The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online Page B

before riding swiftly to you.”
    Alfred briefly thanked God that the Irish Viking was not set upon instant retribution. Then he asked about Rhiannon. “My cousin?”
    Allen shook his head sorrowfully. “She has not been seen. But the man I met was certain she escaped.”
    Alfred tossed back his mantle and stared up at the spring sky once again. “Allen, find Rowan and have him take his men to search the way for Lady Rhiannon. If she lives, and if she can be found, his love will guide the way.”
    “And you, sire?”
    Alfred looked at his man and hesitated. He and Allen were of an age. They were both fit from the eternal practice for war. Allen was dark, with sharp gray eyes and a mouth that could slant to cruelty. They had all become hard as granite, the king thought.
    “I will go to Eric of Dubhlain. I will seek to rectify this wrong.” He turned and started for the manor, his mantle sweeping behind him. He paused, looking back to Allen. “How could this have happened? The message was delivered?”
    “Sire, I know that the messenger was sent. The man I spoke with knew nothing of it, though. He said that perhaps old Egmund refused to tell his lady, his hatred for all Norsemen is so great. He died upon the field, so we shall never know.”
    The king smiled grimly. “Oh, we shall know, Allen. We shall discover the cause as soon as possible.”
    “Sire!”
    The cry was shrill and feminine. It brought Alfred swinging around to face the dense forest to the east. He knew the sound of the voice, and relief swept through him.
    He saw Rhiannon. She was racing toward him on a roan, coming across the meadow and the clearing. Torn and disheveled and wild and beautiful still.
    “My God,” Alfred whispered. Then he started torun toward her. Earth flew as the roan churned up clumps of mud, then she reined in, and in a new flurry of exhausted tears she collapsed into his arms.
    He held her, smoothed back her hair, lifted her into his arms, and his heart thundered with sweet relief. Silently he thanked his god for returning her to him.
    He didn’t know why he loved her so much—like one of his own children. Perhaps it was because he had once loved and admired her mother. Perhaps it was the fact that he was her godfather, having stood sponsor to her at her baptism. He didn’t know the reasoning of the heart but he did love her as one of his own, and he held her, cherishing her. She was fairly tall for a woman but as slim and shapely as a sprite, easy to sweep up into his arms. Forgetting Allen, he hurried toward the manor, calling to his wife.
    Rhiannon held to him tightly, trusting in him like a child. Her eyes, so incredibly blue, met his.
    “Danes attacked, my lord. Dragon ships. They sailed down upon us and butchered us.”
    Her eyes closed. She was cold, exhausted, and wet through and through. She had ridden all night in the rain.
    Suddenly fury at the savagery, at the waste of life, cut into Alfred like a blade. He shook as he held her. “Those were no Danes.”
    She stared at him. “My lord cousin! I was there. They came like hungry wolves, they—”
    “A message was sent to you, Rhiannon. I called for help across the sea. To an Irish prince of Dubhlain, a man who hates the Danes as fiercely as we do.”
    She shook her head. He didn’t understand.
    “I saw no Irishmen!” Rhiannon assured the king.She clenched her teeth tightly. She could not forget the Viking she had almost killed—golden blond and as wintry cold as his homeland. “Dragon ships came!” she whispered. She could not tell Alfred about her encounter with the man. He would be furious with her that she had not fled immediately.
    “The prince’s shipbuilders would be Norse, Rhiannon, as would many of his men.”
    Again she shook her head. She was so tired, and she couldn’t make the king understand the danger. “My lord, perhaps I am not being clear, maybe I am incoherent—”
    “Nay!” he told her firmly. His temper was rising. He was ill for