Lord of Falcon Ridge (26 page)

“A woman, my lord. She struck me with a whip when I refused to bed with her.”

The man laughed. It was a cold rusty sound, and quickly stopped. Chessa saw several of the men stare openly up at their master.

“Why?” he asked. “One woman is much as another. Why did you refuse her?”

“She was with three other young male slaves, all of them naked surrounding her. She wanted me to pleasure her, then to mount her and show them how it was done. She said she'd seen me with another girl and had decided then that she would have me as well. I wouldn't do it. She was enraged. She took her whip and sliced open my face. I bled on her.”

“I would have killed her for maiming me.”

“I had not that chance,” Cleve said. “I was a slave. But you know that, don't you, Lord Varrick?” He stepped forward. “Let us continue, Lord Varrick. Do not think you can crush me like you did the small boy twenty years ago. Do not think I am a nightmare come only for the space of a single hour to torment you. I am here to stay. This is my home and I belong here. Where is my brother? No, I see that he isn't here. You killed him as you tried to kill me, didn't you?”

“You will crush me beneath your heel, Cleve?”

“I will come to an agreement with you, my lord. But I will not fade away. This is my wife, Chessa, she is the daughter of King Sitric of Ireland. This is Lord Merrik of Malverne. His wife is the niece of Duke Rollo of Normandy. If something happens again to me, you will be crushed, your magnificent platform that sets you above all others torn asunder, this fortress leveled. You will have nothing left, no huge windows at your back to give you presence and terrify people with your magic. I tell you this so that you will not act precipitously.”

Chessa felt the intensity of his eyes on her. Like Cleve, she couldn't see him clearly for the sunlight blinded her.

“You are Hormuze's daughter,” he said to her. “Are you truly of his blood?”

“Aye. I was very young when he gave King Sitric back his youth. I loved him dearly, but he left me, disappeared into the mists of time, giving me into the guardianship of the newly reborn king.”

“He is the greatest magician I have ever met,” Lord Varrick said. “Were any of you present when he worked this feat of magic on King Sitric?”

Merrik said, “My brother, Lord Rorik of Hawkfell Island, was there. It occurred just as Hormuze had promised. King Sitric wedded the virgin Hormuze selected for him. The following morning, he greeted his soldiers and the people at Clontarf as a young man, vital, handsome, the greediness of the old man melded back into the nobility of the young man.”

“And you are his daughter.”

“Aye, he taught me as well.” Chessa raised her chin just a bit. “He taught me potions and spells. But I was a child and learned only a little.”

Cleve said, “I want no battle with you, Lord Varrick. I want only what is mine and should have been mine. I spent fifteen years as a slave. I didn't remember who I was until the dreams came to me over the past three years. Now I know who I am. I want what is mine. I will kill you if I must to regain it.”

At those words, the men very quietly stood, their weapons at ready. The man with his black tunic billowing out from the breeze coming through those open windows said, “You needn't threaten me. I know you are your father's son. I recognize you as your father's son. Now look upon me, Ronin of Kinloch.”

“I am Cleve of Kinloch.”

Varrick merely nodded as he stepped down from that high wooden platform, and for the first time Cleve saw him clearly.

“By all the gods,” Merrik said. “I don't believe this.”

“You are his stepfather,” Laren said. “His mother married you after his father died. This isn't possible.”

Cleve stared into the man's eyes—one golden eye and one blue eye. He stared into his own face.

“You are my son. I believed you lost to me for twenty years. You are home again.” Lord Varrick stretched out his hands and clasped Cleve's upper arms. “You are my son,” he said again. “You are mine.”

“Papa,” Kiri said loudly. “I don't like this. I want to count my sticks.”

A soft voice came from behind them, “She is the image of you, Cayman, the twin of you when you were small. She is beautiful. My brother, welcome home.”

Cleve had turned at the woman's voice. He knew his sister, indeed he recognized her. She looked like their father, like a Viking woman, tall and blond and fair skinned. “You are Argana? Truly?”

“Aye, Cleve.”

Still, he didn't touch her. She was only his half sister, he thought, still reeling, feeling the nearness of his father, the man he'd believed all these years to have sold him as a slave, to have taken what he'd wanted, not caring, only taking. This man in his black robes, standing on the platform, calling forth monsters during storms. It was difficult to think. He could feel Chessa beside him, questions flowing through her, no fear now, just all these questions and surely there had to be sense in all this. “Argana,” he said again. “It was our grandmother's name, I remember mother telling me, for it is an odd name. I am only your half brother.”

“Our mother is still the same. What difference?”

“It is all too new to me as yet. I don't know.”

“These are my sons, Cleve,” Argana said, turning to show him three boys standing behind her, protecting her, knives in their hands, the eldest nearly a man, the youngest about twelve years old. Cleve nodded to each of them. He froze at the sight of the youngest boy. He had one gold eye and one blue eye. His father was this boy's father as well? He'd mated with Cleve's sister?

Chessa said clearly, “I am Chessa and this is my stepdaughter, Kiri. You say she looks like Cayman. Who is Cayman?”

“She is my younger sister. Come here, Cayman.”

She was the most beautiful woman Chessa had ever seen in her life, all blond and white, with eyes so blue they pierced the gloom of the great hall. Her coloring was identical to Merrik's, to most Vikings', yet there was great fascination in her face, a face that surely looked younger than it really was. Would Kiri truly become this beautiful when she reached a woman's years?

“Cayman,” Cleve said. “I remember you were skinny and your hair was always in tangles around your face. You were ten years old when I left.”

But surely that was impossible, Laren was thinking. She
looked impossibly young and pure and so very innocent and at the same time alluring.

“Aye,” Cayman said. “And now I am nearly thirty years old, little brother. I am glad you're not dead. None have spoken of you in many many years.” Suddenly, Lord Varrick said, “I have no small daughters. Kiri, you are my first grandchild. Will you come to me?”

He held out his arms to her. Kiri, as was her wont, studied him closely, his flowing black linen tunic with its billowing sleeves, his face that was like her papa's, yet thinner and older. “You're my grandfather?”

“Aye, I'm your grandfather. I am an old graybeard.”

“Will you let me stand in the light like you did? Will you let me look like a demon as you do?”

“Aye,” he said, and there was that same coldness in his voice, in the very presence of him, that made Chessa draw back. “I will let you stand in the sun if you like.”

Kiri slowly held out her arms to him.

Still, there was utter silence in that huge fortress. There were many men, women, and children standing about now, but they were saying nothing at all. Argana's three boys were perfectly still and silent. Chessa watched Lord Varrick carry Kiri to the huge open shutters. He turned then and held her, facing them, the harsh sunlight streaming over both of them, sending their faces into shadows. Kiri's head became a halo of spun gold.

 

 

C
LEVE DISCOVERED WHEN
darkness came that his wife was dangerous. She didn't give him a chance, just jerked him into the small chamber Lord Varrick had offered to them, and pulled him down onto the box bed atop her. He'd never realized how a woman could tangle herself so completely with a man, but she did it. He was breathing hard, and she was biting his chin, kissing his ear, his jaw, all the while pulling madly at his clothes.

“Please, Cleve, now, hurry. I want you.”

“This is too much,” he said, eyes glittering in the soft dim light. “By the gods, I want you naked.” His hands were frantic on her clothes and she had to slap them away for she didn't have that many gowns and he would surely rip this one.

But then, just as quickly, she didn't care. He wanted her and what he wanted she would give him. She would take care of him. “Hurry,” she said, and didn't know where that had come from, but it was deep inside her and she couldn't wait for him to remove those brooches, to pull off her overtunic and her gown and untie her stockings. She just couldn't wait. Her hands were on his trousers and now he was above her, looking down at her, seeing her clearly enough in the shadowy light, for even in this small
chamber, there were shutters that were open to the moonlight streaming into the room.

“Chessa,” he said, and kissed her and kept kissing her, molding her to him, fitting his hands over her breasts, caressing them. He wanted to feel her naked flesh with his fingers. Her hands were wrapped around his back, kneading his flesh, pulling him close, drawing him toward her as if she wanted to consume him.

She lurched up, yanking hard at his trousers. “Hurry,” she said again. “Please, Cleve. Hurry.”

He knew she'd never known pleasure. How could she? He'd been a pig on their marriage night and she must have hated it, but she'd protected him, making the other men want to kill him because he was such a fine lover. Now it was she who was the frantic one, as urgent as he'd been. He didn't know what to do. Then his own need swamped him and it didn't matter. He jerked up her clothes, feeling her naked flesh beneath his hands, and his fingers were pushing apart her thighs and he felt her then, her dampness, her softness, her readiness for him and he couldn't believe it. He groaned and mounted her. “Part your legs wider,” he said into her mouth, and she did, her hands on his buttocks.

“Hurry,” she said again, and he laughed even as he lifted her hips in his hand, stared down at her beautiful woman's flesh and thrust forward, his head thrown back, his back arching, coming deep into her, filling her and letting the warmth of her fill him until he wanted to weep with the joy of it.

Ah, but that joy was mixed with a lust that drove him to the brink. He tried to pull back, but she pushed upward, drawing him deeper. He hadn't hurt her this time, yet he'd felt the pull of her flesh when he'd come into her. She hadn't been as ready for him as he'd believed, damn her, but now she was twisting and turning beneath him, arching upward, saying over and over, “Hurry, hurry.”

He didn't want to hurry, but seeing her there beneath
him, her eyes closed, her black hair strewn about her head, her mouth open, and the soft moans touched his soul.

“I want your pleasure,” he managed to say even as he knew it was nearly over for him. She was tight and small and she was moving beneath him, drawing him deeper into her even when he tried to pull out of her, just for a moment, just to get a hold on himself, so he wouldn't—

He felt himself explode. It was that simple and that complete, his surrender to his need, his surrender to her. When he drove to his hilt into her, feeling his seed touch her womb, he moaned deep in his throat like a wild animal, like a man whose pleasure was so great he cared naught who heard him.

Surely he would die now. No man could exist beyond that pleasure, no mortal man, aye, it was over for him. He was flat on top of her, their sweating chests pressed together and he was breathing hard against her cheek, kissing her between breaths, still shoving into her, his legs heavy on hers.

“I won't go to sleep,” he said, and managed to draw himself up on his elbows. “Chessa, speak to me.”

She smiled up at him. “You're very deep inside me, Cleve. I love the feel of you, the strength of you. You're smooth and hard and it pleases me.”

“Foolish words,” he said. “You don't know what you're saying, you're just talking. Don't you dare even hint to the men that I'm smooth and hard or anything else or I'll strangle you. I see what you've done now. I should have known. You got no pleasure and you didn't care. Damn you, Chessa, you just wanted to wring me out again, to take me and give me joy and not receive any for yourself. Well, that's not the way of it. I won't let you control me, not like you have every other damned man who's been unfortunate enough to swim into your waters. I won't ever again listen to your siren's song. Damn you, I will make you scream.”

“But Cleve, it's your pleasure that is important, your pleasure that gives me joy, your—” She sucked in her
breath when she felt his mouth hot on her belly, his hands working over her flesh, touching her, smoothing her, the heels of his hands massaging her pelvic bones, squeezing her hips, drawing her ever upward. He was on his knees between her legs and he looked up at her then. He was frowning ferociously. “You damned woman, you will scream for me.”

He lowered his head and his mouth touched her. Her back arched and she gasped with the surprise of it. This was too much, she thought, her mind sharp with the pleasure of his tongue, the soft bite of his teeth. This was too much for a woman to bear. Surely he shouldn't be doing this to her, surely he should be resting now, for there was much to be done. “I don't know, Cleve,” she said, striving to find somewhere in her body that wasn't pounding with urgency. She felt his tongue, his fingers sliding inside her, felt the dampness of herself and his seed and this felling pleasure that gave no mercy, no respite. She cried out, unable to help herself.

“Scream, damn you,” he said, lifting his head just a moment to look up at her face. The scar was livid in the dim light and he looked like a demon, hard and cold and she knew he would gain what he wanted. He was more beautiful than the carvings she'd seen of the Christian saints or the Viking gods. “Aye,” he said, seeing the change in her expression, and lowered his head again. His hands lifted her and she knew there was no hope for her now. He'd told her about a woman's lust but she hadn't really believed in it, not in feelings that seemed to make men animal-mad, that drove all their wits from them and left them panting and growling and helpless in their own cravings.

No, it couldn't be the same, it couldn't. She wouldn't believe, no, it was his pleasure that was important, not hers, not that a woman's pleasure existed anyway, but still—

She screamed. From one instant to the next, she was with herself, within her body, with him, then the next instant, she was wild and uncontrolled and crying out like an animal. She was mad and she was thrown into a frenzy she
couldn't begin to imagine. She didn't care. She just wanted more. Her hands were frantic in his hair, on his shoulders, and she was keening, the feelings only making her wilder and wilder until suddenly she felt as if a soft rainfall had begun to fall on her and it was calming her, bringing her back into herself, not that she wanted the rainfall or being back into herself. No, she wanted more of that demented pleasure that was surely too great for a human to have to suffer.

“Cleve,” she said. “I will surely die from that.”

“Every night then,” he said, and he was grinning down at her, triumphant, satisfied, everything male and strong in him, everything dominant, sublimely content. “You scream well, Chessa. I like it. You respond to me well. I like that too. I suppose I knew it would be this way between us. But you will not lie to me again, Chessa. I will have your pleasure as well as my own. Do you understand me?”

She said in a small thin voice that made him smile, “Since it is so very nice then I suppose I must do as you wish.”

He gathered her into his arms and pulled her against his side. “In a few minutes we'll do that again. You've been a wife far too long to have suffered from a husband's neglect.”

“I can't do that again, can I?”

He smiled at the utter bewilderment in her voice, at the sudden shyness, but he'd held her, caressed her with his mouth, moved his fingers inside her. He kissed her nose. “You thought you were so smart. You believed you could control me.” He kissed her ear. “I'll make you do that as often as I wish to. You will have no say in the matter. I will say to you, ‘Chessa, I'm putting my mouth on you and you will scream.' And then you will.” He kissed her jaw.

She was silent for the longest time, then whispered against his shoulder, “Do you promise, my lord?”

His hand, stroking over her buttocks, stilled. He eased his fingers between her thighs. She was wet with him, with herself, with their passion. She quivered as his fingers
lightly stroked her. “Aye,” he said, “I promise.”

It was Chessa who fell asleep but moments later, leaving Cleve to smile up at the shaft of bright moonlight that came through the open shutters. The fresh night air was strange. In Norway it was simply too cold during most of the year to allow such a thing. The thick wooden planks of the longhouse had to overlap tightly to keep in heat. A window would be unthinkable. He looked up and saw the moon.

It moved him. He didn't remember seeing the moon as a child when he'd slept in this fortress. He closed his eyes and there was his father, looking at him with his one golden eye and his one blue eye. His father, not his stepfather, not the man he'd feared so completely as a small boy, not the man he'd believed had ordered him murdered. There was so much here at Kinloch, too much, and Cleve still had no idea how to sort it all out. He prayed no fights would break out between the Malverne men and Lord Varrick's men. But that was foolish. There'd been silence, just more deep, calm silence. Deadly frightening silence. Even the Malverne men, even Eller with his sensitive nose, hadn't said more than three words all during the long evening.

His sister, Argana, was his father's wife, and a mother of three boys. He remembered her as a girl, laughing and always in motion, always moving, picking him up in her arms and giving him great smacking kisses. But last evening, her silence had been absolute. And Cayman, thirty yet unwed, so beautiful she made a man ache just to look at her. Why hadn't she married? Like Argana, she'd said very little even when Laren had tried with all her skald's skills to learn more about her. He had very little memory of her as a child. Perhaps she'd always been silent, but he doubted it.

Kinloch was filled with an unearthly silence, and an eerie darkness that seemed to hiss through every corner of the huge hall, that shadowed around that profound light that his father brought into the fortress, keeping that light unto himself, keeping it from everything and everyone else. He pictured again Varrick holding Kiri in his arms, the bright light
framing them together, making them one, that strange breeze that had lifted their hair, making them look otherworldly.

Chessa murmured in her sleep, her hand slipping down onto Cleve's belly. He felt her hand move over his groin and grunted when she tangled her fingers in his hair. He kissed the top of her head, squeezed her closer to him because he couldn't seem to help himself. She'd come so very close to him. He'd fought her, the gods knew he'd fought her, but it had done him no good, no good at all. And she'd become Kiri's second papa. Chessa was smart. He was going to have to be careful of her. There was too much of her papa, King Sitric, in her.

Ragnor of York had been lucky to escape. He smiled at that. He wondered if Turella had removed the king finally, setting Ragnor nominally in his place, with her ruling, naturally.

Chessa's hand tightened on him and he moaned deep within himself. He said as calmly as he was able, “Listen to me, Chessa. You're my wife, but I won't allow you to control me. I am myself. You will not dominate me, so you may forget your machinations.” He thought he heard her yawn. Aye, a close eye on this wife of his who was too smart and had as much ingenuity as he did, which was bothering, but he'd accepted her, as had his daughter. Kiri was sleeping with Laren and Merrik, a good punishment for them, he'd told Merrik, who'd wondered aloud to him how Cleve was ever going to know his bride again. And Laren, beautiful red-haired Laren, closer to him than these two sisters of his, took Kiri and asked her if she'd consider a skald for her third papa. Merrik had stared at the vaulted ceiling high above them and sighed.