The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham
HER LIPS WERE BUT A BREATH AWAY …
“Lady,” he said softly, “you are my wife. And though I’ve no wish to cause you harm, by God, through violence or tenderness, you will be so tonight.”
Her eyes were on his. Her lips were parted and dry.
“No,” she whispered.
But he was done talking, she realized.
He lowered his head and though she thrashed aside, his mouth covered and claimed hers. His tongue parted her lips and thrust hot and deeply into her mouth. It seemed he entered more and more deeply inside her with the melding of their lips.
In the flickering candlelight he seemed to steal away her very heart and soul and give them back, and take them once again …
Books by Heather Graham from Dell
ARABIAN NIGHTS
LIAR’S MOON
SPIRIT OF THE SEASON
SWEET SAVAGE EDEN
A PIRATE’S PLEASURE
LOVE NOT A REBEL
GOLDEN SURRENDER
DEVIL’S MISTRESS
EVERY TIME I LOVE YOU
THE VIKING’S WOMAN
ONE WORE BLUE
AND ONE WORE GREY
AND ONE RODE WEST
LORD OF THE WOLVES
RUNAWAY
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
Copyright
This book is a sequel to Golden Surrender, my first historical novel, and therefore very close to my heart. It was inspired by and dedicated to my mother’s family, who emigrated from Dublin to the United States, and so I feel this, too, must be for them.
First, for my mother, Violet, with all of my love. And in memory of Granny Browne, for all the wonderful tales she could tell about leprechauns and banshees in her thick, rich brogue. It is dedicated in memory of Granda, and all of their children, and especially for Aunt Amy, for always being so sweet.
Most of all, this particular book is for Kathleen Browne DeVouno. Neither time nor distance ever dampens the warmth of her heart or spirit, and I am incredibly proud to be related to her.
Love you, Katie.
PROLOGUE
He had been conceived during a tempest, on a night when anger and passion had reigned.
And he was born in the midst of lightning, and it seemed that storms would be destined to rule his life.
A terrible slash of lightning tore across the sky, and Erin, Queen of Dubhlain, gasped out and screamed. Pain, swift and merciless, seized her. She bit her lip, for she was certain that the birth would go well, and she did not want to frighten those around her, or her lord and husband, the king. The pain intensified and peaked and slowly began to ebb, and she breathed deeply. She closed her eyes and managed to smile, recalling the night in which she was certain the child had been conceived. They had ridden too far and had been caught out far from the walls of the town, out by the caves, when the storm had come. She had been furious with Olaf—over what, she could not remember now. But fury had never been a deterrent to them, nor was it that night. Breathless, heated words had merely quickened the ardor that inflamed their passion.
She could remember it all so well. He had shouted something, then laughed and swept her into his arms. She had shouted back, but then forgot the argument in the sweet and savage onslaught of his kiss. In the fury of the storm he swept her down to the ground, above the wild, treacherous shore beneath them, and together, while thunder raged, they had created the life that moved within her now. Beloved life, for she loved her lord well. She could remember her Norse husband that day so clearly. His cobalt eyes, ever tender yet ablaze with his desire. Aye, she could remember well and sweetly the power of his arms, the fever of his kiss, the touch of his hands. She had felt the blaze of his body, like the lightning, deep, deep within her.
She loved him so. They were ever swift to anger and swifter still to passion, but always the love was there.
“Oh, dear God!” she screamed again as another pain seized her, followed by fear. It had been so hard for her to have Leith. She had prayed that this second child would come more easily. But now she burned again, the pain feeling as if it would cut her in two.
She felt her mother’s gentle touch upon her brow. “Why, Mother?” she whispered. “Why must it be so hard?”
Maeve smiled at her tenderly and tried not to appear too worried. “’Tis not easy, love, to give birth to the cubs of the Wolf.” Maeve looked up. He was there, in the doorway, the Wolf of Norway, the King of Dubhlain. He glanced at her and at Erin, and then the great, towering blond king made his way to his wife’s side.
“I am here, Princess. Fight for me, fight for me again. Give me my second son.”
She smiled. He thought of her fragile beauty and of the strength beneath it. Her eyes were a deep emerald, as boundlessly rich as the strength inside her, the strength that had entrapped his heart. That strength would belong to all their children. It was the passion that belonged to those of the Emerald Isle, and it was the power of the North Sea raiders.
She held tightly to his hand, glad that he had come. “A girl this time!” She managed to laugh.
He shook his head gravely. “Nay, a son.”
“A son?”
“Aye, for Mergwin told me so.”
“Oh!” She gasped, but he was beside her and she didn’t scream again. She locked her fingers with his and drew her strength from him. A new pain seized her like a heated brand, and she gasped with relief, for the babe had fought his way near birth. “He comes!” she cried.
Olaf had been with her at their first child’s birth, and he knew to hold her tightly, once, and then again. And then she laughed and cried and he kissed her, for she had expelled the babe, and Maeve assured her that it was indeed another boy.
“And is he beautiful?” she demanded.
“Beautiful beyond belief,” Olaf assured her. Erin’s woman quickly wiped the babe and handed him to his mother. Erin’s eyes widened at the sheer size of the infant. “More blond hair!” she murmured, and Olaf laughed, kissing her damp ebony locks. “I fear you’ll have to wait for a daughter, love, and maybe she will have midnight hair,” he teased her.
She groaned in mock protest. “You speak to me at this moment of more children?”
“As soon as it’s physically possible,” he whispered back, laughing, and they both felt warm. He thought that their love was so good, it was everything in life.
“And his eyes—”
“Blue, too, like his sire’s,” Maeve said with a sigh. She winked at Olaf, and they continued to stare at the babe.
“They can change,” Erin said.
“Leith has Irish eyes,” he reminded her.
“Surely eyes may change their color,” Maeve agreed.
“Ah, but these won’t!” Olaf was certain.
The babe lay on the bed between his mother and father, his grandmother looking on. His eyes were alert, his fists pounded against the sheets, his mouth was open, and his voice was in high command. “Ah, this one is demanding,” Olaf said.
“Like his sire,” Erin agreed. She was already in love with her infant son. She settled back and guided his puckered mouth to her breast. The babe
He noted that Erin’s eyelashes were drooping, thick black crescents against her cheeks. Maeve glanced his way and he nodded. He started to take the babe from his wife, but Erin awoke quickly, her lashes flying upward in alarm. She held fast to the babe. “Nay, don’t take him!” she whispered, and he knew that she was afraid. Not so long ago their firstborn child, Leith, had been kidnapped by Olaf’s enemy, Friggid the Dane. Friggid was dead now—Olaf had slain him—but Erin had never gotten over the fear that Leith, and now this new son, might be snatched from her again.
“’Tis I, love,” he assured her. “’Tis I. Let me take him, that your women might give you clean linen and your mother might bathe you. ’Tis I, Erin.”
Her dazzling emerald eyes closed again. The smile she offered him was beautiful and peaceful. “Eric,” she murmured. “He is to be Eric. Leith, for my brother. Eric, for yours.”
Olaf was pleased. “Eric,” he agreed softly.
He carried his newborn babe to the window and stared down upon his son. The infant’s hair was thick and nearly white, and his eyes, still wide open, were indeed a Nordic blue. The boy was large, very large.
“You’ll be one to please,” Olaf murmured.
“A fine Viking” came a new voice.
Olaf started and stared hard at the ancient old man who had entered the room. Mergwin. A man both ancient and ageless, Viking and Druid, the child of a Norse rune master and a legendary Irish priestess from an old Druid cult. He had served the Ard-Ri, the High King of Ireland, Erin’s father, and though he still served the Ard-Ri, he was most often with his favorite of Aed Finnlaith’s children, Erin of Dubhlain. He was her loyal man and therefore Olaf’s too.
Even if they did still have their occasional differences.
Mergwin could move like smoke through time and space, it seemed. He had come from his home in the forest, though no one had sent for him. He had known that the child would come this day.
The lightning rent the heavens again. It cast a curious glow upon Mergwin’s face and floor-length beard. Its light fell upon the babe, and he seemed to glow in his father’s arms.
“A Viking?” Olaf grinned and shook his head, indicating his sleeping wife upon the bed. The women moved carefully and silently to change her sheets and bathe her face. “Don’t say that too loudly,” Olaf warned Mergwin. “His mother would not like it.”
Mergwin touched the boy’s face. The baby grabbed the Druid’s finger and squeezed hard.
“Leith is Irish, like his mother. Through and through. One day, Lord of the Wolves, he will follow his sire and make a fine king of Dubhlain. But this one, this Eric—you have given him a Viking name, my lord.”
Olaf frowned. He sensed some warning from the Druid, and he held his son more tightly against the expanse of his body, as if he could protect the boy from the future.
“Speak up, you old fraud!”
“The Wolf knows better than to growl at me!” Mergwin said calmly. He paused, taking in a long, slow breath. “This child, Lord Wolf, is yours. A Viking. And like his sire, he will ride the seas of the world. He will often know battle, and his sword will learn well to parry any assault of steel. Yet with the power of his skill of his mind and that of his sword arm, he will rule many. He—”
“He what?” Olaf’s voice was tight, for though he already loved the child in his arms, Eric was a second son. For him to rule Dubhlain meant danger to his brother, Leith.
Mergwin, sensing Olaf’s anxiety, shook his head. “His destiny lies in other lands. He will face very grave dangers.”
“But he will overcome those dangers!” Olaf insisted.
Mergwin stared at Olaf. They did not lie to each other.
“He is ruled by Odin. He will ride the sea to great thunder and storms, and so will the tempest enter into his heart and into the world where he will seek his destiny. When he is grown, there will be darkness … but—”
“Speak out!”
“There will be light too.” Mergwin’s face was grave, and Olaf, Lord of the Wolves, did not know whether to pray for his son to the Christian God he had adopted for his wife’s sake, or to Loki and Odin and Thor, the gods of his past.
He would pray to them all. His jaw tightened and he flexed his muscles. Mergwin feared that the great warrior would crush his son.
Mergwin rescued the boy from Olaf. The babe’s heat seeped into him and he closed his eyes. “Aye, he will be much like his sire. Danger will follow him, for the passion of his nature, but …”
“But what!” Olaf roared.
Mergwin grinned at last, though his eyes remained solemn. “Train him well, Lord Wolf. Train him to battle, train him to cunning. Make his sword arm strong and his hearing keen. He will go a-Viking, and he will meet a terrible, treacherous foe.”
Mergwin paused. The baby was looking at him with his sire’s ice-and-fire eyes. Watching him, as if he understood the fortune the Druid cast for him. Mergwin’s smile deepened.
“He has been born with courage. With pride. With the indomitable spirit of his mother and the power and will of his father. Give him wisdom, Olaf. Then set him free, for he must, like his father, find his own heart.”
Olaf was frowning. “No riddles, Druid.”
“I don’t speak in riddles, I give you what I can. Set him free and he will fight his dragons, his demons. And then …”
“Then?”
“Well, then, my lord, he may prevail. For like his father he, too, will meet a woman with Odin’s power. Storm power, the power of lightning, the power of thunder. Her will shall challenge his at every turn. She will bring danger, and yet she will also bring salvation. She will be a tempestuous vixen. Her beauty will be unforgettable but her hatred deeper than the sea that separates their homelands. Triumph will fall well within their grasp. Aye, Lord Olaf, triumph will be theirs, if the wolf can tame the vixen.”
“Or,” Mergwin added pensively, with a subtle grin that he hid from his Viking lord, “if the vixen can tame the wolf!”
1
The first dragon’s prow appeared upon the horizon at the same time that the first stroke of lightning sizzled across the sky and the first mighty crack of thunder drummed throughout the heavens.
And then there was a sea of dragon prows, striking new terror into weary hearts. Tall and savage upon the water, like mythical beasts, they sailed in, raining devastation and slaughter.
The fury of the Norseman was well-known along the Saxon coastlines of England. The Danes had wreaked havoc upon the land for years, and all Christendom had learned to stand and tremble at the sight of the swift dragon ships, the scourge of land and sea.
The ships came from the east that day, but no man or woman viewing the host of Viking ships that caught a wind that threatened sails, dared pause to ponder that fact. They saw the endless shields that lined the ships, prow and aft, and they saw that the wind, not the oarsmen, advanced the ships like the wrath of God.
Lightning sizzled and snapped and lit up the gray, swirling sky. The wind whistled and roared, and then screamed, as if to portend the blood and violence to come. Red and white, the Viking sails slashed across the dark and deadly gunmetal sky, defying the vicious wind.
Rhiannon was in her chapel when the first alarm was shouted. She prayed for the men who would do battle against the Danes at Rochester. She prayed for Alfred, her cousin and her king, and she prayed for Rowan, whom she loved.
She had not expected danger to darken her coast. Most of her men were gone to serve with the king as the Danes were amassing to the south. She was without help.
“My lady!” Egmund, her most loyal, aging warrior, long of service to her family, found her in the chapel upon her knees. “My lady! Dragon prows!”
For a moment she thought he had lost his
“On the horizon. Coming for us!”
“From the east?”
“Aye, from the east!”
Rhiannon leapt to her feet and raced from the chapel, finding the stairs to the wooden walls that surrounded her manor house. She hurried along the parapets, staring out to sea.
They were coming. Just as Egmund had warned her.
She felt sick to her stomach. She almost screamed in fear and agony. All of her life she had been fighting. The Danes had descended upon England like a swarm of locusts, and they had brought with them bloodshed and terror. They had killed her father. She would never forget holding him and willing him to breathe again. Alfred fought the Danes and defeated them often.
Now they were descending upon her home, and she had no one left to defend it because her people had gone to Alfred. “My God,” she breathed aloud.
“Lady, run!” Egmund said. “Take a mount and ride hard to the king. You can reach him by tomorrow if you ride hard. Take your arrows and an escort, and I will surrender this fortress.”
She stared at him and then smiled slowly. “Egmund, I cannot run. You know that.”
“You cannot stay!”
“We will not surrender. Surrender means nothing to them—they perform the same atrocities whether men give battle or not. I will stay and fight from here.”
“My lady—”
“I may kill or wound many of them, Egmund. You know that.”
He did; she could see it in his eyes. She was an amazing markswoman. But she knew, too, as he looked at her, that he was still seeing her as the little girl he had protected for years.
Old Egmund wasn’t seeing her as a child at all but as a woman, and he was afraid for her. Rhiannon was beautiful and striking, with a siren’s silver-blue eyes and golden-sunset hair. She was Alfred’s cousin as well as his godchild, and at his command she had been well educated. She could be softspoken and as gentle as a kitten, and she could trade quips and laugh with the men and manage the vast estates she had inherited with a charming ease. She would be a worthy prize for some Viking, and Egmund could not bear the thought that she might fall prey to such a man.