Her hands scratched at the material bunched around her thighs, impatient to have it out of the way. Her body cried out for Mykyl’s touch. The delicious feel of his weight upon her only drew her deeper into the inferno of desire that raced along her skin.
Amoda arched into his touch, into his caress, needy whimpers escaping her lips. Words of need slipped past her swollen lips as the friction of his touch coursed to the very center of her desire.
“Mykyl, please,” Amoda sobbed, her fingers clenched in his long hair. She needed him in ways she’d never believed herself capable of needing a man. She burned with the need of his touch after so many weeks without him. “Please, my love.”
A rough chuckle against her abdomen drew a strangled groan from her as the friction of his whiskers drove her insane. The calluses on his fingers scraped over the tender skin of her legs. He trailed them up, cupping her hips in his hands as he dropped scorching, moist kisses along the pale expanse exposed before him. She sucked in a breath at the light nip of his teeth into her skin. Her muscles jerked beyond her control as he moved up her body. The slow advance of his lips as he stopped to drop light kisses along the way drove her mad.
Amoda stared hungrily into his blue eyes, her lips parted on tiny, shaky pants of air. Mesmerized, she watched a thin, silvery trail of sweat trace over his face. She shivered as it dropped into the hollow of her throat. The smirk that crossed his face told her he’d caught her body’s reaction as he stared at her.
Never breaking eye contact, he moved into place, sliding into her warm, moist core with a slow, gentle motion. Muted moans filled the room as he shifted, rubbing against her, bracing most of his weight on his forearms.
Amoda cried out at the wonder of his possession, arching against him as her arms and legs moved to hold him tightly to her. Slowly, steadily, he moved, rocking against her, building the fire beyond her control, beyond her desire to remain quiet.
A soft cry escaped her as the tension built within her body. It coiled tighter and tighter until, with a bolt of white-hot pleasure, it snapped. Breathless as her body shuddered, barely aware of Mykyl’s movements Amoda shuddered.
She rocked against him fiercely. She clung to him as she sobbed out her own climax until she felt the hot wash of his release.
A soft moan of protest slipped from her parted lips as he pulled from her. She blinked groggily at him. A look of self-loathing and horror crossed his face. “What? Did I not…?”
“I took you on the floor like an animal,” Mykyl muttered, pulling himself away from her to rest on his heels. A hand raked through his hair, a hard, disgusted look in his eyes.
“My lord?” Amoda shifted, gathering her weakened limbs under her as she tried to sit up. “What matters if it be the floor?”
“You are not some— Amoda smiled softly at him. “There was a time, my lord, that a floor could be the only place.”
“I am not my brother,” Mykyl denied, his voice a tangled mix of fury and guilt. His eyes met hers, as he shifted, eased back from her. “My love, surely, I’ve hurt you. What of the babe? Has it been enough time? I did not mean to treat you like some—”
“Nay,” Amoda shifted, reaching out to sooth him with a gentle caress to his chest. “My love, I care not where we lie as long as it’s together. I find it a compliment that you couldn’t wait to reach the bed.” She laughed softly as she gestured to the wide expanse behind her.
“I vowed not to touch you until we had reached—”
“What of home?” Amoda reached for her mantle as Mykyl rose to pace. Swallowing harshly, she tried to focus on the discussion at hand and not admire the view of firm, muscled legs that flowed upwards into his trim, taut buttocks and broad muscled back.
“Indeed, victory fell upon us. Woodstown’s defenses cut down beneath the force of our attacks. My wretched brother returned with reinforcements, and so we had to defeat them as well.”
“Then we cannot return to our home?”
“Our home is rebuilt, in the more familiar layout of my people,” Mykyl replied. “I have ordered stone to be placed along the walls in the spring. However, there is another matter to be dealt with upon our return.”
“A matter? What of your father? Your brother?” Amoda pulled her cover more tightly around her. “Did you slay them?”
“Nay.”
Amoda paled as she stared at him. “Why? What good can come of letting them live? They will surely want revenge, what of our son?” She choked out the questions, fear made her voice crack.
“Because, it could not be my duty, my lady,” Mykyl interrupted. “It falls to you to pass judgment upon them.”
“I am not capable of passing judgment. By the Gods, Mykyl I am a slave!”
“You are my wife!” Mykyl pulled her to him, his arms tightening around her shoulders. “My queen! As such, your place is to speak against the ill carried out by those who would destroy our home. It is a matter of treason.”
“Our marriage has not been recognized! There was neither ceremony, nor blessing from a shaman of Norse decent.” Amoda shook her head, fear clutching at her throat as she contemplated facing Tyr, Olaf, and Rognvaldr. “I cannot. I haven’t the strength to face them.”
“You must,” Mykyl replied softly. “It is your place. I can kill them, but they owe you some penance as well. You deserve vengeance.”
Amoda rose to her feet and walked on shaky legs to the window to stare out at the darkened landscape. “Kill them.”
“So it shall be.” Mykyl moved to hold her. “But not until you have faced them. We will show them what they could not destroy with their greed. Justice must prevail. It is the laws of our people. Of those that have claimed these shores for hundreds of years.”
Amoda glanced at him over her shoulder. The certainty she sought from him eluded her. Did Mykyl understand what would happen when she came face-to-face with his father? She doubted the old King would be too kind to a slave who’d managed to wrest the throne from his bloodline.
Mykyl would not sway from his stance. It was apparent in the stubborn, arrogant look upon his face, in the love in his eyes, the faith and belief that he offered her. Aye, in his mind, she deserved this chance. He stood braced against anything, even her pleading it would seem. With a quick nod, she agreed she would face them all. The boisterous scream of an infant drew her attention and both of them turned to the door where Creidne stood with their son voicing his hunger.
“My lady?”
“We ride for Woodstown tomorrow.” Amoda started walking to retrieve her son. “You are welcome to ride with us.”
Creidne smiled at her and her lord. “It would be my honor, my lady, to accompany you home, should my lord permit it.” Turning, she slipped out of the room, leaving the young couple alone with their child. “I am not certain that I can do what you ask of me, my lord, but I shall not shirk my duty,” she whispered as she offered a breast to their son.
“That is all anyone can ask.” Mykyl replied, wrapping his arms around her and their child. “All I can demand of you, my love.”
Twenty Five
Amoda wrapped the fur wrap carefully around a sleeping Aidan, the soft sounds of Mykyl moving around behind her comfortable. She turned to smile at Mykyl before lifting their son and heading for the door.
She’d found the few days they’d had here in Aed Naille’s house to be a pleasant interlude. They had flown past in a flurry of discussions between the rulers. Talk of lands and riches, of men and women, and freedom and enslavement had flowed like wine. The nights had been too short for her. She’d clung to Mykyl in the shadows, desperately praying that the Gods would be merciful, and she wouldn’t have to face those that had wronged her so deeply.
“Come, my love,” Mykyl whispered a warm, firm hand upon her waist as they left the comforts of the chamber. “We shall be home within days.”
“If the weather holds, my lord,” Amoda replied. “Mayhap we should remain until spring. If we are caught in a sudden storm—”
Amoda glared at the back of his head for a moment before turning to face Druantia and Creidne. “I do wish you could come with us.”
“My lady, I cannot leave my lord and husband here.” Druantia laughed softly as she hugged her carefully. “You will be well. Once the plague of Tyr’s house has seen justice, we shall be free of him and peace will come. Trust me, Amoda; you have earned some peace. We all have.”
Amoda bit her lip and glanced at the men. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she leaned toward Druantia, “I’m not so sure I can do what you ask of me. I was but a child when he stole me from my home.”
“You’ve grown into a woman of power, no matter the yoke he’s placed upon you. Mykyl would return you to your rightful place,” Druantia replied softly, her hands tightening on Amoda’s fingers. “Beyond that, my sister, you are the last of our line—and it is your throne.”
“I do not want it.”
“It is what the Gods have written for you. Your trials have been long and hard and made you into the Queen meant to be. May all the Deities of the Druids watch over you, my sister.” Druantia smiled tearfully as she hugged her.
Amoda nodded tearfully. “I will miss you.”
“As will we. Mayhap in the spring, we can journey to your home. Neighbors, family, after all, must talk.”
With a slow nod, Amoda clung to the other woman a moment before pulling away completely. “The weather isn’t too bad so I expect no storms.”
“You must reach the warmth of your bed safely.” Druantia smiled. “I have commanded it, and so it shall be.”
Laughing together, they let the fear pass a little as they walked toward the horses standing, pawing at the snow. With whispered goodbyes and tearful hugs, Amoda mounted, her son wrapped tightly against her body as she shifted in the stiff, cold leather of the saddle.
“Shall we go home?” Mykyl stared at Amoda for a moment.
Smiling quickly, Amoda nodded. “Aye, my lord, let us go home.” Amoda glanced past him to the small contingent of Naille’s soldiers and hid a grin. Finally, they departed, headed for home, to her own bed, to the safety of the walls of Woodstown and the familiar faces of her friends.
~ * ~
Amoda glanced upwards at the blue-grey of the sky and shivered as the first few fat flakes fell upon her face. It had taken them over a week to get thus far, and the fear tightened within her heart. Catching sight of a small, battered building, Amoda swallowed. The windows remained dark and forbidding, and the door hung from the leather hinges crookedly. Drifts of snow piled around the opening, spilling inward like some dead beast’s tongue.
Shuddering, Amoda nudged her mount a little closer to Mykyl’s and turned from the sight of the cottage she’d called home for such a short time. A subtle shift of muscle reallocated Aidan’s weight more evenly, and she ducked her head against a gust of icy wind.
“I shall never travel in winter again,” she muttered under her breath.
“My lady?”
Amoda glanced at Cahal and shook her head. “‘Tis nothing.”
“Woodstown is ahead.” Mykyl pulled up and pointed. Sitting like a beacon on the hill, Woodstown stared back at them. “We shall sup within our own longhouse tonight.”
“It will be a welcomed event,” Amoda admitted quietly. “My own bed to sleep in, instead of the hard ground, and friends to surround us. Indeed it will be most welcome.”
Kicking their mounts into a lope, they headed for the open gates. Shouts and cries filled the air as the guard became aware of them. Relief flooded Amoda as they rode through the open gates to pool in front of two young soldiers.
“Prince Mykyl.”
“Have there been any difficulties?”
“Nay. We have not allowed them contact as you instructed, my lord.”
“Amoda!” Erin’s voice drew their attention as the young woman raced toward her friend. “You are well? When we learned Olaf—”
“It is of no matter,” Amoda replied swiftly and eased out of the saddle. “I am well and home.”
“Erin, please take Amoda inside,” Mykyl instructed smoothly. “We will need food and drink. It has been a long journey.”
“Aye, my lord.” Erin pressed a quick kiss to his hand and all but dragged Amoda behind her toward the massive structure that housed most of the manor’s residents. “You’ll forgive the crude shelter, but we had so little time. ‘Tis warm inside though.”
Amoda listened to her friend prattle on as they crossed the threshold. “Erin, tell me, what of the other women within the city? What of the children?”
A shadow passed over Erin’s face as she shifted, her hands tangled in her skirt. “Tyr was furious at you and Mykyl. Those that he couldn’t bully about, he beat, or worse. Several young women paid a stiff price. His priest deserves a horrid, torturous death for his counsel to the king,” she spat angrily. “He suggested an example be made of some of us. Tyr took it upon himself to do that.”
“Erin, what happened?” Amoda shifted, pulling her cloak off and hanging it on a nearby peg before settling Aidan who had awoken and started to fuss. Sinking onto a long, wide bench near the wall, Amoda adjusted her tunic and offered a breast to her son.
“I will not speak of it,” Erin whispered, looking around at the other occupants of the room. “Save to say, I pray you are merciless in your judgment. Olaf will not last the season; his wounds are too great. Tyr and that vile cur of a—”
“Are they wounded? Ill?”
“Tyr has wounds. Cahal sliced his arm below his elbow in a great and terrible wound, and it runs with pus. Olaf is far worse. Mykyl himself severed his arm from his body. They stuck a burning branch over the wound and sealed it but he is still alive.”
Amoda shifted, her hand trailing over the silken hair covering her son’s head. Experience told her that Rognvaldr’s ‘examples’ had been horrific and depraved for those who had experienced or watch them. Nuzzling against Aidan, she studied the room full of people. Tiredness, a shadow clung to many of them. Men and women she remembered as vibrant and full of life huddled together for warmth and comfort.
“Amoda, what will you do?” Erin whispered as the door opened and a gust of cold air followed by the men rushed in to swirl around their feet.
“Be just as ruthless,” Amoda replied, her fingers running through the shortened locks of her hair. Oh yes, she would be ruthless. Rognvaldr had taught her that, had taught her how to be heartless and cruel. She would demonstrate the skills he’d imparted. Her gaze moved upward to meet Mykyl’s understanding and love in his blue eyes as she stared at him. A quick nod of his head, and she watched him stride across the room, his captains at his heels as they moved to speak of war and the results of it.
“You have a private room,” Erin said as she waved to a young girl who bore an ugly scar upon her face. “Bring food and drink for our lady.”
“Nay, I can fetch my own,” Amoda protested.
“Sit.” Erin grinned at her as the girl darted back with steaming meat and a horn of goat’s milk. “After you’ve eaten, I’ll show you your chamber. It is not as grand as the last one, but it will suffice until the manor house is complete.”
Amoda smiled as her friend darted off, a spring in her step that Amoda realized hadn’t been there for some time. She wondered exactly what Mykyl would require of her to do when it came time to pass judgment and prayed that those wronged could be present.
~ * ~
Amoda set aside her brush and reached for the simple veil Erin had laid out for her, two simple pins held it in place. Voices from the main hall drifted through the wooden door, their sounds muted and unclear. Just the sounds however, disturbed her a great deal.
She’d sat for three days listening to men, women, and children tell of Tyr’s brutality. With each word, her desire to kill the men respo
nsible grew, eclipsing any mercy within her. Her hatred tempered only by the love she felt for Mykyl, who remained stoic and silent as the days past.
In the darkness of night, Mykyl had laid to rest any hesitancy with his whispered vow of support. No matter the outcome, his loyalty belonged to her, to their son, and the people that relied upon them for their livelihoods.
Erin’s soft voice drew her attention, and she smiled. “‘Tis time, Amoda.”
Stepping into the corridor that separated the privacy of their chambers from the rest of the house, Amoda paused. She could hear the voices of her lord as he gave out his orders. Angry shouts and curses spewed from the hall. Amoda shuddered at the realization of the prisoners now led in.
Raising her chin proudly, she sucked in a quick breath for courage and began the short walk that would seal the fate of many.
~ * ~
Mykyl stared coldly at his father as he sank to his knees. Bloody, pale, and half-naked, Tyr looked less like a king than a slave. He glanced past him to where a badly beaten Rognvaldr was drug down the stairs. Two well-built warriors half dragged and half-carried Olaf’s bloody body between them a step behind him.
Standing in the crowd, Olaf’s wife pulled her skirts aside as he stumbled past her. The look of disgust and hatred upon her face mirrored faces of the crowd around her. Cries of anger rose and eclipsed the thuds of bodies hitting the floor.
“You sought to take from me my kingdom,” Mykyl started coldly. “To leave me with nothing. I am no stranger to war. I’ve tasted its bitterness.
This, however, is no simple matter. Nay, you took my vow of loyalty and used it till it no longer suited you then you severed all ties.”
“You’ve not won. My forces will retake this worthless spit of land,” Tyr ground out painfully. “And they will slaughter everyone.”
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