Rising to his feet, Mykyl turned her to face him. He cupped her jaw carefully, his fingers rubbing along the tanned features as he at stared her. Experience had taken the faint but familiar hint of fear that a man’s touch often left from her gaze. Instead, the deep sea of green revealed only desire and need.
He eased his mouth to hers, teasing and feathering touches against her full lips. He delved inside her mouth at her soft gasp, tasting the hint of mint from her tea. Her tongue danced over his, sending a bolt of pure liquid fire through his body. Her hands tugged at the pants he wore, impatient to rid him of any barrier between them.
Unhurriedly, he pulled away from her. A step back and he kept her gaze as he shed his pants. Kicking them aside, he stepped back into her arms, his lips already seeking the warmth, the softness of hers. Bending slightly, he lifted her, his hands firm beneath her buttocks. A shift of his grip and her legs encircled his waist, her core brushing against his turgid length. He tightened his embrace and walked toward the bed. Crashing onto it, they chuckled hoarsely at the creak and groan of the ropes and mattress before passion’s fire licked at them, crashing over any humor.
Mykyl licked along her jaw, down her throat, biting her gently as he explored each hollow, each pulse of blood beneath her skin. He relished each moan, each trail of her nails down his back as she responded to him.
“Now, of Feyja, now!” Amoda panted as his fingers teased along the swollen flesh at her core. They both gasped as he slid one into her body, stroking along the moist proof of her need, plying her toward a sweet surrender.
“By Thor, I want to be within you,” Mykyl gasped against her breast. “I want to watch you shatter while I take you, feel the dig of your nails upon my back.”
Amoda whimpered. Her head tilted back as her body undulated beneath his probing digits. Mykyl moved slowly, grasping her hips in his hands as he slid into her. “Aah.” The groan escaped his control as he pressed against her, the hot, wet heat around him driving him mad.
Mykyl stared down into her face, marveling at the open look of rapture on her face as he moved within her. She shuddered at each brush of his breath on her throat, her body trembling beneath him. With each slow, long thrust, he pushed himself closer to the crest, closer to the moment of heaven he longed for.
The friction of her legs locked tightly around his waist as she urged him deeper drew a groan. “Oh Gods, yes. Take all of me in, Amoda.”
“Mykyl, please.” Amoda cried out as her climax hit her, hitting her like a wave that cast her into heaven, her body trembling and quivering with the effects of her release.
Gasping, a fine sheen of sweat covering her body, Amoda’s soft plea soaked into his soul. Groaning as his climax hit him, he thrust deeply, his entire body shaking with the force of his release. Amoda’s release prolonged his own, the feel of her shuddering and trembling around him kept him hovering on the tail end of his own release.
A soft breeze disturbed the fabric over the window and whispered over their sweating skin. Snuggling against the warmth above her Amoda hid her face in his shoulder, her breath hot on his skin.
“My lord?”
Mykyl groaned at the pounding on the door and shifted off Amoda who hesitated a moment before releasing him. He watched her scramble to cover herself as he moved across the chamber.
“What is it?” he roared through the door.
“A messenger from Dublin, my lord. He awaits an audience in the hall.”
“I shall see him shortly.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Mykyl leaned against the door as the sound of footsteps retreated. Turning, he glanced at Amoda who sat swathed in the bedding, her hair disheveled, her face flushed with the evidence of her own arousal and satisfaction.
“It would appear that even you can not take time away from work,” Amoda said tonelessly, the look of satisfaction fading, replaced by a distant, almost embarrassed shadow in her eyes.
“We shall continue this later, my lady,” Mykyl promised, pressing a quick, hard kiss to her lips before he dressed quickly. Mykyl closed the door, the image of her sitting on their bed with a distant look upon her face etched into his mind. Mykyl rushed down the stairs, his mood dark at the intrusion.
A moment later, he stepped into the hall and met the eyes of one of his father’s captains. An uneasy feeling began to fill his gut. This man brought trouble, anyone associated with Tyr did, and Mykyl wanted no part of it.
“Prince Mykyl.”
“What has brought you to my home, Bainwelf?” Mykyl demanded, waving two of the servant women from the room.
“King Tyr.”
“Is he not in Brattalh’id?”
“Nay, he as well as Prince Olaf, arrived in Dublin a few days past. He has sent me to summon you.”
“I know of no attack upon his lands. Word would have long since reached me if Brattahl’id had been attacked.”
“I believe it is a personal matter, my lord.”
“Of what nature?”
“He did not say.”
“When?”
“As soon as arrangements can be made for you to depart. They await you in King Tyr’s residence.”
Mykyl eyed the young man for a moment even as he heard the telltale sound of footsteps. He turned slightly and caught Amoda’s eye, a look of disgust in her eyes; she glanced at the Norse messenger. “My lady and I will be departing at first light.”
“He requests only your presence. He does not feel the need for you to bring your whore.” Bainwelf leered at Amoda who glanced away before slipping out of the room.
Mykyl met his stare with barely leashed hostility. “Refer to her in such a manner again, and I will take great pleasure in relieving you of your tongue. Since I alone am to be there, I shall leave at first light. No sooner. My man, Byrne, will see that you are comfortable.”
“Might I have a bit of entertainment this night?”
“You will have no need of any. Until morning, then.” Mykyl swore as his father’s messenger disappeared. Frustration and anger rolled within him as he slammed a fist down upon the table. Whirling, he stalked from the room.
“Cahal!” he roared angrily. “Where has that man disappeared to?”
“My lord?”
Shooting a dark look at his friend, he stomped toward the front door. “I have been summoned to Dublin.”
“What purpose does that serve?”
“I know not. I will be taking most of the men with me. You are to remain here.”
“I would be better able to serve you by—”
“I cannot afford to leave these people unprotected. Olaf has traveled with my father to our shore. There will be trouble, and I do not wish to return to a burned village,” Mykyl explained curtly. “Amoda will serve you as healer, guard her well.”
“You are becoming too attached. You may come to regret—”
“I trust that you will do as you need to keep her, and the other women safe. In no way are you to allow the destruction of these people!”
“You expect an attack?”
“I trust no one,” Mykyl said. “I will be leaving at first light with ten men. I will send the rest out to guard the smaller settlements. I do not anticipate being gone any longer than it takes to answer this summons and return. If there is a delay, I shall send word to you.”
“Be careful then. Olaf will surely have figured out the truth of Amoda’s ‘disappearance’. His displeasure will be most unpleasant.”
“I have much to return to. I can be just as ruthless when I must protect what belongs to me.” Mykyl saw Amoda standing, listening in the shadows. “If there is any problem, the women and children are to be sent up the glen. Do not let the enemy get them. Any of them.”
Cahal nodded wordlessly and stalked off, leaving Mykyl to stare at Amoda.
“It is true then? You go to answer the summons?”
“I go to deal with my father.” A dark look, quickly masked, crossed her face. “Guard yourself. He is not what he se
ems.”
For a moment, Mykyl wondered how astute she sounded before the thought slipped away. “You shall keep our bed warm for me?”
“Aye, my lord. I shall do as you bid.”
Mykyl frowned at her words but remained silent as she slipped away to continue her work. He wondered if she enjoyed their meetings as much as he did. Since that first night, that first awakening of passion, she rushed into her passion head first.
He could not release her, could not give up what he had with her. She is no more than a mere, mortal woman. She sleeps, breathes, and eats like every other woman. Yet her fires, her very identity pulls at me, much like the siren’s song.
Shaking his head, he exhaled. Why would they summon him to Dublin, especially after all the pains they’d taken to get him away from the throne? There was a certainty within him that this summons held nothing but trickery. It seemed unlikely that either man wanted to extend an olive branch to him. Nay, something darker, something deeper held them in its grip.
“You seem worried. Is there something I can do to assist you?” Byrne’s voice drew him from his thoughts, and he glanced up at the old man.
“Nay, just curious to know why my father would send for me.”
“Perhaps he has forgiven your transgression.”
“I was not at fault. I had no way of knowing that Olaf and Father had altered the arrangement! I’d been on the battlefield for some months.”
“I spoke not of Darina.”
“I wish not to speak of it. Cahal will remain behind. He will be the first line of defense of this city.” Mykyl paced furiously. “No one is to be refused hospitality and protection, and no one within these walls is to be harmed.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“You are to be the last. I trust that you can do whatever needs done? You must protect the women and children at all costs. One can replace boards and timbers. My people cannot be so easily replaced.”
Byrne’s slow nod and understanding expression irritated Mykyl for some unknown reason. “What?”
“And the girl? Amoda? What of her?”
“She is a woman, is she not? She is to be protected the same as any other.”
“I shall protect her as though she came from my own flesh and blood.”
“See that you do. Bainwelf is settled in?” Mykyl changed topics, unwilling to discuss any further his position when it came to Amoda.
“I have left him with a guard. I see no reason to allow a man who is more interested in our women then in his missive to walk about unescorted.”
“Good.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Mykyl stared out over the rolling fields. The harvest had long since been over, and yet, every day women went out and returned with baskets full of goods. His people prospered, they remained healthy, their larders filled, and there would be plenty for the winters chill.
Irritation whispered at him. A trip to Dublin in the winter was dangerous. Storms and the cold could kill. “Why now? Why not wait until spring?” Mykyl muttered.
“I do not know your father’s logic.”
“You have been given your instructions. See that you follow through with them,” Mykyl declared. His gaze upon the open fields and rolling hills that stretched out before him.
Byrne bowed low and turned to shuffle off, leaving Mykyl watching his retreat. Hot and venomous, the anger moved with a sluggish pulse through his blood. It pulsed, throbbing with each beat of his heart until he feared it would consume him.
~ * ~
Wrapped tightly in her cloak Amoda stood in silence as the men saddled their horses. With each exhale of both man and beast, a cloud of fog rose only to fade away on the wind.
The shadows beneath her emerald gaze revealed the exhaustion that clung to both of them. Mykyl hid a grin using the pretense of tightening the cinch. They’d spent most of the night wrapped in each other’s arms. He’d been desperate to leave her with an heir. In taking her body, he’d discovered that she’d marked him in ways he could not let her know.
“What will you have me do, my lord, in your absence?” Amoda’s soft query drew his attention.
Turning to study her as she stood silently, expectantly, he smothered a smile. Her long hair flowed freely, the flaming locks wrapping themselves around her throat with silken threads. Emerald depths stared at him for a moment, a hint of something within them that drew his curiosity.
“You must remain here. I pray that this matter is nothing of importance and that I may return quickly. You will watch over everyone in my absence?”
“As I said, my lord,” Amoda agreed, her voice dropping until barely audible. “I will remain here. My word is my bond.”
“That is not what I speak of.” Mykyl glanced around him, assessing the crowd carefully. “Trust that Cahal and Byrne will keep you safe. I’ve bid them to protect these people. They may need your help with that.”
“It shall be done.”
Mykyl raised an eyebrow at her slight bow before turning toward the house. “One other thing, Amoda.”
Catching the slight hint of fear and uncertainty within her eyes, quickly masked, he stepped closer to her. Resting a gloved hand on her cheek, he caught the shudder that raced through her at the chill on the leather. “Stay safe. I will return to you. Remember, those in the towers will alert those behind the walls if there is trouble.”
“I shall do my duty, my lord,” Amoda replied stiffly before shrugging his grip off and rushing away. Her steps were quick as she darted up the stairs and into the warmth of the manor house.
“I do not like it, my lord.” Byrne shuffled closer. “You leave your people unprotected.”
“I have no doubts about your ability to protect what must be protected.”
“Your doubts are not upon me,” Byrne replied as his lord mounted easily. “You have made a bargain that you may not be able to keep.”
“Amoda is a woman of great power.” Mykyl stared down at the old man. “She pulls at me, guides me in a direction I’ve never been. Something about her bids me to trust in the path she leads us. Follow Cahal’s lead. He is a good man.”
“Aye, my lord.” Byrne bowed.
With a backward slash of his heels, Mykyl galloped from the yard. The clatter of hooves on the frozen ground echoed in the morning air as he led his men northwards. Riding even with Bainwelf, Mykyl slowed his mount.
“Hear my words, Captain. Anything happens to my people in my absence, anything, and I will personally make sure your entry into Valhalla is delayed no longer than it takes my sword to clear its scabbard.”
“I only do as my lord, King Tyr, bids me. I am not responsible for another’s decisions.”
“Do not threaten me. We will ride to the coast. From there, we will sail to Dublin, a route that is much faster and much safer.” Ignoring the shocked look upon the young man’s face, Mykyl kicked his stallion ahead of the others. Everything within him cried out to go back, to take her to their bed, and stay there but dictates beyond his control forbade him the luxury.
~ * ~
Bitter cold seemed to fill his bones as Mykyl dismounted before the massive castle that housed his father and brother. His men followed his example, dismounting as they waited for instruction. Many eyed the bustle of the city around them, Dublin teemed with life, yet a darkness hung over them, one Mykyl understood all too well.
“Your horse?”
Mykyl handed the reins to a young boy who appeared suddenly at his side and started inside. Stalking through the wide, stone corridors, he paid no attention to the statues, the tapestries in all their vivid colors, or the people that milled about.
“King Tyr?” He stopped a young girl who pointed over her shoulder, her eyes filled with unease.
“Through there, my lord.”
Turning on a booted heel, Mykyl stalked down the corridor and into the massive room. His father, brother, and Rognvaldr sat at a large table with several other men. All turned to appraise him upon his entry, and he felt a flash of anger. �
��You sent for me?”
“Indeed, I did,” Tyr started, rising to his feet. “You are of an age for marriage and I have found you a suitable—”
“I have no time for a bride. There are hostilities that must be dealt with properly before a marriage can be considered.”
“You seem rather interested in stealing my property, though.” Olaf leaned back in his seat, a sneer crossing his face.
“Steal? I stole nothing from you. Merely reclaimed what you had taken from me,” Mykyl spat through clenched teeth. Rage simmered beneath his control at his brother’s snide tone.
“Still, it belonged to me.”
Olaf’s voice roused him from his thoughts, and Mykyl glared at his brother before focusing on Tyr when he adjusted his belt.
“Olaf, I shall deal with that issue later.” Tyr held up a hand to his eldest and faced his youngest.
“What is it that you wish of me, Father?” Mykyl jerked off his gloves and stalked down the three wide steps to stop at the foot of the table.
“Simple. This is Lord Mallon. He has control over the territories to the far west of you.”
“Lord Mallon and I have met before.” Mykyl turned to the eldest man still sitting at the table. His clothes bore the decoration of gold and beading, the rough woolen fabric most often worn replaced by finely woven, richly colored clothing. Obviously, he held some standing amongst his people.
“To gain his allegiance, I have taken some extraordinary measures. To ensure that his people and ours work together, we have discussed a mating of our families. You enjoy this country far more than I, so I have decided that you shall take a wife.”
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Mykyl glanced between Tyr and Lord Mallon. It became glaringly obvious that both men had already reached an agreement and his opinion mattered none.
“Your Highness.” The soft, sweetly accented voice drew the men’s attention. Turning, Mykyl stared into the curious gaze of a young woman. Dressed much like Lord Mallon, she nodded briefly at him before descending the stairs to pause next to the table. “You summoned me.”
“Indeed, Lady Mallon.” Tyr’s smile turned Mykyl’s stomach. “This is Prince Mykyl, Lord of Woodstown. Your betrothed.”
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