Deirdre (35 page)

Deirdre held Helewis away, looking the overwrought woman in the eye. “He keeps His Word, Helewis. It may not be in the way you expect, but He will not forsake you or your baby.”

“Deirdre?”

She turned toward the door as Abina opened it. “Aye, Abina, I’m here with—” She broke off upon seeing Alric duck under the doorway after his nurse.

“I was about to send my men looking for you.” His brow knitted. “Helewis?”

“I … I’m fine, Alric. I was just more emotional than I thought. I’ll miss Deirdre when you take her from the court to your villa. She’s been grand company” She sniffed loudly. “But I’m fine now. Just a headache.”

“Come with me, little one.” Abina drew Helewis to her. “I have just the tea for you. A cup of that, then I’ll tuck you in and give your regrets to the king. He’s so happy among his guests now, that you’ll not be missed.”

Deirdre started toward them. “Perhaps I should—”

“Come with your husband,” Alric interrupted, slipping his arm about her waist. “It’s all arranged.”

She cast a wide, questioning look at him and then Abina.

“Listen to your husband,” the old nurse said, her eyes twinkling beneath the wrinkled shed of her brow.

Her husband.
Sure, the term hadn’t escaped Deirdre’s thoughts since that day Alric threatened her with marriage on the street before the villa. Except now, the idea warmed her rather than shot her through with dread. Indeed, blood heated her face and neck as though she stood over a hot fire instead of walking under the protection of Alric’s arm toward his lodge. The uncertainty the anticipation—they were all but behind her now. Their union was sealed by words and spirit. All that was left to commit was that of the flesh.

She had made the commitment without knowing how she’d come to that decision. She had only a vague awareness of why yet it seemed right and proper for her to forsake her earlier vow to remain chaste.

“What of the others?” She glanced toward the great hall as they bypassed it.

“Let them find their own brides.” Alric stopped and gathered Deirdre up in his arms. “I’ve waited overlong for mine.”

“But shouldn’t we at least excuse ourselves from the guests?”

“The way the wine and music are flowing, I doubt we’ll even be missed.” He smiled down at her. “Unless milady would rather rejoin the king’s table.”

“Faith,
no
!”

Deirdre covered her mouth, too late to stifle the fervor of her denial. One would think her a wanton hussy rather than the blushing bride. At Alric’s chuckle, she relaxed against him.

Gunnar and Wimmer awaited outside the lodge. Unsteady on his feet, Gunnar leaned against the door and practically fell in with his attempt to open it for the newlyweds. Tor, who’d been locked within during the celebration, bounded for Alric and Deirdre, taking Gunnar’s wobbly knees out in the process.

Gunnar grumbled as he pulled himself upright. “You can rest assured, milord bridegroom, that no one has made mischief about the nuptial lodge, save this barking horse.”

“As for His Majesty Lambert,” Wimmer said, helping his comrade, “he grins from ear to ear that an heir might be in the—”

Alric cut him off abruptly ‘We thank you both,” he said, turning his back to the jumping, tail-wagging dog in order to put Deirdre down unmolested. “Now, one last favor …” He seized Tor’s collar before the animal succeeded in placing his front paws on Deirdre’s shoulders and wrestled him back through the open door. “Take this mongrel and—nay I’ll see to him and give the lady time to … do whatever it is ladies do,” Alric finished. “I’ll return momentarily,” he called to her in a louder voice.

“Thank you, milord,” Deirdre answered as politely as her flustered mind allowed.

Left to her own devices, she studied her decidedly masculine surroundings. A number of tapestries as well as a few weapons hung on the walls. Judging from their small proportion, they’d been Alric’s at different stages of his growth. His scramasax hung from the wolfs head belt. Below it, the bright enameled shield he’d carried when she first saw him hovering, bigger than life, over the hold of the
Mell
rested against the wall.

The trunk with his belongings, the one she’d riffled through to find clothes for her ill-fated mission to steal back Cairell’s ransom, lay at the foot of a large bed. Next to it was her own.

Her heart skipped a beat as her gaze moved to the bed, where her nightdress had been carefully laid out. On a table beside it was a decanter of wine and two goblets fashioned of green glass. Abina’s handiwork? At home, her stepmother and friends would have helped her undress and don her nightshift, but with Helewis ill and Abina attending her, Deirdre was on her own.

Since Alric sounded no more certain of nuptial etiquette than she, Deirdre promptly set to work on the laces on either side of her gown. No sooner had it struck the floor than she pulled her nightshift over her head and tugged the bodice of her underdress loose. As the first came down, the latter dropped about her ankles, preserving all modesty.

A log fell on the hearth at the center of the room where Alric’s men had built up the fire. With a tiny gasp, she pivoted to see the scattering sparks drift with the draft toward the opening in the thatched roof when a knock sounded on the door.

“Yes?”

“’Tis your husband, milady.”

“A moment more,” she pleaded, rushing to put out the lamps on either side of the large bed. The men had struck enough light to embroider by. “Very well, you may come in.”

Ducking inside, Alric closed the door behind him and leaned against it, feasting his eyes upon her. The fire leaped up, revealing the silver weld of his gaze as it raked over her from head to toe.

“Finally.” Alric’s one word reached across the room and touched her with a thousand fingers.

“I forgot my shoes and stockings,” she blurted out, dropping on the
bed with the grace of a cow to see to them.

“Allow me.” Alric knelt in front of her before she could gather wit enough to object.

“I would imagine you have plenty of clothing to remove without—” Deirdre broke off at the cock-eyed slant of his brow.

The twitch at the corner of his mouth ground against her raw nerves. “You wish me to undress first?”

“I don’t care what you do, if you make light of …” She exhaled in frustration, for lack of the appropriate word. “If you cannot be serious.”

“Milady, I assure you I am most serious—” He eased the hem of her shift up to her knee—“about your muddy shoes and stockings in my bed.”

“I … I can get them from here.” Deirdre covered the hands at her knee with her own. As they locked gazes, her hands fell away.

Affording her all modesty Alric unlaced her slippers and slid off the silky soft linen trappings, taking the shoes with them. Self-conscious, Deirdre curled her toes and drew them primly beneath the hem that fell back in place.

Alric placed the shoes beneath the oaken frame supporting the mattress and rose. “Would you like to help me undress or will milady await me in bed?”

“What?”

With an indulgent smile, Alric took her hands and drew her to her feet.

“Don’t be afraid, muirnait. I would only please you, nothing more.” He tipped her face toward his with his finger and leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers. “Trust me.”

She did. She truly trusted him. It was herself she feared, as if some vital test lay before her and she wasn’t prepared.

“Perhaps a glass of wine,” Alric suggested, breaking away.

Deirdre shook her head. She needed what little wit that hadn’t already abandoned her. “But by all means, you have some.”

“Milady is all the intoxication I need this night.”

Faith, his words were more heady than any heath fruit, going straight from her ear to the nethermost reaches of her awareness … except her
knees. Surely they belonged to one infirm, unreliable as they seemed.

“Come to me, muirnait.” It was not a command but the most convincing of pleas.

Alric bracketed her shoulders with his hands, coaxing her closer. As he ran them down the curve of her back, someone in her body sealed the space between them. His warmth was comforting and wildly disturbing at the same time. She felt his breath hot against her cheek, waiting … but for what? As she drew away in question, he answered with a kiss.

How could something so sweet, so tender, raze her awareness with fierceness enough to take her breath, nay, all resistance away? The woman, that other female who dwelled within Deirdre, shed her demure mask altogether with a brazen show of surrender. She ran trembling fingers up Alric’s neck and wove them into his thick mane of hair, holding to him, lest she be dismissed as in times past. She returned his kiss, caress for caress, breath for breath, until even their hearts thundered in union between them.

Suddenly Alric tore away with a ragged groan, staring at Deirdre as though the fires of all his ancestors raged within. The wolf on his belt buckle—the red-eyed beast that had terrified her—looked tame compared to what she saw now. Yet she was not afraid, not any longer.

“Milady …” His Adam’s apple struggled up and down amid the taut sinew of his neck as he swallowed. “If you would stop this, say so now, for fleeting seconds remain that I might retreat.”

It took a moment for his meaning to register. The full measure of the sacrifice he was still willing to make for her sake was driven home by the echo of his declaration before God and all witnesses:
“I would die for my bride, even if death were the end.”

In the light cast from the fire, the chiseled frame of his face blurred. He would give up all for her—exactly as a husband ordained by God would do. If Deirdre only thought she loved the man, she now knew it, not just with her heart, but with her soul.

Gently she framed his face with her hands, answering with her all. “There is no reason to stop, milord. No reason here on this earth or in the heavens.”

R
icbert unsheathed Alric’s sword, his hand shaking with excitement at the feel of the gilded weapon in his hand. It was heavier than he thought. So it would take two hands to take his half brother’s head off. He ran a bloodied hand down the hard steel—not his blood, but that of the murdered thanes in the hall.

By his mother’s gods, he’d waited overlong for this moment. It had been so easy. Those who’d been slow in succumbing to Juist’s concoction were easy prey for the secretly armed Mercian contingent. Walking among the unconscious wedding guests and selectively slitting their throats was as refreshing as a walk after a spring rain, one where blood ran underfoot. But the best was yet to come.

“You are supposed to gather the Welsh weapons and standards from your father’s armory to give to my brother’s troops, not stand fawning over that sword.”

He looked to see Ethlinda, the twisted dagger in her hand dripping with blood. In her other was a swatch of dark human hair.

“The priest has a new tonsure?” Ricbert queried.

His mother smiled. A bloodrush made her lovelier than ever. “I couldn’t resist. I left him to Juist and the guards to finish.”

“The Welsh wouldn’t do that to their own kind,” he pointed out. “If we’d have Ecfrith think the Welsh—”

“The
animals
that did this would do anything.” The reply was barren of concern, save a sinister smack of humor when she added, “Why, they’ve even slaughtered children.” Upon seeing the shocked lift of Ricbert’s brow, Ethlinda hurried to assure him. “Some of the freemen’s nits, silly boy I won’t bite the hand that belongs to me … much.”

The plan was ingenious. Ecfrith would think the Welsh took advantage of the wedding celebration and massacred Lambert’s court and guests while they slept. Only Ricbert survived and, with a few others, turned the blackguards on their heels. It would make for a splendid
story for years to come in Galstead’s hall.

“What of those who left the celebration early?” They’d waited intentionally until the celebration was well underway before introducing the wine the queen and her witans had prepared to drug the attendees, although the unexpected show of Alric’s adoring common horde had taxed the plan momentarily.

“If anyone awakens, my brothers’ men will kill them. If you mean our newlyweds, I left a decanter of wine just for them. I may even have saved your brother’s bride for you.”

Ethlinda sauntered up to him and traced the sharp line of his trimmed beard to the point of his chin. Ricbert watched her tongue as she moistened her lips, savoring her undoubtedly craven thoughts. No ordinary female could make molten fire run through his veins like this—certainly not his bride, who’d pled another of her endless stream of headaches. He ought to despise his mother for spoiling him for other women, but he couldn’t. He worshiped her.

“I’ve had your father removed to his lodge. I shall revive him enough for a
private
farewell.” Her laugh shattered the air like icicles upon stone, but to Ricbert’s ear, it was nothing short of music. “Then we’ll visit the lovebirds’ nest.” As quickly as it came, the fancy in his mother’s voice gave way to harshness. “Now take your uncles’ men to the armory so that they can arm our ‘attackers’ with Welsh weapons. The sooner our work is done, the sooner we can play.”

When the servants who’d not been killed outright came to their senses amid the bloodbath and discovered the foul play too late to defend their lords, they’d rally only to find Ricbert and his uncles driving the Welsh assassins off. The Welsh army conveniently camped at Chesreton’s gates provided the perfect scapegoat. The few banners and weapons captured from Saxon retaliatory raids across the border would add weight to the survivors’ story of the surprise attack during the wedding feast.

Ecfrith would expect no less, what with Lambert ignoring the bretwalda’s suggestion that they pay the
wergild
for Mercian protection. Galsted was his at last, and the lords who would help him keep it were Ethlinda’s kin.

“But the sooner we are prepared for the morning, the sooner we can toy with that whore’s whelp and the pious little virgin he vows to die for.”