Lyting’s heart slammed against his ribs as his focus sharpened on a thickset Syrian and his scrawny servant forcing Ailinn into a waiting litter.
Lyting grabbed for his sword but found naught but an empty scabbard. Breaking into a run, he shouted back for Thord and the others to follow and raced down the Mesê.
»«
Panic seized Ailinn as her abductor’s fleshy hand slid farther up her thigh, desire shimmering in his eyes.
Snatching the emerald necklace from her throat, she hurled it at him, then spat on him fully so he could not misinterpret her rejection of him.
The man crimsoned, rage firing his features. With a snarl and a curse, he drew up his hand to strike. Ailinn braced herself for the coming blow.
As he began to swipe downward, his fierce mien flooded with surprise. His eyes widened then bulged as he strained against an unseen force. Still, his hand remained rigidly locked in place. In the same moment the litter jarred to a halt.
Ailinn’s gaze flew past the man. She gasped a quick breath, her pulse leaping wildly, for there stood Lyting, trammeling the man’s wrist and slicing him straight through with eyes of ice.
“You are in possession of something that is mine,” Lyting growled in imperfect Greek.
“Be away with you, the woman is mine for this night and quite possibly many more,” the Syrian barked, not about to surrender his prize. But his eyes widened further as they lodged on the seven hulking Varangians that surrounded his litter, their fearsome, double-headed axes rising above their heads.
Thord angled his blade, the sun’s light kissing its edge with a smile as he set it against the Syrian’s neck.
“Do as he says,” Thord warned.
Infuriated but outflanked, the Syrian could do naught but sit powerless while Lyting reached into the litter and claimed Ailinn from the man’s side.
As he lifted her to the ground, Ailinn wound her arms about him, hugging him close as he anchored her to his side.
“I will not soon forget this incident, Norseman,” the Syrian snarled. “Nor will I forget you.”
With that, the Syrian bellowed to his driver and servant. The litter lurched forward and rumbled down the stone paved avenue of the Mesê.
Lyting’s blood simmered as Ailinn recounted all that had befallen her since he left her in the company of Arnór and his family.
He had miscalculated where the women were concerned, and that made him doubly mad with himself. Their jealousies had been plain. He should have foreseen the deceit. Lyting determined not to spend another night in their company. He would not subject Ailinn to any more of the women’s connivances.
“What is it, my friend?” Thord asked of a sudden, seeing Lyting’s scowl.
“We will need lodging for the night. The convoy is to be housed outside the city, but I have no desire to stay there.” Lyting related an abbreviated version of what had happened.
Thord appeared sympathetic. “Can’t say that I blame the Syrian, though,” he jested. “The woman is a rare beauty. Is she your mistress or your kona?”
Lyting marked how the interest of the other Varangians drifted continuously to Ailinn.
“She is my kona,” he declared flatly, so there would be no doubt in any of their minds.
“You are a fortunate man,” Thord said buoyantly. “I insist you come with me and stay the night at the house of Melane. She is a special friend of mine and will be honored to have you both. She is also one of the wealthiest women in the city. I think that you will find the accommodations she can provide are more than comfortable.”
From the warmth and tone of Thord’s voice, Lyting suspected Melane to be his mistress.
“On the morrow,” Thord continued, “I will accompany you to the palace and help you make the contact you seek. I, too, will stay at Melane’s, and we can talk into the night of Koll, Askel, and the others, if you desire. I knew them well, and much has happened since your brother’s departure.”
Finding Thord’s offer agreeable, Lyting apprised Ailinn that they would remain within the city. The Varangian would serve as their “official” guard should the Byzantines require it.
She walked quietly at his side. Too quietly.
“Are you all right, elskan mín?”
“I am now that you are here.” She smiled up at him, placing her hand on his arm.
They walked southward, back toward the statue of Justinian, following Thord. He directed Lyting and Ailinn to one of the side streets, pausing to speak with his comrades. Minutes later Thord rejoined them while the others headed for the Augustaeum and the Sacred Palace.
The afternoon grew late as they passed along the streets and through shrubbed courtyards with fountains and statuary. Dark-haired children laughed as they ran past, rolling wheel-like hoops with sticks, and vendors cried their wares.
The house of Melane, like many they had seen before, was two-storied, its exterior almost stark, except faced with marble so highly polished it reflected the street and the sky. A row of jewel-like windows smiled from above.
Thord rapped at the door with his knuckles — a distinctive tune. Brief moments later the door drew open to reveal a small but lovely woman, Melane.
Swathed in vivid reds and gold, she stood no taller than Ailinn’s chin. Her honey-blond hair was swept up and fashioned into an elaborate coil studded with gems. Her frothy veil, affixed to the back of her head, spilled to the floor, where silk slippers peeked from beneath her gown.
As Thord presented Lyting and Ailinn and explained their needs, Melane’s striking green eyes encompassed them.
She smiled warmly. “Ipodhohi. Embros.”
“She says ‘welcome’ and ‘come in.’ ” Thord grinned and motioned for them to enter.
Lyting and Ailinn followed Melane into the central hall, a spacious area filled with light. Marble columns rose to an airy height, supporting the upper level, while at the back the entire wall opened onto a courtyard.
Ailinn marveled at the murals that covered the walls, realistic paintings of idyllic landscapes. On second glance she realized they contained small figures — a creature half-man, half-horse playing a lyre; a bearded man crowned with grapevines sipping wine; partially robed couples reclining, many a man fondling a woman’s breast. Ailinn’s brows flickered upward. She cast a glance about the hall.
Melane clapped her hands, sending several servants scurrying from their presence on a string of instructions. The women returned scant moments later bearing an embossed silver ewer and matching goblets.
“Melane tells me the other women who occupy the house are absent this evening, attending a private banquet. Except for the servants, we shall be alone.” Thord grinned roguishly, his hand moving to Melane’s hip, confirming Lyting’s earlier suspicions of their relationship.
As Ailinn accepted a goblet brimming with wine, one of the servants relieved her of her mantle.
“She will see it is cleaned,” Thord explained as the servant disappeared down a corridor.
Lyting paused his cup midway to his lips and took a long, appreciative look at Ailinn. He found himself swallowing. In the weeks since he had freed her, she had begun to regain some of the roundness she had lost on the journey, filling out in all the right places. Now the folds of her dress clung to all those right places.
Melane also drew an eye over Ailinn’s hair and clothes. She then gave the men a sharp assessment, her gaze lowering to their dusty boots and sandals. She spoke to Thord, bringing forth a good-natured laugh. He turned to Lyting.
“Melane says we should take ourselves to the men’s baths. She insists, none too delicately, that we are sorely in need of the visit!”
Lyting rubbed his beard and then looked down at his garments and boots. He grinned. “I think she is right, and I would certainly enjoy the luxury.”
“Come, my friend.” Thord stepped toward the door. “Melane will see to Ailinn’s needs and prepare your room. You should enjoy the experience of a Roman-style bath. There is nothing to
compare — cool and heated pools, saunas. Even the floors are warmed from beneath. If you like, you can even have a massage.” Thord’s smile widened.
Lyting turned and explained his departure to Ailinn. “I will be gone only a short time. Melane will see that you are freshened and comfortable. We will stay here tonight.”
He traced the side of her face with his forefinger, hating to leave her, then turned and departed with Thord.
»«
Ailinn stepped from the scented bathwaters, feeling wondrously restored. The servants attending her quickly toweled her dry, directed her to a marble bench, and rubbed precious oils into her skin. Enveloping her in linens, they led her to a room at the back of the first floor.
The room proved tiny but stunningly beautiful. Sumptuous fabrics draped the walls and covered the bed, which consumed most of the room. An elegant table and cushioned chair sat to one side, both of ivory and encrusted with mother-of-pearl. Silver lamps glowed softly about the room.
Such decadent luxury, Ailinn sighed, to have such a room all to herself. A realization tripped on the heels of that thought and struck her solidly. Undoubtedly, the room was meant for both her and Lyting to share.
Before her eyes, the room began to shrink.
Melane appeared, smiling and gesturing for Ailinn to sit on the chair. Two servants followed, one laying clothing on the bed, and the other bringing a mirror, comb, and fine silk cording twined with strands of little pearls.
Melane chattered to Ailinn in Greek as she began to work with her hair, sweeping the sides from her face and catching it atop her head. Ailinn listened without comprehension, enjoying the ministrations as Melane wove her tresses with silk and pearls.
Drawing up the remainder of Ailinn’s long locks, Melane encircled the base of their thickness with the garnished braid, creating a small crown to secure it in place, but allowing the wealth of Ailinn’s hair to cascade back down her neck and shoulders.
Melane held up the hand mirror for Ailinn’s approval, then motioned to the servants, who quickly dispossessed Ailinn of her linen toweling. They returned, each holding matching panels of fabric — diaphanous clouds of silk.
As they moved to stand, one before Ailinn and the other behind, Melane joined them and fastened the cloth at each shoulder with identical jeweled pins. She left the neck opening wide enough so that it bared Ailinn’s shoulders. Melane next girdled the fabric at Ailinn’s waist with a thin belt of gold, arranging misty folds so that they covered Ailinn’s hips but separated partway down her thigh, allowing a glimpse of bare leg.
Melane and the servants stepped back nodding and smiling over their handiwork. Ailinn’s concerns, however, grew as she viewed herself through the transparency. ‘Twas a gown meant for seduction. Obviously, Melane believed she was Lyting’s lover and prepared her for his pleasure.
Ailinn desperately hoped the women would provide her with a more concealing robe. Instead, Melane set out a pair of embroidered slippers and began to leave. Another servant appeared momentarily with the cleaned mantle and lay it on the end of the bed.
As the women withdrew, Ailinn’s thoughts skipped ahead to Lyting’s return, then back to the dimensions of the room. She moved to take up her cloak. ‘Twas going to be a long night.
»«
Lyting greeted Melane as she emerged from the back room, closing the door softly behind her.
“Kalispera sas. Good evening, Melane,” he spoke haltingly in Greek. “Your servant, Dita, said I would find Ailinn here.”
“She is waiting for you. Enjoy your leisure. I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction.” A secretive smile sparkled in Melane’s eyes. “Now I must see to Thord. He, too, will be waiting.” With that, Melane floated down the hall in search of her lover.
Distracted by Melane’s words, Lyting reached for the door and, without knocking, entered in, eager to see Ailinn. His footsteps solidified as his gaze fell on her. She, too, went perfectly still where she stood beside the wide, inviting bed, reaching for her mantle.
Heat surged through Lyting. Ailinn looked like one of the classical goddesses whose sculptures graced the city — Venus come to life, her beauty rousing the most primal passions known to man. Known to him, but long denied.
His heart began a strong, heavy beat as his gaze traveled downward. The misty gown covered all but concealed nothing. He drank in the sight of her high, lovely breasts, full and round and tipped with rose. His gaze lowered to her incredibly small waist and flat stomach, then lingered over the indentation of her navel which beckoned to be filled with sweet wine and relished there. The curve of her hips he imagined hot beneath his hands, and her sleek legs wrapped around his waist. Heat suffused his loins. Ailinn long haunted his dreams looking just so — the nymph of his most erotic desires and untamed passions.
Ailinn stood unable to move, stunned at Lyting’s sudden entrance, then again by the sight of him. His beard was gone, his face clean shaven. Once more she gazed clearly upon his features. She felt a tightening in her breasts, a tingly ache that spread downward and settled between her thighs. Exceptionally handsome with the beard, Lyting was devastatingly so without one. ‘Twas near painful to look on him.
Desire swamped Lyting’s senses. Why did Ailinn remain unmoving before him, not even attempting to cover herself?
Ignoring the distant voice of wisdom, his gaze went to her silken shoulders, where the jeweled fasteners invited him to remove them and let the fabric whisper away, fully exposing her creamy breasts. His gaze descended to the juncture of her legs. He swallowed hard, feeling each drub of his heart.
Raw desire battled with will. His eyes pulled slowly to hers. She remained still as a doe, waiting. He balled his hands as will began to bend and a molten fire raged forth. A groan rose from his depths. In a single stride he closed the distance and swept Ailinn into his arms, hard against his chest.
“God’s holy might, Ailinn! Would you torture me apurpose? There are many eunuchs in Byzantium, but I assure you, I am not one of them.”
His mouth descended over hers, covering her lips and ravishing them thoroughly. A small, startled sound escaped her, yet she opened to him, her mouth parting under the assault. He invaded at once. His tongue mated hers in a frenzied dance — commanding, possessing, plundering all at once, claiming her as his alone.
A bolt of liquid heat shot through Ailinn, melting her against him. His tongue continued to stroke and seduce and steal her breath straight away.
He molded her against him, sliding his hand down the curve of her spine and pressing her hips against his. She felt the hard proof of his desire. Felt an answering throb between her own legs. Her senses whirled and her body ached with astonishing need before Lyting’s unleashed passion.
A white heat of emotion possessed Lyting as his hand moved to the side of Ailinn’s waist and met with bare flesh where the gown parted above the belt. Ailinn pressed against him as though inviting his touch of fire. His hand slowly continued upward seeking the warm mound of her breast.
Deep within, he knew if he began the intimacy, he must have more. He must have all of her. There would be no stopping, his passions too long strained, the blood of the North flowing hot and thick in his veins. In the frenzy of unshackled desire, he would take her, bury himself in her, be she willing or not. Then he would be no better than those who had attacked and violated her kinswomen. Where then would be his sworn word to her? Where would be his honor? Ailinn would find herself ravished by a Dane after all.
Reason warred within the dense haze of passion. With fierce concentration, Lyting mastered himself enough to break the kiss. They both gasped against each other for breath. Dropping her softly to the bed, he staggered back a pace.
“A man has his limitations, Ailinn. I am at the end of mine. Remember it, if you would preserve your virtue.”
With that, Lyting pivoted and flung himself through the door and out of the room. He dared not look back, knowing how she would look, spread upon the bed and so easily h
is.
Breathless, Ailinn stared after Lyting, her lips burning from his fiery possession, her heart pounding beneath her breast. She pressed upward as he disappeared from sight and remained staring out the empty doorway, utterly astounded, empty and aching within.
»«
Hours later, in the dark of the night, the moon a fingernail in the sky, Lyting still walked the streets of Constantinople.
He returned earlier from the tenements in the Magnaura district outside the city, after visiting Arnór and dealing with Jorunn, Ingered, and Ashild. Arnór had been shocked by Lyting’s revelations, having received a different version of Ailinn’s disappearance from his wife and daughters. Arnór proved wholly understanding of Lyting’s decision to take separate lodgings and agreed to send his goods on to Melane’s the following day.
On reentering the city, Lyting had then spent considerable time cooling his ardor with a long walk in the evening air. He moved along the streets with his hood drawn up, for his white hair ever brought him notice and marked his passage. Tonight he longed for privacy as he dealt with the concerns that plagued his heart and soul.
Surprisingly, the streets were fairly well illuminated with torchlight. But, while walking along the seawall on the Golden Horn, he’d encountered a little scab of a man, loitering there, who became highly insistent that he carry a brand for him. The man looked to belong to Constantinople’s poor. Believing ‘twould be charitable to allow him to do so, Lyting employed the man. He now walked slightly ahead, lighting the way back to the house of Melane.
As Lyting arrived in front of the house, he paused outside a moment and contemplated the entrance. He would request another room. Near Ailinn’s. He should warn her to block her door.
God give him strength. He was not wholly sure he could make it through the night without climbing into her bed.
Lyting retrieved a small coin from his pouch and paid the man, then went and rapped on the door. Almost immediately a servant whisked it open.
Steeling himself, Lyting entered in.
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Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 27