Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series

by The Defiant Heart

  “What of Leonites?” Lyting asked, still gripping the silver-haired man but having returned his feet to the ground.

  “Leonites was an underling. When he discovered Andronicus had deceived him — that there was no support or help to flee after the assassination, as promised — he went for Andronicus. Andronicus killed him so he couldn’t talk.”

  “Andronicus must have also dropped the pouch containing the rings while beneath the canopy,” Lyting observed.

  “Satt. True. But there are two other matters you need know.” Thord’s face darkened. “‘Tis known Andronicus recently took a new man into his employ. Hakon. We are searching for him and suspect he was charged to murder those apprehended during the attack. We do not know how.”

  “And the second?”

  “The woman Xenia. She has long been known to be Andronicus’s lover. We’ve been looking for a woman connected to the ‘scorpion.’ Though ‘tis only a suspicion that she might have been involved in the deaths of the Varangians, she does operate a perfumery in the women’s quarters. ‘Tis likely she is the ‘spider’ we seek. Xenia was observed with Hakon this morning but she has also disappeared.”

  “Ailinn.” Her name tumbled from Lyting’s lips, his gut clenching.

  He thrust the silver-haired man into Thord’s hands. “Here is another of the ‘scorpion’s’ scum.”

  With that, Lyting bolted back down the hill.

  »«

  Ailinn paced the chamber restlessly, having sent Ariana to locate Lyting. The slave Comita had been found a short time ago, dead, the stolen vial of perfume lying empty on the floor beside her. Its oil, Ariana revealed when she came with the news, contained a deadly poison.

  Ailinn realized Xenia had meant the poison for her. The thought chilled her to the bone. Had Helena also died beneath Xenia’s hands? Ailinn did not grasp all the implications but suspected Xenia was part to the conspiracy Lyting sought to uncover.

  Ailinn turned, wringing her hands, and crossed the room to where the doors stood open to the balcony. She needed fresh air to clear her mind. As she approached the portal, a figure suddenly loomed, stepping from concealment at the door’s edge and blocking her path.

  Ailinn gasped and drew back. ‘Twas a Varangian, dressed in the distinctive palace uniform — a scarlet tunic with a sword suspended on a strap that hung from his shoulder and lay across his chest. In his hand he gripped a long-shafted ax. Loosing his helmet with its obscuring noseguard, he dragged it from his head.

  “Hakon!” she hissed.

  Gliding silently into view behind him was a veiled woman. Xenia.

  Ailinn backed slowly into the room, fear stalking her. Hakon matched her, step for step, uttering something in his Nordic tongue. She understood naught of it but realized his purpose in coming was to steal her away. Every nerve in her being cried out, the nightmare of her capture in Clonmel replaying itself. He would not have her again!

  Ailinn whirled, a scream tearing from her throat as she ran for the door. But Hakon covered the distance between them in several easy strides. Dropping his helmet and ax, he seized her about the waist and clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “Did you think I would not return?” Hakon hauled the Irish beauty against his chest. “You are mine. And no man or child emperor will say me otherwise. Certainly, no monk,” he hurled derisively, caring not at all that she didn’t understand him. “Has he mated you, my sweet?” His hand slid over her breast, then downward over her abdomen. “Has he claimed your maidenhead? No matter. He’ll not have an opportunity to pleasure himself on you again.”

  “Nor will you!” Lyting’s voice boomed across the room from where he stood, just inside the door. He reached for his sword, and this time it waited in its scabbard. The hilt filled Lyting’s hand, and he drew the blade free. “Let us see this to an end, Hakon, once and for all.”

  Hakon’s grip slackened on Ailinn. He then shoved her toward Xenia.

  “To the end,” Hakon growled and reached to his back. Seizing on the short-hafted ax tucked in his belt, he brought it forth and hurled it at Lyting.

  Lyting pitched aside as the ax burred past his head and gashed the marble wall before clattering to the floor.

  Hakon snatched up the longer-shafted ax and bolted forward, slicing low for Lyting’s legs. Lyting leapt back. With both hands he brought his broadsword down with solid force and smote the ax’s shaft in two.

  Hakon threw down the severed wood and drew on his sword. Lyting met him, stroke for stroke. Steel sang out on steel, blade biting blade. On they strove, neither yielding. The swords clanged and flashed, some strokes sweeping high and wide, others slicing downward, fracturing tables and shredding precious silk hangings.

  Hakon swiped for Lyting’s head, but Lyting ducked and the sword struck a marble column instead. Before he could recover, Lyting slogged him in the ribs with both fists, still gripping his sword. Hakon stumbled a pace but regained himself and came up, slashing for Lyting’s stomach. Lyting canted and blocked the stroke. Their blades locked, and for a moment they strained, muscle against muscle. Hakon kicked high, of a sudden, catching Lyting in both hip and side and sending him backward to the floor.

  Lyting scrambled to his feet, but as he did, Hakon raised his sword and struck downward, opening himself a fraction too long. Lyting thrust forward with his sword, stabbing into Hakon’s midsection. Hakon doubled over the blade and crumpled to the floor.

  Lyting heaved for breath. Retrieving his sword, he pressed his forehead against the flat side of the blade, near the hilt, and mentally uttered his thanks heavenward. ‘Twas done. Hakon lay motionless before him.

  Slowly Lyting turned to Ailinn. She started toward him, reaching out her arms. But then she halted, and all color left her face.

  Ailinn’s eyes rounded, and she screamed as she saw Hakon come to life, slipping a knife from his boot and rising behind Lyting.

  At Ailinn’s outcry, Lyting began to pivot, bringing up his sword. He caught a blur of movement in the edge of his vision, and next felt fire piercing his shoulder blade as steel lodged in his flesh. Ailinn’s screams resounded in his ears.

  Before losing his hold on his sword, Lyting covered his right hand with his left and gripped tight. Reversing the blade, he arced it down and around, sweeping beneath his arm and driving back. The sword caught Hakon straight on, running him through to the spine.

  Hakon roared in pain, then dropped to his knees, eyes bulging, and pitched forward. Sprawling facedown on the floor, he expelled a long breath and succumbed.

  Lyting sank forward onto the floor, a knife protruding from his back as he braced himself up with his left arm. Ailinn rushed to his side, and he next heard footsteps, then voices — that of Thord and other Varangians.

  “Where is Xenia?” Lyting panted out the words, meaning them for Ailinn but they came out Norse. “I saw her standing on the balcony.”

  Thord scanned the room and, not seeing Xenia, signaled his men to go in search for her. “She’ll not get far on the palace grounds,” he promised, dropping down beside Lyting.

  Pain cleaved Lyting as Thord withdrew the knife from his back. He felt a hot rush of blood, then Thord’s fingers stanching the flow.

  The world began to recede, swirling about him. Ailinn cried out his name as he pitched forward, then plunged headlong into darkness.

  Chapter 23

  Lyting drifted in a shadowy nether region, between semiawareness and total unconsciousness.

  Voices spoke rapidly over and about him, one more urgent than the rest. Ailinn’s. Her anguished voice rose, thin and unnatural, constricted with tears as she bid the others to lift him gently and pleaded for him not to die. Then, he heard Ariana’s voice comforting her, and Ailinn as she broke into sobs.

  Lyting ached to reach out and comfort her but could neither move nor speak in the darkness that entrapped him.

  Footsteps rushed about. He heard the soft swish of silk and the murmur of voices as people hovered about him. Hands lifted and c
arried him. Fresh pain tore through his shoulder blade. He next felt himself lowered onto the softness of the bed and eased onto his stomach. The sound of fabric being sliced away filled his hearing, then he felt a rush of cool air over his back.

  Hands continued to work on him. Cleansing waters soothed the throb in his back, followed by tiny stabs of pain. Dimly Lyting thought of the physician plying his needle. ‘Twas an old wound, he objected vaguely as though the man could hear him. Why should he need stitching again?

  Darkness pulled him downward into the mists of time.

  A nebulous fog swirled about Lyting. As he gazed into the brume, specters materialized and began to emerge, three horsemen bearing down on him. He heard their shouts and the sound of swords scraping from their scabbards. One whirled hook-ended chains above his bald pate.

  A woman’s scream pierced the gloom, a soul-wrenching cry. Then Lyting saw clearly. ‘Twas Hastein mounted before him, his colorless eyes gleaming and as cold as death. Hastein kicked forward, his sword flashing.

  Lyting found himself mounted and armed as well. He spurred his horse, driving toward Hastein. The shock of steel reverberated through his arm, their blades clanging together and grating apart. Hastein hammered down on him, but Lyting pitched and parried, meeting the blows and turning them aside. Lyting flinched as the hot sting of Hastein’s blade lay open his cheek.

  Again a woman screamed, sobbing his name. Brienne? Nei, not she. His heart caught as he recognized that anguished voice. ‘Twas Ailinn.

  Gaining strength he fought on, holding Ailinn’s image before his mind’s eye. Steel on steel, he battled back, raining blow after blow on Hastein. The other horsemen faded from sight, and now he faced his half brother alone.

  Hastein’s features suddenly began to transform. In his face Lyting saw Hakon’s features appear, overlaying those of Hastein. A rage took hold of Lyting, that these two men should seek to despoil those he held most dear. In an explosion of soul-blinding fury, Lyting plunged his sword through the twin images, planting it deep in their obsidian hearts.

  The sword’s bright steel absorbed their evil, turning pitch black. As he continued to look on them, the specters of Hastein and Hakon dissolved to ash. A light breeze arose, diffusing the dark cinders and carrying them away.

  All dimmed and Lyting floated peacefully for atime as though moving in the currents of a great river that carried him toward a light.

  He sensed someone beside him, then felt an angel’s kiss upon his cheek. And again upon his lips. He struggled toward consciousness, but only once did he manage to peer through the groggy veil that enshrouded him. No one held near, but then he glimpsed Ailinn standing on the balcony. She turned toward him, looking to the bed. Tears washed her cheeks. Stifling a sob, she buried her face in her hands.

  Lyting strained to console her, his heart wringing with hers.

  He would set all aright, he promised her silently, but then slipped beneath the surface again and drifted in partial consciousness.

  He must tell her. Of the holy man. The stylite, on his pillar. He need not leave her, ever.

  “The sorrows of Munster bide ever in my heart,” he heard her voice echo through a tunnel in time. “The attack of the Danes . . . I shall never forget . . . never . . .”

  Dread gripped him. Would she refuse him? Could she find love in her heart and leave her homeland for a man of the North? A Dane?

  He fought the darkness that surrounded him, desperate to break through to Ailinn. He called her name, but no sound left his throat.

  »«

  The inky dark paled to a pearly gray. As Lyting slowly awoke, he heard Ailinn’s soft sniffles and whispered prayers. Heard his name upon her lips.

  The mattress sank beside him, and he sensed her leaning over him. A hot tear fell upon his cheek, followed by the warmth of her lips as she gently kissed him there. Several more tears wet his skin, then she pressed the side of her face against his and buried her face in his hair.

  Lyting dragged his lids open and swallowed against the dryness in his throat. He felt Ailinn’s shoulders shake against him and knew she was crying.

  “Elskan mín. My love,” he whispered hoarsely, lifting his hand to the small of her back.

  Ailinn started and drew herself upright.

  “Lyting?” her voice rose in astonishment. Her eyes widened to find his gaze shining upon her. Then she broke into an enormous smile. And a fresh flood of tears.

  Ailinn covered Lyting’s cheeks, eyes, forehead, nose, chin, and throat with kisses, her fingers following as though to assure he were truly alive and awake to her.

  Lyting wondered at Ailinn’s response. Dare he believe she bore him love? Or was it the fright of losing him that prompted this outrush of emotion? Or both?

  Speechless, he caught her fingers with his. There was much they need discuss. He would not be taking the cowl of the Benedictines. But would she choose to stay with him and remain his wife?

  Collecting his thoughts, he brushed back a long strand of hair from her face. But before he could speak, she captured his hand and pressed her lips to its back. Tears slid from beneath her lashes and bathed his skin.

  Lyting’s chest constricted. Gently, he wiped the wetness from her cheek.

  “Why do you cry so, elskan mín?”

  Ailinn raised dark eyes to his. “Because I feared you might die,” she said miserably. “The physic assured ‘twas the loss of blood alone that caused you to collapse and that there is no vital damage. Still, I prayed and prayed.”

  Ailinn’s eyes were open pools of pain, and Lyting knew she did not tell him all.

  “Why?” he asked again, urgent to know her true feelings.

  She swallowed a breath. “Because I love you. Most desperately.” Her chin quivered. “I have lost so much, but the thought of losing you slays my very soul. Yet, even now, I know you will leave me. For Corbie.”

  Her gaze dropped to their joined hands. “Saints forgive me, but I never believed God intended you to be a monk, Lyting. I will not attempt to seduce you from your course, but know I have no intention of seeking an annulment. Ever. I will honor you all the days of my life as my husband and will seek none other. Should a child come of our brief union, I shall count myself blessed. Know I shall cherish our child always, for ‘twill be a most precious part of you.”

  Thunderstruck by Ailinn’s profession of love, Lyting lay momentarily speechless. Waves of emotions pounded through him, followed by a profound and cleansing relief. He lifted his hand and stroked Ailinn’s cheek, his love for her palpable.

  “Ailinn, my heart. I was returning to tell you, I shall not be joining the brothers of Corbie. I have no desire to leave you. Only a desire to keep you ever at my side.”

  Ailinn looked on him with astonishment. As he told her of his words with the holy man, her gaze dropped to her wedding ring, then to his. A radiant joy flooded her entire being. Her eyes misted.

  “Elskan mín, do my words bring you tears?”

  She nodded, smiling. “The sweetest tears I have ever known, for it suddenly comes to me that no force awaits to separate us — no chains to bind, no perils to thwart, no shadows to threaten. There is naught to keep us apart, and the enormity of that thought overwhelms me and dispels all that has weighed on my soul.”

  Lyting, too, felt the vast reach of her words and knew a boundless yearning to be one with her again. He eased upward with a measure of discomfort but counted the pain as naught.

  “Come then, love, and let us be apart no more. We have consummated our vows with our first coupling. Now I would consummate it with our hearts as well.”

  Heat stole through Ailinn, igniting small fires beneath her skin. “As would I, but your wound, Lyting — ”

  “Gently then.” He smiled.

  Seeing the love and desire that shimmered in his beautiful blue eyes, her breath grew shallow and her heart picked up a light, rapid beat. She rose from the bed, her hands trembling slightly as they moved to the sash of her robe and fre
ed it. Drawing open the robe, she let it slide from her shoulders and pool at her feet.

  Lyting’s passion flamed sharp and bright, as he drank in Ailinn’s naked beauty — her full round breasts and rose-hued tips, her small waist and flat abdomen, her creamy thighs, and the promise of joy that awaited between.

  Lyting drew aside his coverings in invitation, and Ailinn’s eyes strayed to the undeniable proof of his arousal. Her eyes widened and a flush spread over her skin, causing him to chuckle.

  “Come, wife,” he bid her softly.

  Moistening her lips, Ailinn pressed him gently back down to the mattress and began to stretch out beside him. But he caught her hips and shifted her over him so that she straddled his pelvis. She gasped as he guided her atop him and began to fill her — gasped, half in surprise at the action, half in wonder that she could fully receive him. Yet, she did so with ease, and reminded herself that she had done so before and would do so again, for this was the physical bonding of marriage, one for which the Creator had especially designed them.

  Ailinn took another swift breath as Lyting smoothed his hands over the soft pliant mounds of her breasts and caressed her. Her senses blossomed beneath his touch, an ache spreading through her. ‘Twas as though he knew which course they followed, for his hand trailed after them, from the sensitive tips of her breasts to the core of her womanhood, where he began to stroke her rhythmically, his touch pure fire.

  Pulling her forward, he captured her nipple with his mouth. She arched, passion spiraling through her as he lavished it with the warmth and moist silk of his tongue, all the while continuing his sweet torture between her legs.

  Ailinn moaned and Lyting felt her femininity clamp tight about him, suddenly searingly hot and wet inside. His hunger sharpened. Moving to her other breast, he made love to it with his tongue, at the same time drawing her over, onto the mattress. He left her pouting crest and began a downward path toward her navel. When Ailinn objected to his withdrawal from her, he moved her hand to envelop his manhood.