Read The Viking's Woman Online
Authors: Heather Graham
The Viking's Woman
“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
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.
PROLOGUEHe 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 took root and held fast, sucking instantly with assurance and a power that caused her to gasp and laugh. Olaf stroked her hair as they lay together, and it was a moment of sweet and supreme peace. They had earned it, Olaf thought. They had come through much.
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.”