MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (6 page)

“But, Melisande, I am willing to be sliced, wherever you would set that tongue!”

Even over the roar of the crowd he could hear the grating of her teeth. She edged her horse closer. She offered up her ruby lips. “You truly belong in hell!” she assured him. He leaned over and touched her lips. Just barely. Breathing in the sweet scent of her. Assessing her anew.

The crowd went wild with cheers of approval.

“See how you please them?” he murmured.

“Charming,” she said, smiling into his eyes as if she adored him. “I absolutely despise you.”

“Careful, my beloved. I am evermore certain that my night would be far more pleasant were you gagged.”

“Ah, but you thrive upon the dangers of my tongue!”

“I do intend to,” he promised softly.

“You are a demon!”

“And you are a witch!”

Dark lashes fell over glorious eyes, then her violet orbs burned into his.

“Then perhaps, milord, having accomplished what you wanted here, you will be wise enough to leave me alone!”

“Accomplished what I wanted? Ah, beloved
wife,
I haven"t begun to do so, but I shall. Surely you"re not forgetting that we have wed. Vikings are supposed to rape and ravage all women, so surely I could not be a credible Norseman were I to do any less with my wife! Ah, look! There"s the clergy! Give them a nice and happy wave, Melisande. Let all know just how pleased we are to be together!”

She waved her hand, her smile still not faltering. “Lord of the Wolves!” she taunted. “You are none other than the Norse Lord of Dragons and Dung!” she said softly to him.

He sighed. “My brother is English, kin through marriage to Alfred the Great,” he said. He kept his voice very low, but he could feel the force of his temper rising. “And my maternal grandfather was one of the greatest Irish kings to ever live.”

“Ah, yes! And you deny being one of the butchers of the seas!”

“Oh, no!” he assured her, and Thor edged so close against her mare that he had to pull back on his reins to control his horse. “Butcher of the seas, milady?

That is what you would call my other grandfather"s people. Alas, rest assured. I do not deny being one of them. They are great seafarers.”

“Great invaders, great butchers”

“And conquerors, milady! Don"t forget that! I would not dream of denying that they, too, are a part of me.”

“You have conquered nothing!”

He felt his own smile deepening and nudged his ebony war-horse closer to her mount. “Oh, but I have, milady. I have. And you will find that out, my love.

I swear it.” His temper flared and he reached for her, suddenly, fiercely. This time his lips burned upon hers. Seized them, forced them apart. His tongue invaded her mouth with a searing hunger, and when she would have protested, he pulled her closer. Their horses crashed together. He dragged her from Warrior to hold her before him. Her fingers wound in a frenzy around his arms as she fought him.

He did not let go.

He tasted her. Tasted her lips, and remembered. Filled her mouth with the force of his tongue.

And remembered.

Felt the furious, vibrant heat of her, the rise of her breasts, the sweep of her breath. She tried to twist from him. He held her still, his mouth hard atop hers, demanding that she give, while the roar of the crowd rose in his ears like the rush of his own blood.

Her fingers loosened their wild grip. Her lips gave way, she fought him no longer. He raised his mouth from hers and saw the violent tempest in her eyes.

Her lips were wet and parted still. Fire seemed to explode within his loins.

“You will have me, lady, Viking or no!” he promised her.

He waved his sword triumphantly to the crowd once again. Then she cried out, clasping him as Thor rose high on his hind legs, then turned and raced back toward the fortress walls and the high tower above the keep.

Chapter Three

“What are you doing?” she cried to him, her hair an ebony stream that entangled around them both, whipping with the wind.

“I"ve waited too damn long to rape and ravage already,” he assured her.

She stared at him, going very pale, then slowly turning crimson.

“It"s early! Surely there must be more ceremonies—”

“Private ceremonies only, my love. Why, you never meant to leave me, right? And I have missed so sorely having you at my side!” He slid from Thor, dragging her with him.

“No!” she whispered frantically.

But he ignored her and used the broken steps to bring them back to the parapet, and from there to the tower room.

The room with the broad bed and the clean linen sheets. With the low fire burning in the hearth. With the furs spread before it.

And with the wooden hip bath set before the fire, a fine steam rising above it.

He set her down, surprised that she had obeyed his command in such a thing.

He stared at it a moment, then tore his coat of mail over his chest, so accustomed to it that he did not notice its weight. He spun around to stare at her, arching a brow.

“Ah, Melisande.” She was backing away from him. He smiled. “Shall I take the bath first? No doubt you would disappear should I do so. But then again, it was kind of you to see that it was brought here, as I requested.”

“You may trust in the fact that I did not have it brought here,” she informed him.

“Then your servants are far wiser than you are, milady. Shall you have the first or the second bath, my love?”

“Neither. I am convinced that there are a dozen things which must be done here—”

“Perhaps you should go first,” he said softly. “I have the strange feeling you are longing to escape me. Maybe you would not be quite so quick to run along the parapets naked. But then again, as you"ve told me, one Viking is the same as another. If you were to provoke another attack by one hungry just to seize you, you might not care.”

“Rot and die, Viking!” she told him, lifting her chin.

“The solution?” He stretched out his arms to her. “We bathe together!” She cried out, but too late; his hands were upon her. They ripped the elegant cloth of gold she wore from her shoulders. He lifted her up and cast her down upon the bed, while she struggled up, he grabbed her shoes and then her hose.

She wriggled like a worm, making things very difficult.

But he was very determined. And the softness of her bare flesh against his fingertips definitely gave him incentive to strive more valiantly.

She went still suddenly, her eyes huge. “Please!” she whispered softly.

He felt his lip curl, and he moved his thumb tenderly over her lip and cheek.

“Ah, I remember your saying that word just so once before …” The pallor that hit her cheeks assured him that she, too, remembered the occasion. Her manner changed instantly.

“Get off me, you wretch!”

His grin deepened. “As you wish, milady.”

He was up instantly, with her upon his knee. In seconds he had wrenched the beautiful mauve gown over her shoulders, ripping the soft linen undershift she wore beneath it in his haste.

He didn"t give a damn. She was suddenly naked in his arms, naked and perfect with her tiny waist, flaring hips, long limbs, full, rouge-crested breasts, and seductive black triangle. The waves of her hair were entangled around them both in a web of softness. For a moment the feel of her was more than he could bear. He felt the thunder of her heart, the gasp of her breathing. The fire within her. He wanted to hold her forever.

Her fists slammed against his chest. He lifted her, remembering that he had no choice.

She could no longer do the things she had once done. She couldn"t escape him, fight him, or keep her distance from him. It could mean death, or capture.

He could not afford to have to bargain for her.

“I can"t be wed to you!” she cried to him, her nails digging into his shoulders right through the thin leather vest he wore. “I can"t!” she whispered. “I will not be so dominated in my own home! I was just a child, I didn"t do it, I never meant—”

“Ah, Melisande! How innocent! You never meant any of the things you did to me, did you?” he taunted.

Oh, she had meant many of them! She"d had so many emotions regarding this man, Melisande thought desperately. He was too powerful, too muscled, too quick; his mocking words came too quickly, his iron fist of command too ruthlessly.

And the way that he touched her was far too seductive, demanding, compelling.

And there were far too many others in his life. Too many women too eager to please him. And it would be far too easy to love him. Never, never, she vowed to herself.

He was a Viking. It didn"t matter where he had been born, and it didn"t matter what he called himself. He would always take what he wanted, and when he was done with it, he"d simply discard it.

She drew in a shattering breath, growing dizzy. Dear God, it had been like this before. Heaven and hell, all in one, just as he had told her.

The things he had done …

The things she had tried to forget …

“I swear, I shall scratch your eyes out!” she promised him. “Let me down!” He did. Right into the steaming water. It enveloped her. She closed her eyes for a moment, praying for strength. She opened her eyes.

He had stripped. Quickly.

Her mouth went very dry and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. He was formidable in his mail.

He was more so stark naked.

He might be any of the things he claimed to be, but in appearance, he was all his father, all Viking. He stood well over six feet, nearly a head higher than most men, and every bit of tedious training for war he had ever undertaken showed in the muscle-hewn structure of his body. His shoulders were incredibly broad, his arms bronzed and hard, his chest rippled and corded, his stomach dead flat and lean, his legs long and shapely and heavily muscled, as well. His chest was covered with red-gold hair that swirled to a thin line that ran almost invisibly across his waist, only to thicken richly again well below it. The hot and cold shivers that so easily overcame her when he was near came bursting upon her. He was only too ready to fulfill all his promises. His sex seemed as muscled and hardened and long as the rest of him, as arrogant as the man himself.

And no matter how she despised it, she felt the swift rise of a fire deep within herself. She tried again and again to swear that she would never give in to him.

But she had.

Because the fascination was just as great as the anger. Because he had
drawn her from the beginning. Because she wanted him even more desperately
than she loathed him.

Now he intended surrender. This night.

She dragged her eyes up to his and lifted her chin. “You know that you can force me,” she managed to inform him coolly. “But you"ll not seduce me.” His lip curled slowly. An amazingly sensual gesture in a man of his stature.

Blue eyes framed by the wealth of his golden hair blazed upon her with amusement as he stalked the tub, coming behind her, leaning over her.

“That"s all right. Vikings don"t mind force. We"re very good at it.” The warmth of his breath touched her throat. She gasped as he stepped into the tub, toes touching hers, knees rising high as he sat. Water splashed over the rim of the tub. His eyes fell hard upon hers.

“Ah! Wedded bliss.”

She grit her teeth, splashing water into his eyes, determined to rise. In a second he was up with her. She stepped from the tub, but he caught her in his arms. In seconds she found herself flung back upon the bed, the wired strength of his body atop hers. His fingers curled around hers, pinning her arms to the bed. The sleek muscled wetness of his body was a brace around her. Then his lips touched hers.

Much as they had before. She tried to twist her head, but his strength was overwhelming. His mouth was forceful upon hers, his tongue parting her lips.

Entering her. She moaned deep within her mouth, protesting.

Praying for the fire to go away.

His tongue found hers. Drew upon it. Entered more and more deeply into her mouth, slick, hot wet. She felt his hand, cupped over her breast, the palm easing over and over her nipple. His hand was large, his fingers long, encompassing her body as he explored her torso, cupping her hip, her buttocks. She gasped, but he was kissing her still. She did not realize that her hand was free, winding into the linen sheets on the bed.

His lips lifted from hers. He caught her eyes. Then his mouth touched her throat, his tongue bathing the pulse there. The tip of it slid down the valley of her breasts. The pressure of his face eased over to her breast, his mouth captured the nipple, tugging upon it, the tip of his tongue laving it. She cried out, her hand flying from the sheet to his hair, her fingers entangling within it.

He slid down the length of her, hands sliding around and beneath her hips, stroking and encircling her buttocks, lifting them. She felt the lick of his tongue against her thighs and cried out, tossing, writhing to escape his grip. He had promised no mercy, and he granted none. She felt the intimate thrust of his tongue, stroking, demanding.

Arousing. Sliding deeper, withdrawing, teasing, evoking, hungry.

She cried out his name, so seldom uttered from her lips, the entreaty deep and rich. She felt the length of him atop her again, caressing her arms, finding her lips again, then held above her by the great power of his arms.

The blue of his eyes seared into her.

“Force? Or seduction?” he whispered.

She closed her eyes against him, trembling, aching. “Force!” she lied.