At a small sound, he glanced up. Byrne stared at him from the shadows. An unreadable expression masked his face. “What is it, old man?”
“She saved us, saved the women and children. You need not have been so harsh.”
“She should not have been in a battle. I believe myself to have been clear, was I not? I wanted her to stay safe.”
“Why? What is she to you, my lord?” Byrne limped closer, his eyes flashing with fierce determination. “A slave you stole from your brother? A pawn in that old childish game you continue to play? Nothing more than a tool for use until it is no longer convenient? When it comes, when she has given you what you seek, what then? What will you do when she delivers unto you a healthy heir? An heir that is not legal in the eyes of your people! A child your brother would gladly slaughter!”
“Enough, Byrne.” Mykyl turned toward the stairs. He paused on the top step and turned to his aid. “I am not my brother, Byrne.”
“But you have no intention of honoring your agreement.”
“I can’t,” Mykyl whispered softly.
“Then you are your father’s son. He never honored but one bargain he made. He promised to take from those who he could not bend to his will, and he has done so. Time and again, and you are doing the same thing.”
Mykyl felt the barb sink beneath his skin. Cold and harsh, Byrne’s words held more honesty that he liked. King Tyr of Bratthl’id had never honored his word unless it came to wealth for him. This however, was different. If he honored his word, if he gave her freedom, he would lose a piece of himself. Child or no, he did not believe he could survive without her passion. He existed when he was not with her. He’d come to know exhaustion, he wanted more than just surviving. He needed her to make him whole.
He shook his head sadly, unable to meet Byrne’s eyes. “How can I release her, Bryne? How does one tear off a limb, poke out an eye? She is more to me than simply a means to slake my lust. I could do that with any of the women within the city walls, or anywhere I chose to. She is more than just a pawn. You do not understand.”
“I think I do.” Byrne shuffled away from him.
“How can you when I do not?” Mykyl muttered before turning to deal with the preparations for the guests he expected before nightfall.
~ * ~
Mykyl stood in the main hall and watched as Lady Mallon’s escort walked in. Eight warriors, decked out in full battle gear, preceded her arrival by moments.
He caught sight of her amongst all those around her and cursed. Her presence did not bode well for his future plans.
“Good day, my lady.”
“Lord Woodstown.” Lady Mallon bowed at him, a faint smile on her face. It did not however reach her eyes. Instead, she looked at him with a cold, distant glare.
“I trust the trip offered few hardships?”
“Indeed, I thank you for your generosity.”
Mykyl turned just as Amoda walked through the door. He stared at her closely. Any indication of her earlier upset now erased. Her face scrubbed, her hair brushed, a fresh linen dress covered her body. Only the shadows, the hint of fear in her eyes revealed their earlier confrontation.
“My Lord?” Lady Mallon’s voice drew his attention and he turned back to her.
“Lady Mallon?”
“Prince, the meal comes now.” Bowing slightly, Erin greeted the woman with a nod before slipping away from them.
“Come, you’ll find that my servants are very well versed in meal preparation. I do hope you won’t mind ale too much.” Mykyl ushered her toward the table, a hand on her elbow. He wondered how easy it would be to slip away from this pomp and ceremony, to just snatch Amoda into his arms and find the warmth and softness of their bed to spend the hours of the night in without the concerns of his father’s bargain.
“Not at all.” Lady Mallon took the offered seat next to Mykyl.
Mykyl paid little attention to the gasps of his guests as Amoda drew even with him and stood behind his shoulder. He shifted slightly and glanced up. “Sit,” he commanded. Spoken so low as to be barely audible, Amoda immediately took the seat on the other side of him and stared at the heavy wooden table.
“Who is your guest, my lord?” Cahal’s booming voice carried down the table, effectively silencing the conversation.
Mykyl shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he felt the entire room’s stare on him. He glanced at Amoda out of the corner of his eye. She sat stoically, her face an impassive mask, her eyes downcast, and her fists clenched in her lap. Mykyl glanced from the strange woman sitting next to him to Cahal who eyed him with barely hidden curiosity. “This is Lady Mallon, my father’s choice for my bride.”
He glanced sharply at Amoda when she gasped. He watched the color drain from her face before she ducked her head. “She’ll be staying with us until the wedding.”
“Oh. Is that your father’s wishes?” Byrne asked; his tone emotionless.
“I’ll not speak of it now.” Mykyl waved aside the question with an irritated look at Byrne. “Tell me of this attack on my city. Who were these invaders? Irish or Danish?”
“Norse,” Cahal replied quickly. “Amoda discovered their identity after the battle. Their weapons and banners are clearly not Irish. The reasoning behind it eludes me, my lord.”
“There has been no Norse tribe that has ill will toward me or my people. Mayhap a false banner flew, meant to throw us off.” Mykyl reached for his drink.
“I think not.” Cahal shook his head. “They were Norse, my lord, mixed with Irish.”
“Such talk. My lady, do you not find this talk of war troubling?” Lady Mallon tittered, her glance darting to Amoda.
Cold and calculating, it was clear to Mykyl that Lady Mallon’s intent had been to make Amoda uncomfortable. He glanced at Amoda, curious to know her answer.
It seemed the sudden silence in the room hung over them like a cloud. Amoda glanced between the lady in her finery and her lord. “Nay, I do not. War is a way of life to some. Perhaps, in your world, it does not affect thusly, but here—here the women fight alongside the men.” She tilted her chin proudly. “Else we would not be here to sup this night.”
Lady Mallon gasped. “Women fight with the men? How utterly dreadful for you. Have you no—?”
“One must do what one can to continue the line of their people,” Amoda rose to her feet, her eyes meeting Mykyl’s for a moment, “regardless of personal feelings or position, my lady. This is, after all, my house.”
Sipping on the goblet of ale, Mykyl watched her stalk from the room, her head held high, her shoulders straight, seemingly braced against the world. As she disappeared around the corner, he dropped his gaze to his ale. He should have prepared her, given her some warning. He could no more escape his father’s decree than Amoda could escape her bondage.
Feeling as though someone watched him drew his attention, and he stared down the table to Byrne, who stared at him with a look of cold censure in his weathered face. A slow, sad shake of his head made Mykyl look away. This was not his choice. He wanted more than just to be a pawn in his father’s dealings.
Like a bolt of lightning, it struck Mykyl. His desire to escape the plans another had made echoed within the haunted eyes of the woman who’d just left the room. Rising suddenly to his feet, he ignored those around him and stalked from the room, intent on finding Amoda.
~ * ~
Pacing back and forth across the floor, Amoda refused to give in to the searing agony that coursed through her body. The faint hope that Mykyl would come to care for her had died a cruel and harsh death the moment Mykyl had spoken.
Humiliation roared through her, taunting her with dreams of a family, a home of her own. Turning at the opening of the door, she glared for a moment at Mykyl before resuming her pacing.
“Amoda—”
“I believe there is a room available with Erin and her family. I shall move my things down there this night.”
“You will not. You will remain here, with me.”
“The bed might get a bit crowded, my lord.” Amoda glared at the offending piece of furniture. “She will give you an heir?”
“Once she is my wife, yes.”
Amoda nodded, her hands coming to rest protectively over her stomach. She walked over to stare out at the darkness, her mind in turmoil. On one hand, she was glad that Mykyl had a wife-to-be. With the wedding and preparations, he would be too busy to pay much attention and mayhap, he would be kind enough to grant her freedom. A thin hope but all she had at the moment.
“And our bargain?” Amoda glanced at him before turning away from his stare.
“Nothing has changed.”
Amoda nodded. Anger, blessed anger had burned within her, giving her strength, but it faded, replaced by bitterness. “Will you let me go?”
“Amoda—”
“Will you give me my freedom?” Amoda demanded. Sorrow stirred within her as she listened to the pounding of her heart while she waited for his answer. With his words, her hope died.
“I cannot,” Mykyl spoke softly.
Amoda nodded and glanced at him; unwilling to reveal just how much his words, his actions hurt her. “I believe then, my lord, that I am no longer required in your bed. I shall find lodging elsewhere.”
“Amoda, I can not give you what you seek. I am—”
“A prince and the lord of this city.” Amoda shrugged indifferently. “It appears to me, my lord, that you are nothing more than your father’s harlot. The only difference is no one would judge you poorly for bedding another besides your wife.”
“You stay within this room, within my bed.” Mykyl moved forward, his grip bruising as he held onto her shoulders. “You are mine.”
“Aye, my lord. A slave belongs to a master, but you do not keep the livestock in your chamber, do you?” Amoda stepped away from him, her tone icy.
“You have not supped this night. I’ll have Erin bring up something for us to eat.”
“Should you not return to your guests?”
“I say what I will do in my own house!” Mykyl strode toward the door.
Amoda closed her eyes as the door closed softly behind him. She braced her hands on the windowsill and dropped her head. Only by sheer force of her will did she keep the tears at bay. She would not give him one more tear, one more ounce of herself.
Fifteen
Amoda lay within the shadows of early morning, hiding behind the pretense of sleep as she listened to Mykyl start his day. The rustle of his clothes preceded the sound of the door closing.
Her eyes opened quickly. She sat upright and tossed back the covers. Hurriedly she began gathering her clothes, intent on dressing before Mykyl returned. The upcoming nuptials had kept Mykyl too busy to notice her withdrawal. She wanted him to need her in the darkness, yet at the same time, part of her wanted him to release her.
Hastily, Amoda tugged on her chemise. She glanced up sharply as the door swung open to reveal Mykyl. Glad to have even that to cover her, Amoda straightened and stared at him coldly.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake.”
Amoda shrugged and turned away from him as the door closed. His heated stare scorched at the thin covering she wore. Resentment stirred within her, and with a quick, ruthless flick of her wrist, and her tunic sailed across the room to puddle on the floor in front of Mykyl.
“You have hardly spoken since my return.” Mykyl bent to pick up the discarded tunic she’d been about to put on.
“Do you not have things to do, my lord? I have no desire to keep you from your pressing duties as lord, and bridegroom.”
“Amoda, my love, please think about this.”
“Think about this?” Amoda spat, whirling around to face him. She glared at him coldly, a look of utter disgust on her face. “Think about what? The fact that you used me, you’re still using me. I’ve thought of nothing else. Go back to your precious Irish maiden and leave me be!”
“You forget your place!”
“I have no place. Not in this house, not in this city, not in your bed. I am worth less than your precious horse.” Amoda jerked free of his grasp. “Now let go of me.”
“Nay. I give the orders here, not you. I am not willing to throw away all these months because of your foolish pride!”
“My pride?” Amoda gaped at him. “I have no pride. You relieved me of that months ago, before you left to run to your Father and take his offered bride. Tell me, Mykyl, are you sure Olaf hasn’t had her first? Are you waiting for him to come, and then you can trade him? Your bride for a slave? Are you quite finished humiliating him? What greater penance than to give back what you’ve already tired of? Slightly used, of course.”
“You are not—”
“Not what?” Amoda shook her head, her throat choked with tears she refused to shed. “I am not of value. I understand—.”
“Nay, you do not. This is all wrong! I do not want her.”
“You are a liar.”
Mykyl stood rooted to the spot as she moved around him. She could hear him breathing but paid it no attention. She did not care one way or another. Pulling on her dress, she tied the laces tightly and reached for her hairbrush.
“Dressed so quickly?”
“I have duties to perform,” Amoda retorted as she ruthlessly dragged the brush through the tangles in her hair. She bit back the sobs even as she felt his heat engulf her back, his arms circling her waist.
“Not this day.” Mykyl’s soft whisper drew a shudder.
She could feel her body begin to burn. The need for him burst to life low in her body. Her eyes drifted closed as his hot breath wafted across her neck, his lips moist and hot against her skin.
Amoda watched his fingers loosen the ties of her chemise, before sliding under the collar and easing the garment off her shoulders. She shivered at the feel of his callused fingers teasing her skin. The scratch of his beard only added to the inferno within her.
Awash in a sea of sensations, of tenderness, she stood in trembling anticipation as he pushed all remnants of clothing from her body, his hands and lips trailing over every inch of flesh he exposed.
“My brother has nothing to do with this,” Mykyl whispered, nipping her ear. “I keep what is mine.”
A tug on her hair sent shards of fire through her scalp. She tipped her head back, exposing her throat, a muted groan slipping past her control. “I fear your wife may disagree.”
“She is not my wife, yet.” Mykyl groaned. “I will not speak of her again, not in our bed.”
Warmth seeped through her, erasing the chill from the air. Her hands had a will of their own as they crept over the corded muscles of his arms, which wrapped around her waist.
His large, calloused hands scraped enticingly across her breasts. The softness of her breasts hardened into peaks, pebbled beneath his caresses as he pinched and rolled her nipples between his fingers.
“Gods, I have missed you.” Hot, lust-filled, Mykyl’s whisper drew an answering moan from her. “Missed the warmth of your body in the night. I wanted to touch you so badly, to make you scream out for me. It has been so long since I’ve sheathed myself within you, Amoda.”
“You are to be married, my lord,” Amoda gasped as he nipped at her shoulder.
“I care not. ‘Tis you I want.”
Amoda gasped at the sudden cessation of his touch. Opening her eyes, she stared as he stripped quickly, revealing the long, toned muscles of his body. The tanned skin rippled and flexed as he ripped his shirt in his haste. His torn shirt had barely landed on the floor before her hands traced over the hard muscles of his chest.
Driven by desire, Amoda pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along the exposed flesh. The light matting of hair on his chest tickled and teased her lips, flowing down into the waistband of his pants. She smiled with pleasure at the guttural groan from him, her hands seeking out his length through the fabric of his trousers. Squeezing his hardened flesh, she teased him through the rough fabric until he cursed. Her nimble fingers made sho
rt work of the ties, pushing at the material. Amoda relished the feeling of his fingers tangled in her hair.
She glanced up as she sank to her knees. He met her gaze with heated, desire-filled eyes. Pleasure, want, and need danced in his stare, stirring the embers of her need.
A moan escaped him as she traced over his length, learning every inch, every curve, every mark with her hands and mouth. Teasing him, pushing him to the brink of paradise before pulling him back until, with a snarl of yearning, he lifted her to her feet.
Slowly, a steady, burning look crossed his face. Amoda stared into the heat of his gaze, her body clamoring for a touch.
She moaned softly as Mykyl lifted her against him. The feel of his mouth on her breast sent waves of fire down through her body to her core, making her arch her back.
Each swipe of his tongue hardened her already turgid nipples. “Please.” Needing his touch too badly, Amoda didn’t care if he took her plea as a sign of weakness.
Pride be damned, she wanted Mykyl on her, his hardness skewering her. She wanted to feel the flood of his seed deep within her body.
Amoda gasped when he lifted her, his hands moving to cup her buttocks.
“Wrap your legs around my waist, my love.”
Driven by need and instinct, Amoda followed his command. Her arms tightened around his neck, her mouth seeking his in a desperate, heated kiss. With each step, his tongue swiped within her mouth, learning every nook and cranny, every inch of her from the inside out. Their tongues dueled, dancing together in the familiar game their bodies clamored for.
The feel of the hot, heaviness of his shaft as it rubbed against her core made her moan. With each step he took, it brushed against the moist folds, teasing her until she wanted to cry.
Her head spun as he laid her out on the bed. The soft, smooth furs beneath her created a lovely friction as he moved down her body, using his tongue to trace over every inch of her exposed body. A strangled scream tore from her as he guided himself into her core, his hands heavy on her thighs. The feel of him so deeply within her sent her over the edge.
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