Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

“But you did,” he said slowly, looking down at the back of his hand, where some of the nut dye had smeared. And she’d seen it and wondered at it.

“Nay, I merely believed you had an illness of some kind, nothing more. But listen to me, Hor—Sitric, surely there are old men back at the court who well remember what the old Sitric looked like as a young man. They will denounce you.”

He drew back, sitting on his haunches. He was too close to her, the smell of him was too close. He was smiling. He reached out and touched his fingertips to the red mark on her cheek. Even his fingers smelled of the heady musk scent and she wanted to draw back, but knew it would anger him if she did. She would bide her time.

He said, “I am sorry to bring you pain, but it was short-lived and necessary, you must realize that. You will not question me again, Mirana. However, what you just said is worthy of my listening and my response to you will prove my greatness. I am not a man who makes mistakes. Over the past two years I have cleansed the king’s court of eleven old men, all his cronies since they were boys. I used different methods in all their deaths. All believed them natural deaths, for they were old, after all, that, or accidents. Now there are none left who remember him at my age, none. Three decades is a very long time. As for the men who know him now, why I will age and they will as well and none will remember, for time erases images. I will succeed, doubt it not.”

There was pleasure and triumph in his dark eyes, and now something more, something that made her breath catch in her throat. He was suddenly looking at her with a man’s lust. She didn’t want to look, but she did. His man’s rod was swelling from the thick black hair at his groin, jutting toward her. Odd how it was that the hair at his groin was thick and black and wiry, yet there was no hair on his chest and the hair on his head was as black and soft as the silk pillow beneath her hand.

“The king,” she said, and shuddered.

He frowned at her, distracted from his purpose, and rose to stare down at the old man’s body, drawn up tightly in his final spasms, the muscles of his face showing his agony at his death moment, his eyes filmed, and wide with shock and pain. “Even in death he offends me,” Hormuze said. “You will remain there, Mirana, and I will move him. Do not move.”

She watched him drag the king’s body from the small chamber. She didn’t doubt for an instant that he’d planned this for a very long time. Old Sitric’s body would never be found, of that she was certain. She closed her eyes a moment. What would she do?

He was gone for a long time. When he came through the silken draperies, he wore a long robe of vivid green silk, belted at his waist. He was carrying a silver tray with two silver goblets on it, goblets of exquisite design.

“I have brought us wine that came from a land you have never learned of, Mirana. It will calm you and make the night pass pleasantly between us. You will not be afraid that I will savage you. I took three slave girls last night to drain my passion.” He saw that she would question him, and added, “No, Mirana, I did not let them see me as I am now, for if I had, then I would have had to kill them, and I do not approve unnecessary death. They used their mouths on my rod and left me immediately after. I have told you to trust me, to know that I am a brilliant man. I will be careful not to hurt you overly. Here, Mirana. You are now my wife, my Naphta, and my queen. Drink to us. Drink to the king and queen.”

She took the goblet and lifted it to her mouth. She smelled the deep cloying sweetness that rose to her nostrils like thick steam from the red liquid. There was a stench to it and she knew fear, deep grinding fear. She looked up at him. “I do not wish to drink this.”

He tightened. Mirana saw it not only in the thin line of his mouth, but the long sinewy muscles of his body. Even his voice was taut and stiff and hard when he spoke. “You will do as I bid you. You are my wife now and you will never say nay to me. Do you understand me, Mirana?”

“I understand you very well, but I am myself, Hor—Sitric—not this woman you believe I resemble. I can never be her. You loved her, this Naphta. I am not she. You even said that I wasn’t worthy of her. It is true. Please, look at me, listen to me.”

“You are just as I wish you to be. All other things—those small movements with your hands, the way you will laugh, the way you will bow your head to me in pleasing submission, the way you will look at me when you wish to give me pleasure with your body—all these things I will teach you. You are an apt pupil. As for her spirit, I know you have it not nor will you ever have it, but you will become sufficient. You will obey me in all things. You will do just as I bid you. I have a daughter, Eze, who even now carries her mother’s expressions—your expressions. You will care for her as if she were your own, and as she grows older, she will be more and more like her mother, as will you, and I will have both of you to remind me of my Naphta. That is all.”

So he had a child to remind him continually of his dead wife. She knew there was nothing for it. He’d planned this for three years, and all had gone as he’d foreseen, except for one very important thing that hadn’t been in his control. He’d trusted Einar. He hadn’t realized what a vicious savage her half-brother could be, hadn’t realized that he couldn’t be believed or trusted in his word or his dealings. Also, he’d overlooked chance. Mirana looked at him straightly. She said, not unkindly, “I am already wed to Rorik Haraldsson. My half-brother, Einar, lied to the king. I was stolen from him and then returned, but I am not a virgin, Hormuze—aye, allow me to call you by your real name now—nor am I th

e king’s wife or your wife. I am Rorik’s wife. I love him. I owe him my loyalty and my loyalty is his forever, no other man’s. Believe me, Hormuze, for I would not lie to you. He is my husband. He is looking for me even now, and he will find me. I am not the virgin you wanted. I am no maiden to fill your needs. I’m sorry, but I cannot change things to suit your pleasure.”

“No! You lie!” He lurched to his feet, hurling the goblet away from him. The deep liquid arced in a stark clear red, then dissolved, splashing onto the pillows, staining the soft yellows and whites and golds with bloodred. He reached down and jerked her to her feet. Her silver goblet slipped from her fingers. She felt the wet of it on her bare feet.

He jerked her against him, and his long fingers were around her throat. “You lie,” he said, then he kissed her hard. He was talking against her closed lips, cursing, for she knew the fury of the sound if not the meaning of his words. “You lie,” he said again, louder now, and he was shaking her even as his mouth was devouring hers, as if he wanted to consume her and kill her as well and she was growing light-headed at the tightening of his long fingers around her neck.

Suddenly, he released her and shoved her hard away from him. She fell back onto the pillows. Her fingers massaged her sore throat. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just waited to see what he would do.

He paced, the flap of his long robe opening, and she saw the black hair on his legs and his man’s rod, limp now against the bush of black hair at his groin.

“I will kill Einar,” he said. “But first I will know if he knew of this.”

“He knew. I told him. He counseled me to suffer the old man’s mauling and pretend to a virgin’s pain to save myself. None of this was my doing, Hormuze. Einar only told me of his agreement with the king yesterday. I told him the truth but he wanted to be the king’s brother-in-law. He wanted the power and the wealth.”

“You swear to me that you are not a virgin? That you are truly wedded to this Rorik Haraldsson?”

“I swear it to you.”

She wondered then if he would kill her. He could try, she thought. She would fight him until there was no more strength in her body.

But he hadn’t moved to her. He was still pacing, and she knew he was thinking, plotting, trying to decide his best course of action.

She said, “Let me go, Hormuze. Return me to my husband. I belong with him, not with you nor with any other man. Only him. I love him. Please understand.”

He turned then and stopped. He smiled down at her. “Oh no,” he said. “I won’t ever let you go.”

“Aye, you will.”

At the sound of Rorik’s voice, Mirana cried out, unable to help herself. Hormuze whirled about to see one of those massive Viking warriors standing there, all golden and bronze and large, too large, just standing there, at his ease, confident and calm, ready to kill if called to, his eyes on Mirana—nay, on Naphta—and there was hunger in his eyes, more hunger than a man should ever have for a woman. Hormuze recognized it because he’d felt it himself for his beloved wife. It was then he heard a child’s voice. It was then he heard Eze. He knew fear greater than he ever had in his life.