Yet suddenly it was as if they had gone back in time. Back all those years, for Bishop LeClerc was asking Conar to state his vows, and he did so in a firm, clear voice.
Then Conar spoke to Melisande, and she could not find breath at all.
At her side, Conar grit his teeth hard, studying her. He had been stricken anew with his wife"s incomparable beauty when he had first seen her upon Odo"s arm.
They had dressed her in silver. A soft shimmering set of garments that both clung to her lithe and shapely form and floated around her with every movement. It was as fragile as precious metal, stunning. A veil of it, crested with a jeweled band, sat atop her ebony hair, and the inky darkness of her long locks contrasted hauntingly with the light silver. Her face, framed by the gossamer veil, was exquisite, her eyes alive, a deeper mauve than ever.
And now, while it seemed that all France waited, she knelt by him in silence.
His fingers curled around hers.
She gasped.
And the words tumbled from her mouth at last, the vows he had demanded spoken once again.
He slipped his old ring from her thumb, where it had stayed these many years, and put it back upon his own hand. He replaced this with a new band of etched gold, exquisite, upon her left center finger. His eyes met hers and perhaps there was something of his pleasure and triumph in them, for hers seemed to narrow and simmer.
He smiled, bowing his head, thinking of the night.
He had not begun to imagine what abstinence from her would do to him, and he had spent the days longing to hang Bishop LeClerc by his neck before that holy man could perform his holy deed.
But now that was past. He had only to wait for night.
He felt a tightening within himself, a longing so fierce, it was agony to remain still upon his knees. From the corner of his eye he looked at her again, and the force of her beauty swept him, along with greater emotions. He was possessive, she was his. They now had a long and curious history together.
Naturally he cared for her.
Nay, it was greater, far greater.
He would never let her go, he knew, because he could not bear to do so. He couldn"t think of her injured, or in the arms of another man.
Indeed, he could not imagine life without her. She created hell for him, she created heaven for him.
He was in love with her. She had set her claws into his soul all those years ago. Even when she had irritated him beyond belief, she had captured something of his heart with her spirit and with her courage.
Dangerous courage, he thought again.
But there seemed little to fear now. She was safe within the fortress, even if Geoffrey did prowl the woods. He"d try hard to see to it that he escorted her out often enough to make her feel a touch of freedom. And there would be times when they could sail away.
Time, he thought, they had time. Yet a shudder ripped through him, and he wondered why. She was his wife, had been his wife, and he would hold her forever. And he did love her.
One day, perhaps, he could even tell her so.
Melisande? Perhaps not. She was always so quick to seek her source of power. He dared never give her the upper hand in holding his heart.
She would rip it to shreds, he thought.
Yet he gazed at her with tenderness, longing for the feasting to be over now, longing for the night.
Would she keep her promise to him? In one way or another, for he could not keep his distance now. The dream had been with him through the long night, the desire, the aching, the anticipation.
A twinge of guilt assailed him. He had given her a promise that meant nothing, but it had been the one that she had demanded of him. And, her jealousy of Brenna had been surprising and pleasant to discover.
Ah, lady, he thought, meeting her violet eyes suddenly, feeling a stab of hunger so strong, it would have doubled him were he not upon his knees.
He realized that the ceremony was over at last. They rose, and to the great delight of the crowd, he appeased some of his hunger by sweeping her into his arms, bending her low, and kissing her with a taste of the long denied passion that roiled so furiously within his soul. Minutes passed, and still he tasted her lips, felt the desperate pressure of her hands. He lifted his mouth from hers at last, saw her dampened lips, her wide eyes. “Tonight,” he whispered softly, and felt the force of her tremor.
But she ignored him, and they started from the altar, making their way through the guests, accepting the words of congratulations of friends and allies and, Conar realized, drawing together many of the great barons as Odo had been so determined would happen.
They were parted for a time, returning from the church to Odo"s hall, where he found himself constantly surrounded by Odo"s men, intrigued by his ships, by the way his Irish and Vikings fought upon horseback, by his instruction in various methods of warfare. Each time he looked up, his wife was likewise surrounded, for the barons were eager to come close to her, to gaze upon her, and as many had been good friends of her father"s, they were eager to remind her that he had been a fine man. Sometimes Conar was close enough to hear her conversations, and he was intrigued. The barons assured her that they were still dependent upon the largesse and strength of the fortress. They were delighted that she had acquired such a husband, such a fine sword arm for their land.
“Alas, we are oft on our own these days, lady, for there is little help in the weak king who sits in Paris!”
Melisande was gracious and knowledgeable, speaking with them about vulnerable points of geography, the history of Danish attack, the vulnerability of the rivers.
Later he saw her with Odo and Geoffrey, and he was stunned by the force of jealous fury that washed over him. She hated Geoffrey, he knew that. She greeted the man, for Odo wanted peace, yet Conar knew her freezing tones well, the imperious way she could lift her chin.
He was convinced anew that she despised the man with a greater animosity than she had ever borne toward him.
At last the evening meal came, and he was seated beside his wife at a place of honor. Still, they did not speak to one another much, for their attention was drawn to others. Odo had arranged for entertainment, an Irish seneschal to tell the tale of their combined families, a singer, jugglers, even trained bears.
Yet at last the time had come. Marie de Tresse paused behind her mistress"s chair, and Melisande rose with her and left.
The other guests would notice her absence soon, and since he was in the mood for no raucous bedding as might occur tonight—with or without the approval of the church—he determined that he would not take long to follow her.
When he entered their room, it was cast in shadows. The only light came from the flickering fire.
She wasn"t there, he thought, his soul sinking.
But he sensed a slight movement before the fire. She sat there, fingers closed over the arm of a chair, waiting for him.
He slid the bolt, announcing his arrival, and leaned against the door.
As he watched, she rose. She was still in silver, but different silver. This gown was just a glistening of color against her naked flesh. She paused a moment, staring at him across the room. It seemed that a tremor shot through her.
She arched back, lifting her hair. He watched the flawless display of her body as she pulled the cord at the throat of the garment and let it fall in an endlessly slow stream to the floor.
She stepped from it and slowly came his way, pausing just a step before him, then pressing her naked body to him, rising on her toes, touching his lips with hers.
He nearly burst into climax at that moment, yet fought against it, enwrapping her in his arms. She tasted like sweet, sweet wine.
His lips rose just above hers.
“How much did you have to drink to do this?” he whispered softly.
Her eyes touched his with a mauve sparkle. “Not nearly so much as I might have imagined.”
“Pray, then, continue.”
“Continue?”
“Disrobe me.”
>
She paled slightly, but didn"t back away. He decided that she needed a little help and stripped off his scabbard, mantle, and shirt. He collected her in his arms again and felt the fierce burning as she shimmied within them, freeing herself to press her lips to his shoulders and throat, to rub her breasts erotically against the breadth of his chest as she did so. His breath caught, his heart hammered. He slid from his boots and chausses at last. She paused before him.
“Bathed and perfumed. Eager. Seductive, arousing …” he murmured.
“I cannot—”
“Lady, you are that already!”
She stepped forward again, just a bit hesitantly. Her fingers fell upon his shoulders with the lightest touch. She brushed his lips hesitantly, his chest again.
Her fingers began to stroke his sides. Knuckles upon his flesh, fingertips.
She eased low against his body again.
A low groan escaped him, a shudder seized his body with a staggering violence as her fingers closed around the engorged shaft of his sex. She started to release him. “Jesu, no!” he said swiftly, and leaned against the door for strength. “Jesu, no …”
Her ebony head bent low before him, and she went down upon her knees. He gasped again, shaking as if seized by lightning, when her lips closed hesitantly around him, her mouth hot and liquid.
“God!”
His fingers laced into the silk of her hair. Her hesitance faded. Her tongue flickered over the length of him, stroked, laved.
Moments of sheer stunning ecstasy swept him. Then the pleasure became pain, then an unbearable agony of needing her. A hoarse cry tore from his lips, he wrenched her from her knees into his arms, lifting her high and swirling to lean her against the door. Her eyes were wide upon his, somewhat frightened by the wildness of his manner, then she gasped as he arched her higher, and brought her down upon him there, commanding that she wrap her legs around his waist.
She did so …
In all his life he had never been so aroused. Never so hungry. Never so desperate to touch, to taste, to hold, to have. The fever that filled him was a tempest, blinding. He drove into her fiercely, having to fulfill the need she had awakened. A blaze burned, incredibly swift, incredibly high. He erupted in a climax more violent than he had ever known, holding her betwixt himself and the door, feeling the hot burst of his seed rush into her and over them both.
She clung to him in silence. He prayed that he had not hurt her and lifted her into the crook of his arm, carrying her to the bed. Her eyes were closed, her lashes over them.
“I will never again doubt your ability to fulfill a promise!” he whispered softly.
Her gaze touched his at last. “And what of you, milord?”
“I will fulfill any promise I give you, Melisande. I will never let you go.” Her eyes closed again. He thought the smallest smile curved her lip.
His lips touched down on hers. Rose above them. He wanted to whisper something.
I love you.
Nay, he might as well hand his heart to the Danes!
He couldn"t speak. He touched her lips again, then determined that she would die a little tonight from his caress, just as he had died from hers.
And so he began to touch her. To stroke her. Slowly. Tongue teasing, fingertips just brushing. He left no spot upon her unadored, yet moved around the very center of her longing, creating spirals upon her belly with his tongue, caressing the soft inner flesh of her thigh. Suckling her breasts, stroking her thigh again …
At last he came upon his knees at the foot of the bed, caught her ankles, and brought her down hard against him. Parted her gently with his fingers, had her with his tongue. When she gasped and writhed and cried out softly, he still continued, until he rose over her, seeking one more thing tonight.
“Tell me that you want me, Melisande.”
Her eyes fell upon his, damp, wild, filled with reproach.
“You cannot!” he said harshly, for her. “Aye, but lady, you can!” He rubbed his palm over her. His eyes demanded hers. With a startling fury she looked at him. “I want you!” she whispered.
“My name, Melisande.”
“I want you—Viking!”
He laughed huskily at that, but brought his whisper low against her ear. “My name, Melisande.”
She cried out softly, nails digging into his shoulders, face burying there. “I want you, Conar.”
He rose above her.
“You have me, lady, you have me.”
Chapter Seventeen
Returning home was far more pleasant than riding to Rouen. Oddly enough, for all Conar"s never-ending demands, something had changed between them, and for the better.
He was far more often with her, quick to urge her to race him to one hill or another, and he was even willing to call a halt to their entire procession one afternoon when she found particular pleasure in one of the streams where they had stopped. He sat with her by the water, his feet bared and cooled by it, as were hers.
Yet when they returned home, things were quick to change, fate was destined to step in upon them in a number of ways.
Melisande came down the stairs her first morning home to see that Brenna was slipping from the great hall. She followed her down the stairs to the courtyard below, wondering if Conar had really kept his word.
She shouldn"t ask.
“Brenna.”
The Dubhlain woman stopped, aware that Melisande had been following her.
She turned slowly. “Aye, milady.”
Melisande discovered that she couldn"t simply demand to know the truth.
“The runes,” she murmured. “You plucked up the runes so swiftly the other day. Why? What runes were they?”
Brenna arched a brow to her. “Don"t you know?”
Melisande frowned, shaking her head. “What were they?” she repeated.
Brenna paused a moment, looking at her. “Two runes, lady, Injuz and Jera.” Melisande shook her head blankly. “Ragwald knows the runes,” she said.
“He taught me some when I was young, but I"m afraid those elude me. What are you telling me?”
“You really don"t know?”
“I really don"t know!”
Brenna"s golden lashes swept over her eyes. “Then count back, lady, and think carefully.”
“I—”
“Milady, they are the runes for fertility.”
“I don"t—”
“You"re expecting his child!” Brenna said impatiently.
Melisande felt as if she had been struck, she was so startled. And then she felt so incredibly foolish because Brenna had only to whisper a few words, and she realized how very late she was.
She shook her head. “I don"t—I can"t be! I don"t feel anything.” Brenna shrugged, a small grin upon her lips. “Then you are lucky, and your labor might well be easy.” She paused a moment. They were both silent. Brenna frowned, and Melisande realized that she must be very white, the blood having drained from her face.
“What is your distress? Your husband will be pleased. Indeed, Odo and half this land will be pleased, for a child is the mortar that holds close many a union.”
“Does he know?” Melisande asked her suddenly. Was that the source of his sudden consideration?
Of the laughter that sometimes touched his hard features, of the tenderness.
“Well, it seems that you have not told him,” Brenna said.
“But you!” Melisande cried. “You"ve known, and you serve him, and I"m certain you think he should know.”
Brenna was quiet for a moment, studying her. “It is your place, not mine, milady, to tell him.”
Melisande started, glad that the building of the keep was near where she stood, for she suddenly discovered herself leaning against it.
“You wouldn"t do so?” she queried suspiciously.
Brenna sighed softly, looking to the ground. Then her eyes touched Melisande"s. “I serve Conar,” she admitted softly. “If you were endangered, or the life of the child were endangered …�
�� She shrugged. She straightened abruptly. “I"m not your enemy, Melisande. I never have been.” Melisande bit into her lip, studying the beautiful blond woman she had avoided for so many years.
“Have you really …”
“Really what?” Brenna inquired.
“Ceased to sleep with him?”
“Ceased to sleep with him?”
Melisande let out a cry of exasperation. “You mean you"ve never slept with him?”
“Of course I have slept with him. I travel with him constantly. I have slept with him on ships on long sea journeys, beneath trees when we have traveled on land.”
Melisande started to turn, afraid that she was going to be ill after all. She had felt fine until this moment. She wouldn"t have believed her feelings of dismay.
Now she felt desperately ill.
A small hand touched upon her shoulder.
“Lady, I have slept with him. But you misunderstand the meaning of what I am saying. Swen has slept with him often enough, too, and I assure you, neither of them has an interest in other men or little boys! I have never made love with him. I cannot cease doing something I was not doing to begin with.” Melisande swung around again, astounded. “What?”
“Ah, don"t look at me so! I would have done so, had he wished it. And should he ever seek me …” Her voice trailed away. “But that is unlikely. He has discovered what he seeks in you.”
“Indeed,” Melisande whispered softly. “He has discovered a fool!”
“Your pardon?”
“Never mind, Brenna.” She stiffened, feeling wave after wave of fury sweep through her. His magnificent bargaining! Of all the horrid things to do to her.
How amused he must have been! She had bartered herself to him in exchange for a promise that he sleep no longer with a woman he had never touched!
“Melisande—”
“Thank you for your honesty,” she said smoothly. She turned back into the tower and made her way up the first flight of stairs. She found a chair in the great hall and sank into it, trying to remember everything he had said that night in Rouen. She had demanded he not sleep with Brenna anymore. And oh! He had sworn that he would not do so.
MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves Page 27