She was surprised to see a subtle grin of amusement seep into the full lips fringed by the neatly clipped beard. “That, Irish, is debatable. But nay, Erin, I do not ask you to barter your body. I am not a fool, lady, nor would you be able to barter what is already mine.”
A crimson spread of anger and humiliation covered the lighter hue of soft rose. She had thought to be so cool and disdainful, and still he merely played with her. She had been the fool to assume he wanted her when he had stayed away these weeks. While she grew steadily more rounded and awkward, a beautiful creature, bred to the ways of pleasure in a distant land, awaited to fill his needs if he so chose.
“I beg you then,” she snapped, “cease with these games, for I do grow tired. Say aye or nay that I may go—”
“A man,” he interrupted, “any man, aye, even a Viking, says aye or nay most oft according to his mood. If he is in a pleasant mood, relaxed and cajoled, he is far more likely to say aye. The more that he is pleased, the more he tends to please.”
“Olaf!” Her voice was half sob, half shriek. “What is it that you want of me? You say that I have naught to barter—”
“No, that is not what I said.”
He stopped her with a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper, and yet she heard it with her entire being. It touched her, sent dizzying heat along her spine and throughout her limbs, just as surely as had his hands come upon her.
“I said only,” he continued, taking a step toward her, then halting, “that you could not barter your body, for, aye, wife, that is mine. But I do not seek a reluctant woman. Nor even a response that is gratifying, but begrudged. You once told me that there is that which can be taken, that which can only be given. And you were wise in that, Irish. Please me, Irish. Come to me, give to me—”
“Again you jest!” Erin snapped coldly, “for I cannot while you label me—”
“Ah, but that is the premise of barter. One must give to gain. If you wish to go to Tara, then you must improve my mood, for it is dark at present.”
Erin stared at him long and incredulous, the emerald fire in her eyes seeming to leap out and mesh like jagged lightning with the blue ice sizzle of his. “I cannot—” she began again in a bare gasp, but her voice faded as he shrugged and turned from her, yawning as he plucked at the brooch upon his shoulder.
“Then, alas, you shall remain within my walls.”
“Olaf!” Erin unlaced her fingers and her fists pounded into the stone behind her.
He turned to face her once more, one golden brow hiked in polite inquiry.
“You are a bastard!” she raged.
“That has been your general consensus.”
Torn and confused, she continued to stare at him. “What difference—”
His brow arched higher, his mocking grin broadened. “Oh, I expect a tremendous difference, Erin. That is the bargain.”
Still she hesitated, as if the seconds could give her some divine answer to her dilemma. “You are wrong, Olaf, for whether I walk the steps between us or you, I am still forced.”
“Nay, Erin. You will move by choice. Tonight you have but to tell me nay and I will leave the room.”
“And deny me leave to travel to my father!”
He shrugged. “I say again, a man in good and gentle humor is far more likely to give. And think on this, Erin. You ask a lot. Guests dwell within our residence, and you seek this after going behind my back to defy my will. It is completely your choice. In fact, I warn you, you must please me greatly for the events of the day have sorely tried my temper.”
Erin wound her fingers tightly into her palms, abrading her flesh with her nails. It seemed that he always won his battles with the element of surprise, the twist in method of assault. This one had left her stunned and without defense. If only she could look upon him coolly, and tell him that there was no prize he could offer to get what he asked.
He had truly left her vulnerable, without defense. She was afire with the longing for him to take the steps … his steps … those that would have left her with pride. Her mind dulled with the needs of her flesh and heart. She could not let him walk out the door. Her pride did not equal the sacrifice of knowing that tonight, with his passions racing strong, he could turn from her, depart the room, and seek out the exotic beauty who had danced well.
His brow lowered as he shrugged and turned once more for the doorway. She could hesitate no longer. “Olaf!” her voice was a rebellious snap, and yet husky and trembling.
He paused, leaning with an air of expectancy against the solid wood. “I mean what I say, Irish,” he said harshly. “No half measures. No rigid kisses from cold lips. You come to me freely, and you offer all.”
She trembled and her throat went dry. Olaf, she pleaded silently, if only you would take the steps, you would find all that you seek. Would that I could do that which you ask. I am afraid, afraid that I shall fail. Afraid that my thickening form shall not be as alluring as that which you watched so gracefully dance.…
“Erin.”
The quiet tone of his voice was compelling, and still she could not move. He spoke again, and she realized that he could truly reach into her heart and soul with the blue steel of his gaze.
“You are, my wife, more exquisitely beautiful to me than ever before. It is my child that rounds your belly, fills your cheeks with the rose of health, and heavily lades your breasts. Indeed, Erin, when the remaining moons have come and waned and you have come full term, your form shall still, for me, be the most uniquely beautiful. You are more than fever to me, Irish, and as yet, I cannot fathom that fever.”
Tears hovered beneath her lashes. Do not speak gently to me, she cried out inwardly. Do not flatter and cajole when you speak with the needs of the flesh and not of the heart.…
“Irish, I will wait no longer.”
Her eyes raised to his with the fire returned to them. She would show him no more of her fears, no more of her heart. He wished to barter. She would live up to her side of the barter. He twisted her soul and she would pay the price he demanded with all of the finesse she possessed.
She took a step from the window and then halted, staring at him as she reached for the hem of her shift and pulled it slowly upward, over her head. Still staring at him, she dropped the garment carelessly, and waited while the Nordic blue of his eyes drew deeper as they swept over her, giving her little clue of their assessment as he continued to await her action.
She began to walk toward him, unaware that the shivering reticence behind the act of boldness made her steps more alluring, the sway of her hips ever more an enticement.
Why was it, he wondered, that each time he saw her, she was a feast he must devour voraciously with his eyes again and again? He did not lie when he told her she held an even greater fascination, for she carried his child beautifully. Her throat and shoulders still so slender, so straight, her breasts enlarged and full, the veins within pale trails of blue that beckoned the gentle touch of his fingers, her nipples darkened to a dusky rose, erect and flowering like petals that bloomed. He could still see the shadows of her ribs below her breasts, and then the subtle swelling of waist, and the roundness of her belly within the angled lines of her hips.
Her legs had not changed. Long and lithe and yet wickedly shapely. She moved with mystery and inborn grace, each step she took a display of fluid seduction. All you need ever do is walk, my wife, he thought, and you would bring pleasure to any man who breathed.
It occurred to him then that he had bartered more than she, for he was letting her go to Tara. But for now it didn’t matter. He would have bartered his soul to the Christian devil for this moment. Since he had watched her during the day, her emerald eyes flashing with laughter as she bedazzled his brother, he had known he would give anything, sacrifice the nights to come, just for this moment. Use any means, fair or foul, to have her come to him, reach out to touch, stare into his eyes with her own freely alight with emerald passion and the magic that existed in the sphere of tension betw
een them.
His breath seemed to catch in his throat as she came nearer. The soft and subtle scent of roses assailed his senses, filling him, permeating his bloodstream. He could reach out and feel the midnight web of her silken hair, burrow beneath its fanning tendrils with aching fingers to caress the fullness of her breast.…
But he did not. He stood still, outwardly calm, yet trembling within. He was afire, and yet he waited still, for the ecstasy of her touch would surpass that of her sensuous movement toward him.
Erin paused as she reached him, lowering her lashes in ebony crescents over her cheeks. He did not reach for her; he tested her all the way. She shivered with hesitance, afraid again that she could not, rather than would not, give him the pleasure he demanded. But he gave her no quarter, and she had come this far. She could not retreat.
She raised her lashes and met the awaiting, assessive blue of a Nordic sky at dusk in his eyes. Her lips had gone dry, and she touched them lightly with the tip of her tongue and moved her bare feet on the floor to take the last step. She stood before him, not a hair’s breadth away, close enough to feel the inferno of heat and power, the strength and muscle play that took place with his every breath, the full and potent extent of desire that was not hidden by his clothing.
“All the way,” he whispered, his words a caress on her cheek. She stood on her toes and slipped her arms around his neck, and lightly, lightly brushed his lips with hers, trembling as the soft feel of his beard teased the flesh of her face. Erin edged backward slightly, but still he stared at her with his eyes filled with anticipation. She brought her hands to his face, smoothing a golden lock of hair from his forehead, then splaying her fingers to cup his cheeks and jaw. She grazed her thumb over his mouth, and moved closer once again, pressing her lips to his as she held him, molding her body against his, her breasts crushing to his chest, her hips locking and yet moving against him.
A groan rumbled from his chest as his arms came about her, solidly fusing their contact. The kiss she had begun deepened as he loosened the restraints of passion, stroking her mouth thoroughly with the warm and demanding shaft of his tongue. His hands moved over her back, massaging, commanding, tangling within her hair, exploring her shoulders and spine, lowering to cradle her buttocks and lift her ever more surely against him.
Already she was longing to cry out, to fall weakly against him. But as his lips parted from hers, she allowed the wealth of her tumbled hair to fall about her face, shielding her eyes, as she released her hold on his face to unfasten his brooch, allowing the wolf’s crest of silver to fall heedlessly to the floor along with the majestic red fabric of his mantle, which floated down like a blazing cloud.
Her eyes caught his for a moment, and in that breathless span of time, she was aware that she surrendered her will to him, and yet in doing so found the strength of a strange trust. In those brief seconds came hungry admission; their needs were like the bloodred cloud of his fallen mantle, as pure and as honest, as strong and as undeniable, and as valiantly powerful. Erin lowered her eyes, sinking to her knees before him, humble and yet ever proud as she removed his boots.
He set his hands on her head and then threaded his fingers through her hair to draw her back to her feet. But she would not meet his eyes, instead turning her attention to the removal of his belt. He allowed her this action, fondling the midnight silk of her hair between his tense and trembling fingers. He briefly took his hands from her to draw his tunic over his shoulders and allow it too to cascade to the floor, and then she was again in his arms, softest naked flesh teasing his mercilessly, and yet appeasing it with sweet, sensual gratification. He was both amazed and shatteringly pleased as she continued her bold aggression with instinctive expertise, shifting herself against him, stroking his chest with the rhythmic caress of her breasts, his manhood with the subtle undulation of her hips. And still she moved, her lips and teeth grazing his shoulders, her delicate fingers finding strength and command as they caressed his shoulders and arms, explored the whorl of golden hair upon his chest, his nipples and the tautness of muscle beneath.
She lowered herself against him again, touching and caressing with fingers grown bold, with lips that tantalized as they explored with only slight hesitancy and great adventure. All … she did indeed give her all, playing the lover’s game upon his senses that he had taught her about so well, teasing his thighs, his hips, taking him in a way that shattered and strengthened and flamed fires within him beyond endurance.
He reached for her then with a demanding groan of deepest agony and pleasure, his purpose undeniably intense. He carried her in his arms to the bed, and the eyes that met his were emerald and dazzling, all that he could have desired. She smiled, and again her eyes, with their dusky lashes, held the beauty and mystery that enwebbed him, compelled him with the fascination he could never escape.
He lay beside her, fanning her hair against the pillow. But she had become provocative energy this night, and she rolled against him, sliding her body along the length of his as she raised herself astride him, an arched silhouette of proud and splendid beauty as she took him within her. A shudder of pleasure ripped through him and he clutched her waist, guiding her as she began fluid, sensuous movement. His hands moved to the sleek line of her buttocks, and then suddenly all that was within him erupted into flame, and he caught the thick ebony tendrils of her hair to bring her to him, devouring her mouth with the hunger of his senses. She whimpered slightly at his demand, and yet she strove to match his tempest. His hands roamed her spine again, finding the curve of her hip, keeping her with him. His kiss broke and she rose above him again and again, but even as they met in the storm of their desires, he had to touch her breasts, and lifted himself to caress the tender globes, entangled within wild ebony hair, with his kisses.
He encircled her with his arms, and without departing from her, swept her beneath him, carrying them to the summit with a surge of passion and male demand. He clutched her to him as he felt her release, and caught her lips again with his final, shuddering thrusts, yet when they both lay still, he did not release her, but waited, and in moments began anew, a slow pulsing rhythm that rekindled the flames she had thought herself too complete to feel again.
“No …” she whispered weakly, lazy and shivering with the fulfillment of her body. “I cannot. I don’t think.…”
“Ah, but, Irish, you can. Do not think … feel,” he whispered in return, smiling knowingly as she moaned and writhed anew. Soon she clutched him ardently again, her nails raking his hair, grazing his back, adding thrill upon thrill to his system. He loved her, he watched her, he luxuriated in her, holding fast to her beauty and splendor. He savored each breathless gasp that came to his ears, he took pleasure in the shudders and cries that again racked her slender body so perfectly fit beneath his. Time. He wished so ardently for it to stand still. And yet the tempest that had swirled between them glided into peacefulness, and sweetly replete and exhausted, she slept. He watched the curve of her lips, parted as she breathed, the fine lines of her face, the sheen on the full elegance of her body. He wound her within his limbs and arms and exhaled a long sigh of the deepest satisfaction and slept.
Erin awoke slowly, content to drift in contentment. When she opened her eyes she would have to face truth, and that was a pain that she wanted to escape.
Her night had been storm and shelter, earth and magic. Yet it had all come about so that she might leave the golden Viking who still slept so soundly beside her.
She had met his price. She could ride to Tara, bring solace to her grieving mother, embrace her father, and sweep away the sorrows of the past. She would be able to mourn for Leith, for Fennen, to offer prayers that their souls would rest with the all-forgiving Christ. She needed that time, needed to feel close to those who loved her now, and those who had done so in their short time on earth.
More desperately than ever she needed to get away, for she could never win a battle when she found herself constantly giving ground. She had sworn nev
er to forgive him; yet she knew, as any man or woman knew who had truly loved, that she would gladly forgive him, were he but to ask for her pardon.
She had oft dreamed of such a day, and in his arms, the dream became painfully real. Olaf, believing, taking her hand, admitting with anguish that he had wronged her, imploring her forgiveness, knowing it was not deserved. Telling her that he loved her above all others.
But that day would never come. She had to admit it, accept it. Tears filled her eyes. When he touched her, when he whispered words of how she pleased him, of how he loved to feel her, move within her, it was so easy to believe, to dream that he would one day love her, trust her, need her.
She had to make herself realize that words spoken in heated passion were easily dismissed. He did not need or love her; he wanted her, and even that was a fragile bond. She would be leaving and that very night he might whisper similar words to another woman. He wanted their child, but he had already warned with thinly veiled threats that he would be within Irish law to set her aside once the child was born.
She choked back a soft sob and became aware of him. His arm was haphazardly cast over her breasts, his muscled thigh and knee curved over her hip and leg. She opened her eyes and twisted slightly to study his features.
His face appeared so much younger in sleep. The lines of strain were eased, the granite of his rigidly controlled emotions was relaxed. The structure of his face was still handsomely rugged, and yet with his rich honey lashes shielding the piercing Nordic blue of his eyes, he regained the qualities of reckless youth. His lips, so full and defined in shape, were slightly parted beneath the fringe of his clean clipped beard and moustache. They curved a bit, as if his dreams were sweet. A lock of sun-gold hair fell across his forehead, meshed with the thick but clearly arched and defined crescents of his oft thundering brows. She longed to touch him, to feel both the softness and coarseness of his hair, to smooth it from his brow, but she did not. It was seldom that the Wolf slept so deeply. A sigh, a shift, a movement, could easily awaken him, and it was pleasant to gaze at him. A powerful man made vulnerable to her anguished but thirsting study.
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