“You promised! You gave your word on a deal. You said you would grant me freedom if I came to your bed, if I gave you a son. I carried out my part.”
“I do not see my son in your arms,” Mykyl pointed out.
“Oh you vile…you think so little of me that you would try to trick me? I may be of no more matter to you than your horse.”
“More.”
“What?” She gaped at him.
“You’re worth more than my horse, Amoda, I could not give you what you already had,” he whispered, running his fingers through her crudely cut tresses. As the uneven ends passed over his fingers, he felt his anger awaken. Olaf would pay for this trespass on her, he would see to it.
Amoda’s expression darkened into pure rage as she stepped back from him, the fur slipping from her grasp, unnoticed. “You lying son of a whore! You had no intention of honoring our agreement and yet you expect me to.”
“Aye, I do expect you to give me a child. One with red hair and green eyes that rivals the very fire her mother displays.”
Amoda opened her mouth to offer a biting retort, only nothing came out. Mykyl saw the confusion in her gaze, the doubts and cursed his lack of care with her. “You lie. You do not want me; you simply want your heir, another pawn—”
Mykyl ground his teeth, his hand raking through his hair as he stared at her. “You’re temper is most impressive but it will not garner you—”
“I will not keep my word, not when I gave it to a liar and a thief!”
Reaching out, Mykyl grabbed her arm tightly, noticing the rise and fall of the full swell of her breasts, the pulse that pounded at the base of her throat, and the fire, the emotions that flooded her eyes. “Amoda, I could not give you your freedom.”
“Then I cannot give you an heir,” she cried, her fingers tightening on his wrist as she struggled to get away from him.
“Amoda, please, just hear me out. I’ve made a mess of this with my foolish pride, and I know I may never be able to undo the pain but at least give me a chance. Dear Gods, woman, I love you, and I will not surrender you to anyone or anything.”
Amoda’s eyes narrowed as her teeth began to worry her bottom lip. “What trickery is this?”
“Do you wish me to beg? Would it help if I got on my knees before you?” Mykyl ground out. “What must I say to make you see? I could not give you more than I already had.” He pulled her flush against his hard body, beyond caring of his pride. If she demanded he fall to his knees and beg, he would do so. To lose her, to forfeit her love before he had even acknowledged it, was beyond redemption.
Mykyl huffed out a breath and loosened his grip to reach up to cup her jaw. “I started off meaning to humiliate and demean Olaf. To show him what it meant to lose something he valued. What better way to do that than to steal the very slave promised him when she set foot upon Norse soil? That I stole you from right under his nose, from his very grasp was too great a victory. I knew his honor would tarnish, and he would wear the shame like a heavy burden, much as I had after his wedding my bride. My plans began to matter less and less as time went on, Amoda.”
He shifted, his gaze steady, imploring her to hear his words and open her heart to him. “Do you know what I felt when I saw the scar that crossed your face? The pain that ripped through me each moment I laid my eyes upon it. The agonies of knowing that I had left you open to attack. The fear made me strike out at you, my love, fear that I could have lost any hope of knowing life beyond what I’ve had before I met you. You asked for freedom, asked for an escape from bondage. In truth, you are not the one in bondage, Amoda. The very thought of another man touching you, holding you as I have done so many nights rips at my throat like a rabid dog. There is no way I could let you turn to another, I need you too much.”
“I am a pawn against your brother, nothing more. Something you, my lord, have taken great pains to remind me of time and again.” Faint, doubting, a thin note of hope colored her voice as she stared at him. “Besides, your father has already set your future for you, and I will not, nay can not, compete with that woman he selected.”
“I have no intent to marry Lady Mallon,” Mykyl whispered, pulling her closer to him gently. “When I marry, it will be for the woman I want, I need. Not to make good an alliance between my father and an Irish king, a man I have an agreement with already.”
“But she said—”
“She has no say, my love, within my house. Do you take me for a fool? Do you believe I would be so cruel as to let you suffer for my father’s pride? Nay, my love, you are the reason for my departure. It took me but a few days to discover what had taken place. As soon as Cahal told me everything, I gathered my forces and followed you. I left my father behind and—”
Amoda’s eyes widened sharply. “Your father is still at Woodstown? He will surely have seized control. What then?”
“Let me worry about my father and my brother. Right now, we must get you somewhere safe. I will not risk losing you again.”
Amoda flushed slightly as he pulled her closely against his hard warmth. Staring down at her, he saw the desire in her eyes, along with the faint shadows of pain. Guilt lapped at his soul as he cradled her against him. “I swear it to you. I will do all in my power to protect you.”
“For your babe?”
“Nay. The moment I learned of your escape, I rode out to the farmhouse. I was prepared to drag you back, kicking and screaming if need be, long before Cahal announced to me the news of the babe who rests beneath your heart. I treasure the gift of the babe you carry, but, my love, I could never pray to find another woman such as you. We will return to Woodstown, and you will sit beside me on the throne.”
“I am a slave, my lord. Even if you have freed me I am no more than—” Amoda gestured to her short hair in a silent reminder.
Mykyl chuckled and bent to press a soft, gentle kiss to her lips. Barely brushing his lips against hers he forced himself to be patient as he felt her respond, the lush curves of her body pressing against him tightly. The feel of her fingers tangling within his hair as she moaned into his soft kisses, fanned the flames that never strayed far away. There would be time for that after, when she was safe and not so brightly colored.
He smiled, the fear he’d felt when he’d learned of her disappearance, fading into a distant, painful memory. “My love, I have much to tell you.” He paused at the sound of men and horses in the yard. “It appears my men are ready to ride. We cannot delay.”
“If Olaf comes it will go ill for these people.” Amoda grasped his arm. “He will be sorely put out, Mykyl. I would not surrender to his will. Look where it got me the last time I surrendered to my master.” She rubbed at the lump under her tunic, a faint smile upon her face.
Mykyl smiled at her and started for the door. “We will have to find a place for you until I can gather my forces. I will not risk open warfare with you and the babe unprotected.” “What of your allies? This is Ri Tuath Quinne’s land. He will follow you in battle,” Amoda declared. “And I can fight.”
“You will do well to remain where I put you and stay safe,” Mykyl shot back, “until I send for you. The threat does not end with my father or my brother. Olaf will have no doubt started back for Woodstown by now. I have no doubt that he will have gathered an army by now, and we will have to ride against them.”
Amoda shuddered but nodded her consent as he reached for the door. Giving a startled gasp, she laughed softly and reached for his hand. “My lord, feel.”
Mykyl gasped at the sensation of his child kicking against his hand. “He…”
“Aye, I’ve been so worried. He’s been so still.” Amoda shifted uneasily.
Mykyl smiled and his hand dug into his tunic. Amoda gasped when he pulled out a small square hide tied with a knot. She eyed it carefully as he held it out to her. Curious to know how she’d react, he watched her unfold the wrap from her band and stare at it.
“I thought it lost,” she whispered softly. “It was with me until I woke h
ere, and I feared the old woman had stolen it.”
“Nay, my love. ‘Tis a symbol of all that you are to me. You can not lose that,” he whispered as he slid the gold band into place before placing a kiss upon her cheek. “You have given me life. What can I give you that would equal that?”
“You’ve given me more than I could have ever dreamed,” Amoda replied, her fingers dancing over the polished metal. She glanced into his eyes with a look of love so powerful it brought tears to his eyes. “A mistress I am no longer.”
“Aye, you’ve always been a wife. We were just too blind to see it.” He acknowledged. “Come, my love, it’s time to go.” Mykyl wrapped her tightly in his embrace and led her out the door and into the rapidly swelling wash of dawn’s light.
A rapid cheer rose as the riders saw her before falling silent. Cahal moved forward to hold Mykyl’s horse as she mounted. “Do we head back to the encampment by the river?” Cahal asked. “Aye, once we have arrived at the camp, you will send forth messengers to every loyal Ri that I seek soldiers and a safe lodging for Amoda,” Mykyl ordered as he swung his horse’s head around. “We ride upon Woodstown in three days.”
Mykyl tightened his embrace as Amoda snuggled deeper into his warmth, her breath hitching with the jarring stride of his mount. Nuzzling his nose into her hair, he breathed deeply of the faint spicy scent he’d clung to on her pillow. “Rest, for you are safe now,” he whispered softly. “I have you, my love.”
She gave a hitching sigh in response, and he felt the tension ease from Amoda’s tired body. He wallowed in the warmth of her embrace as she melted into his body, her grip tightening around him. With each mile, each stride of his mount, Mykyl’s anger grew, the heat of a quick flare dying into the icy rage of a man bent of vengeance.
Twenty Two
Amoda listened gratefully to the soft murmur of the men’s voices from around the campfires. The discomfort she had suffered during the ride to the encampment done in silence, with a pitiful gratitude within her. She loathed repeating it. Every bruise protested each fall of a hoof. What didn’t ache itched, and the incessant but welcomed kicking of the babe beneath her heart only added to her discomfort.
Relief unlike any she’d ever known hit her when she saw Mykyl’s men surrounding the fires, the familiar banner flying proudly. She ducked her head to hide her tears of relief, praying that no one would be so bold as to ask her what happened. The men offered kind words and acted with due respect as they mingled around their lord and the returning party. It astounded her to realize just how many of them willingly risked so much for her. She watched Mykyl as he strode across the field, Cahal by his side. Plans yet to make, tasks needing done. Amoda watched until he’d passed beyond her view before sinking deeper into the fur padding beneath her.
Closing her eyes, Amoda longed to wash the filth, the revulsion from her body that Olaf’s touch had stirred. Her emotions tangled within her, making her uncertain and on the verge of tears. She could feel her control slipping, the strain of the past few days taking their toll. Blinking at the burning behind her eyes, Amoda swallowed harshly.
“My lady, you look pale. Are you in great pain?”
Amoda shook her head. “Nay, Vidor. I simply wish to bathe. I feel as though I’ve more soil upon me than the very earth beneath us.” Vidor waved at a young soldier. “Inform our lord that Lady Amoda wishes to bathe. I will take her to the stream to wash.”
The lad bowed and darted away.
“You do not need to. I am sure I can wait,” Amoda protested as he helped her to her feet.
“It will be a pleasure, my lady, to serve you,” Vidor replied, offering her his arm to cling to as she limped over the uneven ground. “Your ankle troubles you?”
“No matter.” Amoda waved aside his concern, the thought of washing away the disgust ever so tempting. Still, she would wait until she had more privacy and this simple wash would be enough.
Amoda gratefully dipped the cloth Vidor offered her into the slow moving water. She swiped at her arms, hissing in pain as the cloth traced over raw flesh. With the cloth pressed to her face, she let the cold water run down the front of her tunic, soaking the material with its icy tendrils. She glanced at the man who’d accompanied her to see him on guard, his body turned away from her, his arms folded over his chest.
Lifting her skirt, she tossed the ripped leather of her boots on the bank and eased both feet into the clear brook. Each pass of the cloth washed away grime and caked on blood. Many of the welts, which covered her legs, had split and bled. Amoda’s eyes drifted shut as her shoulders sagged, a pitiful sob escaping her control.
“My lady?”
“‘Tis nothing!” Amoda straightened quickly. “I think I’ll soak my feet a few moments.”
“Of course, my lady.” Vidor turned back to his post.
Amoda kicked her feet in the water, the refreshing temperature wonderful on her ankle. Lifting it out of the water, she studied it. Harsh black and blue bruises encircled her ankle, trailing up her leg to mid-calf. Swollen grotesquely and tender to her touch, her ankle did not appear to be broken, merely badly twisted.
A sharp snap of a branch under a heavy tread had both Amoda and Vidor whirling to face the threat, Vidor’s hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. Amoda relaxed slightly as she saw Cahal and turned back to her soak. “‘Tis all right, Vidor.”
“Vidor, a moment of privacy.” Cahal watched his friend move away a few paces.
Amoda moved over as Cahal knelt on his haunches beside her. “What is it?”
“There was no other choice,” Cahal started. “The moment we realized Olaf had left the city—”
“You are a good friend to me, Cahal.” Amoda smiled at him, “As you are to Mykyl. We both love him enough to spare him any heartache. Even if he would deny he feels it. I never believed he would not know. Pride can only carry you so far, my friend. I would have come back, begged for his forgiveness. In time. I love him too much to do otherwise.”
“There will be war.” Cahal stared out over the river.
“Aye.”
“Men will be lost, blood spilled.”
“That is the way of war.” Amoda watched Cahal glance over his shoulder before turning back to her. “What? Do you think he will accuse you of dishonor?”
“Nay, he stands on the hill and watches. He loathes letting you from his sight, Amoda, even here among so many of his loyal men. We will ride out tomorrow, to some lesser king’s home perhaps, where you shall remain until he comes for you. I fear this coming war. Fear what will happen when he faces his father, faces the demons he’s run from for so very long.”
“Despite the desire to be in Valhalla or your Eire’s heaven, Tara, war is not glorious,” Amoda replied stiffly. “As you said, men will be lost and blood spilled. My only regret is that I shall not be there to slice the throat of the wretched beast.”
“King Tyr?”
Amoda nodded and grabbed his arm as he made to rise. “Swear on your son’s head you will watch over him!”
Cahal smiled softly, sadly, “Nay, my lady I swear upon your unborn son’s head, you shall sit on the throne of Ui Droria with Mykyl, Lord of Woodstown.”
Amoda nodded and watched him walk away. Turning back to the water, she sighed. She would do whatever needed to ensure both Mykyl and her child stayed safe.
~ * ~
A soft warm caress moved along the back of her neck and Amoda glanced up sharply to meet Mykyl’s concerned gaze. She patted the ground next to her, an inviting smile upon her face. “Join me a moment?”
“If you wish a bath, I’m sure we can provide—”
Amoda flushed and shrugged. “Nay, my love. I’m fine with this bit of a wash. Besides, the cool water is soothing upon my ankle.”
She caught his expression as his gaze canted down her body, picking up the bruising on her ankle and the still vivid, harsh lines where Olaf had beaten her. Hastily, she pushed at her skirt, hoping to cover the offensive marks.
&nbs
p; “He shall pay for each mark upon you,” Mykyl promised, pressing a soft kiss to her wrist.
Amoda stared over the lush greenery. “Have your messengers returned?” She held her breathe as she waited for his response. War had come, one that united the often-battling clans beneath her lord’s rule. With it, she was certain that long forgotten wounds that had festered and remained unhealed would reopen and the rich soil would run red with blood.
“Aye.”
“How many will ride with you?” Fear settled like an oppressive weight in her chest. She could feel the flesh of her neck and her face tighten, the agony that washed over her at the thought of Mykyl riding into battle.
“At least two tribal kings and several minor kings will ride with me,” Mykyl replied. “You should not concern yourself over the matter of war, Amoda. You must take care of you and the babe.”
Amoda glanced at him sharply. “And if you should fall? What am I to do then, my lord? Olaf will be upon me before your body has even cooled. He will not—”
“Olaf will fall before I do,” Mykyl retorted sharply. “I will have victory, Amoda, and I will reclaim our home. You will have faith in me. I command you.”
Amoda shook her head. How typical of a man to think that a command would make it so. “Aye, my lord.”
“Aires Ua Guthrie, Tuath Fagen, and Ri Tuath Ui Naille have all pledged men to the cause. With the men who ride with us now, victory is a certainty.” “What of me? Where am I to go?” Amoda met his gaze steadily. “Which poor soul are you inflicting me upon?”
Mykyl laughed warmly and trailed his hand through her hair. “Ri Tuath Ui Naille has been kind enough to grant you safekeeping within his manor. You will leave at sundown with two riders and wait for me to send for you.”
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