The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham
“Well, I can tell you a bit—” she began.
“You’re Alfred’s kin, aren’t you?” Daria interrupted.
“His cousin.”
“Do tell us something, please. We’ve all been so wretched over Grandfather—we’d love to escape to some faraway land!”
Rhiannon found herself in the midst of the women—Eric’s aunts, sisters, and sisters-in-law—with her natural storytelling ability coming to the fore. She repeated the story of Lindesfarne, refraining now from mentioning that it had been Norwegian Vikings that had wreaked havoc, and she told endless tales of Alfred’s heroism and nobility. When she was done, Daria demanded to know how Eric had managed to sweep her away.
“Rather against my will,” Rhiannon admitted calmly. “You see, he came a-Viking, stole my manor and lands, and Alfred decided that we should be wed.”
There was a sudden silence. She had made the statement lightly, almost jokingly, and yet they were all staring at her. She had offended them, and she was sorry.
But then she realized that they were all staring at the doorway. She swung around, startled and dismayed to discover that Eric was there, staring at her. Comfortably leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, he watched her with his crystal-blue, fathomless, but surely condemning gaze and waited.
“She’s a wonderful weaver of tales, is she not?” he inquired politely of the group. “Alas, my love, I do believe that you neglected part of the story. My wife is quite the heroine herself, you see. We arrived, and before I know it, I’m wearing one of my dear lady and wife’s arrows in my thigh. No Viking has ever held much sway over this fair lass, I do assure you.”
“You—you shot Eric!” Daria exclaimed.
Rhiannon flushed. “I did not mean—”
“Oh, Eric!” Daria giggled, leapt to her feet, and hugged her brother. Rhiannon saw the easy affection that passed between them, the lightness, the smiles. He’d never have such a smile for her, she thought, half wistful, half bitter.
“I see that you came out of it well and good,” Daria told him.
“Little sister”—he scowled playfully—“I wear a horrid scar upon my flesh.”
“Oh, well, you wear other scars!” She winked at Erin. “You really hit my brother with an arrow?”
“She has excellent aim,” Eric said, “if very little common sense and a dubious quantity of loyalty. But now, if you’ll excuse me, I must retrieve her for the moment. Rhiannon?”
She rose, wishing she had a bow and arrow in her hands at that very moment. How could he say such a thing before his sisters and his aunts?
She strode to the doorway, then paused right before him. “Alas, my lord! What would you have of me? If my loyalty is so dubious, perhaps my aim is also. Take care, young lord of the wolves, for the future. My aim could improve, along with my common sense. Were it just a little bit better, we need not have married at all, as there would have been little left for you to consummate such an arrangement!”
Daria, close enough to hear her words, burst into laughter. Eric studied Rhiannon and slowly grinned. Then he took a step forward, swept Rhiannon into his arms, and lightly tossed her over his shoulder. “Excuse me, ladies, I must deal with my wayward wife.” Bowing, he took her from the grianon and down the hall, heedless of anyone about them. Stunned and short of breath, Rhiannon could make no protest.
Then she discovered that she was on her feet again. They had left the manor behind and stood in a courtyard before it. Men were everywhere, saddling and bridling horses and adorning them in their king’s and prince’s colors. Rhiannon started to protest Eric’s manhandling of her but fell silent, gazing around at all the activity.
“What—”
His eyes were steady upon her. “There has already been an attack upon Ulster in Mall’s absence,” he told her.
“You—you’re riding away now?” she asked in amazement. “Your grandfather’s body has not even grown cold!”
“We will escort Grandfather’s body to Tara and ride on to Ulster,” he said. His hands were firmly crossed across his chest; his eyes were chilling as they rested upon her. “And you will stay here, in my mother’s care, until I return.”
She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it, for she saw Rowan across the courtyard, conversing with another of the men of Wessex who had accompanied them. She glanced at Eric, finding it difficult to breathe. “Rowan will ride with you?”
He seemed startled, then he stiffened. “Aye, by his own choice.”
“He should not … he should not die on foreign soil!”
He pulled her suddenly and hard against him. “Do you seek his return and not mine, milady? Alas, I see that it is true, but then you never pretended to seek other than a Dane’s battle-ax for my skull. But, lady, if this lasts days or years, you will remember that you are my wife; you will remember me!”
She tried to jerk free; he was hurting her. Her stubborn pride wouldn’t let her tell him that she loved him, that her concern for Rowan was now a ruse to protect her heart. She could not tell him that she could not bear the world if he did not return; she could not even tell him about their child.
“Eric—”
He lifted her up into his arms. His lips descended upon hers with startling force. He kissed her passionately, ravished her lips and her mouth, and when he set her down, it did not seem that he had done enough.
“Eric!” She whispered. “You must watch out for—”
“For Rowan?” he demanded cuttingly. “By God, madam!” he swore fiercely. Then a cry escaped her as he lifted her violently into his arms. She held tight to him, for his strides were long and careless as he burst back into the manor, took the stairs two at a time, and brought her back to his room. There he tossed her heedlessly upon the bed, and before she could rise or protest, he had cast his own weight upon hers. “Stop this, you Viking … bastard!” she cried in alarm, but there was no stopping him, his anger, or his passion.
He shoved up the hem of her tunic and briefly adjusted his own clothing. She cried out once again, hysteria rising in her voice at the depth of the violence within him. “Eric!”
Something in her voice reached him at last. He went very still, then eased his weight down beside her. He murmured something that she couldn’t understand. He started to pull away, and she should have been glad but she could not let him go. Tears were damp on her cheek, she realized.
She felt his kiss upon those tears, a gentle kiss. She held him more tightly against her, feeling a quickening within her body. His lips found hers and there was a fierce, seeking hunger in them but no longer the violence. His tongue entered deep into her mouth and seemed to reach secret recesses. The hard feel of his body against hers brought a sweet, moist warmth seeping through her. It seemed that his very hunger filled her. She wanted him. Desired him with a fiercely growing need that filled her heart and her limbs and her very being. He was leaving again.
“Lady, you will remember me!” he whispered softly against her ear. He repeated himself, and she felt a great trembling seize hold of him. Moaning softly, she reached for him, drawing his lips to hers, pressing herself against him with a welcoming undulation of her hips.
“Rhiannon …”
She heard the whisper of her name.
She didn’t want to speak. She buried her face against his throat. “Please!” she murmured simply.
There was no more that she needed to say. He was within her, and she held tight to him with the first startling impact. He began to move, with every thrust he came deeper into her, and in seconds she was meeting his frenzy, matching it with her own. He made love as if he could forever leave his imprint upon her; she made love as if her longing for him could keep him from war. Thunder seemed to rock the air around them as their rhythm and tempest rose to nearly unbearable heights. Then she cried out, for the climax that then claimed her exploded with a searing fire that left her tasting ecstasy, then robbed her briefly of consciousness. When she saw light again, she fel
They were still for what seemed like forever. Then he enwrapped her in his arms and held her close. “Remember me,” he whispered once again.
She opened her eyes and met the cobalt storm of his. She tried to smile but could not. And she tried to speak loudly, but her voice was a whisper. “Indeed, my lord, I daresay I cannot forget you. I—I am going to bear your child.”
“What?” Still looming atop her, he lifted his weight above her and searched out her features.
She inhaled and exhaled. “We’re going to have a child.”
“You do not lie to me?”
She smiled at last. He seemed so very fierce. “Milord, I cannot believe that you have not guessed already. There are changes …”
It was his turn to inhale sharply. Then he drew his body abruptly from hers, adjusted her tunic, and touched her cheek tenderly. “You little fool!” he exclaimed. “Why did you let me—”
“Let you? My lord, when have I ever managed to stop you?” she challenged. Then she added hastily, “Eric, I wanted—I wanted you too. You did not hurt me or the babe!”
He touched her cheek, then he kissed her. “You will take care. You will take the utmost care.”
She nodded. He did not mean to take care of herself; he meant that she must take care for the child.
He rose, reached a hand down, and drew her up and into his arms. For a moment he held her tenderly, achingly so. “Aye, my love, take care ….” Then he released her, touching her cheek. “I will watch young Rowan. I will guard him whenever I may. You needn’t fear.”
The sound of his voice was harsh and bitter once again. His lips touched hers and then he turned and strode away.
The door slammed.
Tears stung her eyes. “It is you I love!” she whispered. But it was too late.
He was gone.
16
As evening fell, a chill wind swept the northern coastline. Standing high upon the cliffs, the wind whipping his mantle furiously about him, Eric stared out across the darkened, fog-shrouded distance of the sea. Somewhere far away lay the land of the Scots, so named for the tribes that had left Eire to settle there. It was a land far north, far, far above the English kingdoms Alfred fought so hard to wrest from the Danes.
Indeed, they had come very far in the past months. And now, with the harshness of winter facing them, they had come to the end of the fight. One by one the lesser kings of Ireland had bowed to the supremacy of Niall mac Aed, but now they battled along the coastline of his uncle’s own Ulster, battled a man born much as himself, Lars mac Connar, the son of an Irish lass and grandson of a Danish jarl.
The decisive battle would come tomorrow. To the north, far ahead of him, Eric could see the fires of the Danish camp. Emissaries had run back and forth between the lines all day, and it had been decided. Whoever took the day tomorrow would take the strip of Ulster. With all of the country now sworn to support Niall, it seemed unnecessary to wrest this strip of land from Lars. But few knew the Irish sentiment more thoroughly than Niall, Olaf, Eric, and his brothers and cousins. If Niall did not hold his own kingdom, he would hold nothing else. The warlike factions would split and splinter, and there would be dissent throughout the land.
Everything hinged on the morrow.
Then they could return to Dubhlain.
Eric felt the cold wind rush over his face as a fire ignited within him. How he longed to return!
They had not departed so swiftly as they had first planned—there had been his grandfather’s funeral to deal with despite the imminent threats upon them. When he had left Rhiannon to return to the courtyard, he had discovered that there was a council under way, and that his immediate presence was required. He had sat with his uncles, father, brothers, and cousins, and they had decided that it was too risky to allow Eric and the women to see Aed to his final resting place at Tara with only a guard. They would not show fear and they would not show any weakness, but all of the family would proceed north with the Ard-ri’s body and attend prayers at his graveside with the monks from Armagh.
Then they would swiftly turn to the business of securing the loyalty of the lesser kings.
And so he had had some time ….
Not so very much time, for the journey with such a number had been slow, and he had never been at leisure to ride with his wife during the day. Then there had been the constant messages coming and going to the various kingdoms. Niall had recognized the various kings of Ireland—and demanded their recognition in return. The days had been exhausting.
There had also been the messages from Wessex.
Gunthrum had cast himself into the fray after the fall of Rochester. Alfred had taken a great host of ships—Eric’s among them—and attacked the Danes under Gunthrum.
He had made a clean sweep, capturing endless ships and riches. But then the Danes had attacked in return, and the prizes had been swept away again.
By spring, Alfred would attack and harry the Danes from London; or so he vowed. He implored Eric to return by the spring.
Eric looked out to the sea. Always there was warfare.
He sighed, closed his eyes wearily, and remembered that at least for a time the nights had been his. On the long, slow journey to Tara the nights had been his.
Even then he and Rhiannon had spoken little. Sometimes their party had slept in tents upon the road, sometimes they had found the rich hospitality of an Irish farm, and occasionally there had been the luxury of a lesser king’s manor house. It had not mattered. He had been too exhausted for words; she had never demanded them. It had been a time of discovery for him, for indeed she had changed, and he cursed himself for a fool that he had not noticed. Her breasts were so very full as they spilled into his hands, and her abdomen had already begun to swell. It seemed that even her eyes were brighter, her cheeks more lustrous ….
But then she had always been beautiful. He had never denied that. Never. From the very first time he had seen her high atop the wall, she had arrested his senses. Now she still plagued and haunted him in his dreams, for there were so many memories of her to be conjured up and recalled. In his dreams she came to him, as she had come to solace him after his grandfather had died. Came to him naked, lithe, the burning gold and fire of her hair a maiden’s cloak about her, casting her in a spell of both innocence and intrigue. Soft and rippling like the rays of the sun, like the dance of the fire, skeins of hair in rich, thick beauty fell upon her naked flesh and covered but did not hide the fullness of her breasts, the rose-colored hues of her nipples, the curve of her hip, the curling thatch of fire and mystery between her thighs. He could smell the sweetness of her flesh within his dreams, and he could see her eyes, feel her flesh, as she came to him and poured herself upon him. So very much lay deep within her. So very much was contained behind the wondrous silver lights of her eyes. Pain too swiftly betrayed, too swiftly hidden away. Laughter, so very seldom for him; tenderness; and the anger of a storm, the tempest of the sea, the rage of a tigress. All these things lay deep within her, and her mood, ever volatile, changed with the ripple of the wind.
Only a fool would love her ….
But he did.
He wondered briefly when it had come about, when his heart had so changed, when she had captivated more than his lust, when she had conquered his heart. Had it been in discovering that he could best her time and again, and yet she never surrendered? Had it been in touching her, in drowning with the fire of her hair, the tempest in her eyes? Had it been in knowing her, in learning the beauty in her heart and mind? Had it been in wondering if she had indeed left the manor to send her arrows flying in his defense?
Perhaps on that day he had only admitted that she was his and that he would fight as ferociously and as blindly as any wild animal to keep what belonged to him. When had it changed so that he was forced to admit, if only to himself, that he loved her?
He had loved before ….
And he had learned the pain of it, and he was keenly aware that love could be a two-edged sword, a weapon greater than any invented or perfected by man. By God, too many things still lay between them. Countless men had died needlessly because she had attacked him when he had arrived upon her shore.
And too many things had come to pass since then. Perhaps her men, long in their graves now, had been innocent, for in truth, no ghosts had later warned the Dane Ragwald of his approach.
But someone had done so ….
If not his wife, then someone frighteningly close to Alfred. Who? Rhiannon had to have some idea. She had been Alfred’s ward; she knew them all and knew them well. Was she protecting someone? Or was she as innocent as she claimed?
Perhaps she still desired his death but had learned with cunning to be patient, to await it more calmly.
No, he could not believe such a thing. That she still cared deeply for Rowan he knew. She had implored him once again to care for her countrymen when they had parted ways at Tara; there were at least twenty men of Wessex with them, but he had known that though she cared for the others, it was Rowan to whom she referred.
They were going to have a child. If he fell in battle now, he might well leave a son behind him. His hands trembled suddenly, and he looked up to the sky and prayed, though he wasn’t sure to which deity he offered up his prayers. He wanted to live. He wanted to live more than he had ever realized before. He wanted to see his child, be it a son or a daughter, and he wanted a chance to live the life he had carved out for himself. He could never betray his uncle, Niall, and he would always come to Leith’s support if Dubhlain was threatened. He would always be an Irishman, just as he would always be his father’s son, a Norseman. But his life now lay across the sea, and his soul now rested within Rhiannon’s slender hands. Somehow he had sent roots for himself deep down into that earth in Wessex, and he wanted nothing more than peace, time with his wife, time with his child. Time to luxuriate forever amid tendrils of fire and gold, to nuzzle and hug Rhiannon before a blaze in winter, to create a world together. His wandering days were indeed over; his time to go a-Viking had ended when Alfred had placed her hand within his. He had thought it was the land that he craved so fiercely, but it was not. It was the heart of the woman who had given him his home.