows, serving, but she could not force Moira to take a position that would add to her plight.

  Things simmered in the household, then came to a head when Erin discovered that a direct order she had given in the kitchen had been countermanded by Ma-geen—and Mageen had been obeyed. She learned of the situation when she had been about to enter the sun room to seek out her sister Bede. She stopped when she heard the whisperings.

  “It is a pity, because the queen has tried hard …”

  “If she were Norwegian, it might be understandable …”

  “He cares not, and so he does nothing …”

  A titter of laughter. “Poor little thing! A daughter of Aed, a princess of Tara, brought so low …”

  “Grenilde would never have allowed …”

  Erin fell back against the paneling of the wall, feeling her heart pounding relentlessly. Dear God, they gossiped about her mercilessly because she had no power in her own house. If Olaf tried, he could not humiliate her more. Perhaps he does try, she thought grimly, remembering how he had mocked her longing survey of the land beyond Dubhlain.

  Yet, in her way, she had tried to perform as he had said he wished: She had run his house as requested, and since the evening they had spoken in their bedchamber, she had stayed out of his way, giving him little trouble.

  No more, she vowed as she lifted her head and returned to her room. She ignored all further duty for the day, staring out the shuttered window. She could see Olaf, working out in the fields with his men. Her brothers were with him and Gregory. Gregory, whom she had barely seen since her arrival. Her cousin who had survived with her, and then fought beside her, turning to the Wolf because Olaf promised to return Clonntairth when Gregory was strong enough to hold it.

  Moira appeared after dusk to nervously remind Erin that it was time for supper in the banqueting hall.

  “I am not feeling well. You will please convey my regrets to my hus—to Olaf.”

  A look of panic crossed Moira’s lovely face. “Erin, you mus—”

  “Moira.” For the first time, Erin spoke to her friend as a mistress. “I have told you what I wish.”

  She assumed Olaf would barely notice her absence; if anything, he would be slightly annoyed. But when he left the hall for the night, she would be ready to accost him. She was not to speak to Fennen while he not only enjoyed Mageen, but allowed her to usurp Erin’s position.

  To Erin’s surprise, Olaf raged into the room just minutes later. When Erin saw the tic in his taut jaw and the blue fire in his eyes, she regretted her action in a moment of panic, but then she quelled her cowardice and stood tall before his attack. “What do you think you are doing?”

  She even managed a sweet and guileless smile. “Compromise, my lord. I do not care to dine with your whore.”

  “What?”

  “I shall not join you in the banqueting hall any more. I am a princess of Tara, Lord Wolf. You wanted your home run smoothly. That, in order to honor my father’s agreement, I did for you. But I shall do nothing any more, Lord Wolf. Not when you allow me to be dishonored by your whore.”

  To her vast surprise, he laughed. “You shall come with me now,” he said.

  “Only if you drag me. And there are Irish who would defend my rights below in your hall. And I believe that even among your own men you would find those who believe your wife should be respected.”

  His hands were upon his hips, his head slightly cocked. His blue eyes sparkled dangerously. “I think, wife,” he spat, “that you forget who the conqueror is.”

  “No, Olaf,” Erin said coolly, “I never forget.”

  Olaf stared at her hard. What was the matter with the bitch? he wondered. After all that had taken place, he had done his best to see that she adjusted to her new life. He forced himself to ignore her continual barbs, and he demanded so little of her. Why? he wondered. She was beautiful. The more he saw her, the more he realized just how lovely, how perfect she was: those eyes, like the endless green fields when the sun blazed the dew from the grass; her face, so stunningly aligned; her body, silken ivory, soft and yet firm, built to receive a man. And yet he left her alone when she was far more alluring than any other woman he knew. The answers ran swiftly through his mind. She despised him. She was his wife and he had always dreamed that Grenilde would be the only woman to hold that title.

  Now she still haughtily defied him, eyes blazing, head regally tilted. She still did not know that she was but an inconsequential game piece, and that he was not only the king of the Norse city he had won back with his own hands, but the one man attempting to establish a truce between his men and the Irish.

  His jaw twisted with hardness, his lips, full and sensuous, became a grim line in his bronze and golden face. “If you wish to be dragged,” he informed her in a deathly quiet tone, “then it appears that I shall be obliged to drag you.”

  He took a step toward her and she vaulted across their bed to face him over the broad expanse of it.

  He was pleased to see her lose the regal cool that had been irritating him beyond reason.

  “Drag me, then, dog, but remember this! You may have me flogged, or beat me senseless yourself! But I will not take another step toward running your house until you do something about your whore.”

  Despite her words, he kept coming, preferring to circle the bed and leave her pinned by the wall. He reached for her.

  “No!” Erin screamed, threading her fingers through his golden hair and pulling with incredible strength. She bit into his shoulder so hard that he gasped with surprise and released her, fury evident on his features. “Do for me, a princess of Tara,” Erin shrieked, barely aware of the words used in her plea, “at least that which you would have done for your Viking mistress!”

  He was dead still. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back. She had never seen an expression so dark, so fierce, so forboding. Coupled with his towering size and his lethal power, it was as chilling as a stab of ice.

  He struck out at her swiftly with a barely controlled violence that was shattering. One second she had been standing. The next the palm of his hand caught her face and she was thrown across the bed, her head reeling, tears of pain welling within her eyes. She couldn’t even seem to find balance to defend herself should he strike again.

  He didn’t. Instead he left the room and didn’t return that night.

  In the morning Rig brought her a tray of fresh-baked bread and smoked salmon and cheese. He saw first the pallor of her face, second the little red lines across her face that had been welts.

  He lowered his head with a fury for the lord he had served so many years. How could Olaf, merciful to all, mistreat this gentle lady? He would tell the Wolf exactly what he thought one day, even if it meant risking the anger of the sleek warrior.

  He noticed that Erin tried to hide her cheek with her hair and smile. He brought the tray to the bed and unobtrusively assessed the damage. It was not that bad. It would fade by afternoon.

  “I see that you are still not yourself, my lady,” Rig murmured, bobbing as always. “I will make sure that you are not disturbed.”

  Her liquid emerald eyes touched on him. “Thank you, Rig. I believe I shall stay in my chamber this morning.”

  Rig poured her a goblet of fresh co
w’s milk from a horn. He didn’t want to leave her. “I thought I would stay with you a spell and tell you a bit of our ways.” He didn’t give her a chance to protest. “You see, in the beginning, there was nothing but a great chasm called Ginnungagap. Very slowly, two worlds grew up on either side: Niflheim, the dark side, and Muspell, where there was heat and light. At the place where they met, life came about in the form of Ymir the giant. Ymir created himself a cow named Audhimbla from the ice, and from her he gained nourishment. But she licked the salty ice to sculpt the first human form, Buri. Now Ymir fathered the giants who were dark and evil; Buri fathered Bor who fathered Odin, our highest god. Now all of the sons of Bor killed Ymir, and Odin set about to create earth. Ymir’s blood became rivers, his flesh, the earth—even the mountains were created from his bones! And light was taken from Muspell to illuminate the earth. And then the sons of Bor created the first man and woman—they gave life and breath to two trees and they became Ask and Embla. Man began to people the earth, in a stronghold made of Ymir’s eyebrows called Midgard.”

  Erin laughed. “People from trees!”

  “Yes, of course!” Rig grinned in return, fussing about to straighten the already neat chamber. “But all the giants were not killed, and some day the giants must fight the gods. Surt guards Muspell with a fire-sword and he will fight the gods on the last day of the world—Ragnarok.”

  Erin glanced at him, an ebony brow raised high. “The gods and the entire world come to an end?”

  “Yes,” Rig said mischievously, “and no. I will tell you about Ragnarok another time. Now these three you must remember: Odin, he is the god of wisdom and the god of the dead, and with his Valkyries, he chooses those who must die on the field of battle; Thor, god of warriors and battle; and … Frey, god of the earth and things that grow. A charm carving of Frey has been said to make many a marriage fruitful!”

  “Oh.” Erin straightened and pushed the barely touched tray back towards Rig. “Thank you so much, Rig, but I really can’t eat any more, and I would like to sleep awhile longer.”