The leash snapped.
“Servant of God?” With a bellow, the beast leaped from his seat, overturning it behind him. Cynicism laced his reply “My mother served her God well enough … and my father, too.”
“She had no choice.”
“Neither do you.”
“For the Lord knows what He thinks—”
Deirdre willed down the rise of panic and exasperation undermining her task. Whatever God said, He meant it for her, even if Alric was bullying the exact words from her mind. God was with her, she told herself, leveling an affirmed gaze at the outraged incredulity flashing in his.
“You told me you would never harm me, that you never took a woman against her will. Did you lie, milord?”
“Not nearly as much as you have, milady.” he sneered. “What manner of fool do you take me for?”
“One who wishes me to marry him when there is nothing to be gained from it.” Daring to turn away, Deirdre washed her fingers in the laver and dried them on the napkin. Still clasping it, she rose in a leisurely fashion. “Even if Cairell is lost forever to Gleannmara, my hand is of no use to you regarding my father’s kingdom. My people will not accept a Saxon king. One of my cousins will succeed him when the time comes.”
She placed the linen back on the table, signaling the end of the evening’s hospitality with forced control.
“It is not your hand that interests me, Lady Deirdre.”
The insolent rake of his gaze down the length of her and back left a smoldering trail, despite the distance between them.
“Nonetheless, milord,” she rallied, “that is all you will have … if you wish this marriage to take place.”
Neither she nor Scanlan could guess Alric’s reason for this mad course he’d set, though now he cast doubt on that. If it was not to be, she could only guess that ransom was the motive. She supposed her father would find the money to save at least one of his children. Cairell would be lost as his ransom was far higher than hers would be. And Gleannmara’s coffers would be empty.
Love was out of the question as the prince’s motive for wedlock, ambition ill founded, and desire unlikely. Given his good looks and money, he could have any female he wanted to satiate the baseness kindling in his gaze. Deirdre only prayed that the peculiar brand of honor he professed was real. Slavery or marriage—she might as well choose which hand she’d like severed, the right or the left.
“Now ’tis you who play false, Alric of Galstead. A man such as yourself would not enter marriage for physical satisfaction alone.”
“What does the pious virgin know of a man like myself?”
Deirdre braced as he reached out and traced the curve of her neck, from the glittering torque to her chin. The senses at the nape of her neck tingled, awakening others behind the defenses she’d thought in place. Stepping closer, he cupped her chin and tilted her face. The predator had shed his princely skin and now smelled the blood catapulting through her veins and hammering at her throat. He would settle for nothing less than a kill.
“Much less of physical satisfaction.” Alric’s throaty seduction taunted places the hand could not, exacting tiny shudders that threatened to unravel mind, body and, heaven forgive her, soul.
“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.”
Returning his bone-melting gaze with the steel of God’s promise, Deirdre drew to her full height. “I know only what God will have me do,” she replied steadily. “And that is plainly written for you to accept or reject. The decision is yours.” Gathering her skirts in hand, she stepped around Alric. “I bid you good evening, milord.”
Fully expecting the beast dwelling beyond her companion’s civilized facade to leap upon her back at any moment, Deirdre walked out of the room and beneath the cover of the inner colonnade. She had to concentrate to place one foot in front of the other as she made her way back to the room, gaining speed with each step. By the time she was inside and slid the bolt into place, her heart seemed to pound against the back of her throat. Ear pressed to the plank door, she listened for any sign that Alric had followed her, but all she heard was the peaceful patter of the fountain.
Exactly how long she waited, frozen in the same spot, she had no idea, but her breathing had returned to normal and her pulse slowed to a cautious rate. She’d held her own against the Saxon’s temper and his devilish seduction. A smile lighted on Deirdre’s lips as she closed her eyes in prayer. “This unworthy but willing servant thanks You, Father!”
For the first time since her capture, she giggled outright, intoxicated not by the fruit of the heath but the fruit of faith. She prayed it would sustain her through the night ahead.
Christians and their miracles!
It was a notion such as this that had put Alric in this untenable position to start with. His course was as unpredictable as the Wulfshead’s had been that first night away from Erin’s coast. The contract in his shirt burned like a fireball lodged in the hold of his ship, fueled by the frustration and fury of this battle of wills. How could someone so fragile one moment be so formidable the next?
A white burst of pain increased the blankness of Alric’s wit as he broke off the low-hanging tree limb that assaulted him on the moonlit path to Aelfled’s glen. Rending it in two over his knee, Alric found slight relief that it was not a certain princess’s soft white neck. She dismissed him like some underling and then dared to lock him out of his own room. Yet, had he indulged in the luxury of breaking in the door, he might not have stopped there. He threw away the broken branch and plunged deeper into the trees, as though daring another to test his humor.
The exotic scent of Aelfled’s incense wafted out to greet him before the wooded path to the glen widened at the ivy-draped entrance. Moonlight bathed the small cottage in an ethereal glow, almost as otherworldly as the laughter that haunted it. But it was the more masculine accompaniment that stopped Alric in his tracks. Aelfled had company.
The might of the realization struck a blow no less harsh than that which had taken Woden’s eye. Oddly, the pain was not that of jealousy for he had no more claim upon Aelfled than she on him, but more of disappointment. Where was his elfin beauty’s premonition when he needed it most?
He swore, making his silent way around the edge of the clearing to the spring path in the back. Curse the Irish wench! She tossed this contract at him, making it clear that no power or monetary gain could be had in their marriage, not even conjugal bliss. And now, the fact that Aelfled was not available when he needed her made him feel as alone as the day Orlaith went to the other side.
Had he fooled himself? Allowed the promise of what he deemed illusion to distract him to the point of recklessness and indecision? What was the point in marriage at all?
Because you will not take a woman as a slave the way your mother was taken, a nagging voice reminded him. So why, he asked the voice, did he have to take the princess at all? Because of a prophecy he didn’t believe in?
“Frig take it all—women and gold!” He swore, angry at Deirdre for plaguing him, at Aelfled for not being here for him, and at his father for leaving him such a legacy of guilt.
Without taking time to strip off his shirt and breeches, Alric waded into the healing waters of the shaded pool as though they were his last hope for relief. Since it wasn’t expansive enough for him to work out his exasperation by swimming, Alric sought out the hot spring. Staring up at the starlit ceiling of the night, he rested upon a slab of rock just beneath the water’s surface, alone in the mystical glen for the first time.
God, if that be Your name, or whatever power rules over man and earth, I need help, not the assurance of others, but from You, that I will know what I must do.
Shocked at the cry of his innermost being, Alric moved to where the water from the hill swirled with that of the hot spring. He lay back so that it flowed around his neck and over his shoulders. Resting his head on the rocky ledge, he listened. God
had spoken to his mother. The water stones had spoken to Aelfled.
Would anyone speak to him?
A pair of night birds hailed each other. The breeze whispered in the canopy of the trees. The water babbled, but Alric heard no words of wisdom or condemnation. Nothing.
With a sigh, he closed his eyes. A panorama of memories began to play across his mind, pleasant and plentiful enough to keep him company and distract him from the quagmire of the present. Muscle by muscle, the healing waters worked their magic until he felt his muscles give up the burden his mind had piled upon them. The numbing effect lulled him into an almost druglike state of rest, just as a night of Aelfled’s potions and bed had done, except that this was the result of neither drug nor a charmed mortal.
Had he been wrong when he’d insisted to his mother that he needed Aelfled’s charms? He returned from one of his first sea battles, badly wounded. While Orlaith had seen to his wounds and prayed over him, his healing had not progressed as quickly as his impatience to recover. He ordered servants to help him to Aelfled, where the forest beauty saw him immersed in the healing spring daily. Improved, he returned to his mother to gloat over the superior powers of his elfinlike enchantress.
His mother’s answer was as serene as the setting about him: “She was but the star who guided you to the healing well, muirnait. ’Twas God who placed the star in your path and created the waters.”
And tonight, beloved, your star failed you, but He did not.
Alric’s eyes flew open at the invasion of his mother’s voice upon his recollection. The night was as still as the moon in the cloudless sky. Frig’s mercy, now the Irish vixen had driven him to hallucination.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Startled out of his skin by the velvet stroke of words behind him, Alric leaped to his feet.
The voice and the petite figure outlined by the moon belonged to his friend, not his mother. All was suddenly alive again, the water flow, the birdsong, the rustle of leaves. Had he fallen asleep?
“Aelfled,” Alric managed, looking beyond her for her companion. Yes, he must have dreamed it. “Where is your … guest?”
“He left.” Aelfled offered no more. Alric would not ask for it. “You wear your clothes?”
“Aye.” His humor darkened at being the source of hers. “And if what I have been through these last few days is love, as you suggest, then it agrees no more with me than green apples and sour grapes.”
Aelfled had the nerve to laugh, despite Alric’s drilling glare.
“Spare me.” He stepped out of the pond to make his way to where she stood. “I’ve no second sight, but I’ve seen things this night ominous enough to curl your nails like a crone’s.”
His companion sobered instantly. “Then you must tell me.” Producing a towel from behind her back, she handed it to him.
Less than ready to give absolution, Alric left her to hold it while he stripped off his shirt and wrung it dry. As he repeated the same procedure with the balance of his clothes, he summarized the gist of what had happened since he’d left the glen—of Deirdre’s miraculous rebound from her fevered delirium and of her marriage contract.
“And then she ate my ship,” he finished, as he wrapped the dry towel around him in a huff. “Now tell me, what do you make of that?”
At Aelfled’s uncommon silence, Alric looked at her, thinking the ramification even worse than he feared.
“Perhaps she was hungry?” A chuckle nearly strangled her suggestion.
Without a word, Alric picked up his wet clothes and left her to catch up with him … if she dared.
“Oh, Alric, wait!”
Too angry to share his other revelation, Alric ignored the plea, just as he did the water that shot out of his sodden footwear as he made his way along the path. His mother had been right about one thing at least. The worth of Aelfled’s powers had been an illusion, nothing more.
“Alric of Galstead, you need a friend, not a seer. Now come to your senses and wait, or stew in your own juice alone.”
Astonished at the size of voice coming from such a tiny figure, Alric stopped and turned to make certain it was indeed Aelfled who spoke. There she stood, hands fixed on practically nonexistent hips, her foot tapping with the same impatience that magnified her presence. It was rare that Aelfled resorted to threat, yet even then, she was charming.
Where would he go? Back to Deirdre, who twisted him in knots and wrung him out like he’d done his wet clothes? Frig spare him! Alric laughed shortly and extended the crook of his arm.
“Aye, I suppose a man can always use a friend … even if it is a halfling.” Besides, no seaman worth his salt turned away from an offer of a star to guide him, be it hung by God or by fickle fate.
SIXTEEN
Deirdre awakened in a startled daze at the sound of Tor’s excited bark, the panic subsiding as she realized it was morning. The night had passed without incident. Stunned, she threw aside the covers and padded across the floor to peer out into the courtyard. Aside from the diligent water nymph, there was no sign of activity; although the dog’s barking was evidence that someone was up and about. The tantalizing scent of baking bread confirmed it.
Her stomach growled, but she ignored it, recalling that for the next three days until the Sabbath, she was to fast and pray regarding her marriage to Alric. Although the more she considered what had happened to her the day before, the more convinced she was that Scanlan was right, that it was God’s will. Why she had to fast when she’d already agreed to the marriage in writing eluded her, but since she’d made such a bungle of things, Deirdre was inclined to rely more on Scanlan to interpret heaven’s intent. Perhaps it would prepare her better for what lay ahead.
If Alric signed the contract, Father Scanlan would post the banns. To date her prayers had been answered, for the door and lock were still intact. Alric had not even tried to follow her, much less force his way into the room.
Stirred by the swirling hem of her gown, something moved at her feet and skittered across the cool tiled floor. The contract! Slowly, she knelt and picked up the parchment, rumpled as if Alric had literally slept on it. On the back was a pristine seal with the impression of a wolf’s head in wax.
“Father, let his signature be on it,” she whispered as she broke it open. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it … to follow God’s lead? Yes. She could do more as a prince’s wife than as a slave.
The first thing that struck her as she opened it fully were the bold strokes that edited her delicate script. His was a clear, strong hand, more suited to a scholar than a warrior. Some sections of the proposal had been altered, others deleted altogether. The addendum at the bottom drew her immediate attention.
I place my signature upon this contract, as witnessed below by my oath helper—the shire’s reeve—and as amended by my hand with the following pledge: That my contracted bride will be afforded the freedom of a lady of her noble station, both in my home and country, based upon her oath upon her Christian God; that she will make no effort to avoid honoring this agreement to its full extent as recorded above. With her signature, witnessed by Father Scanlan of the church, let our agents post the banns; that one month from now our lives as husband and wife will commence accordingly with the wedding at Lambert’s court in Galstead.
Alric, Prince of Galstead, Northumbria
“‘The freedom of a lady of her station,’” Deirdre whispered, as though to convince herself that it was really there, signed and witnessed for all to see.
Taking a deep breath, she perched on the edge of the bed to scrutinize the amendments. She was to have her bride-price as her own. Gleannmara’s treasure was safe, praise God! Alric agreed to inquire as to the whereabouts of her brother for her; God was using the enemy to help her find Cairell. Why hadn’t she listened to Scanlan before?
Father, thank—
Deirdre stopped in midthought as she saw the line struck through her proposal to publicly dedicate her virginity to the church. It had b
een replaced with another.
With trepidation, she read the new terms. Alric would privately honor her wish to remain a virgin wife for as long as it was her will, as he would allow her to practice her faith freely in his home, provided this was known only to the oath helpers assigned below—Scanlan and the reeve. Their silence was pledged by their signatures as well, except should they have to act on the behalf of an injured party.
Deirdre scowled as she read and reread the clause. It appeared fair, but this was the one term she was not at peace with … although Alric had kept his word thus far. She folded the parchment, reluctant to give into the exhilaration welling in her chest. Nay, she’d not celebrate with a free mind until Father Scanlan approved of every word.
A sharp knock on her door brought her up from the mattress with a quick intake of breath. But before she could answer it, Doda called out. “Good morning, milady Will you take your breakfast in your room or shall I serve it in the salon?”
“Where is Alric taking his meal?” Deirdre tensed for the answer.
“He has been away all night, milady, and not yet returned. I cannot speak for him.”
Her shoulders dropped with relief. “Thank you, Doda, but I will not be having breakfast. I’ll be going out as soon as I’m dressed.”
“Do you need help?”
The servant didn’t even question her. Alric must have sent a message to his staff advising them of her new freedom. Thrilled, Deirdre rushed over to the door and unbolted it.
“That would be lovely Doda. Thank you for offering.”
Before Deirdre knew what she was about, Doda embraced her warmly and gave her a loud buss on the cheek, “You are going to marry the prince, no?”
“Possibly …” How much more of their agreement had Alric shared with the steward and his wife? “I would go to the chapel and discuss our contract with Father Scanlan.”
“But you should eat—”
“I fast, Doda. By fasting and prayer, God shall confirm that I have made the right decision.”
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