The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham Page A

father, Garth, was a fine warrior. He fought long andwith great loyalty, and the people remember his name. To dishonor his daughter I will have to fight my own people.”
    “I will not give up this land,” Eric said flatly. And, he would not. The blood of his men lay upon it. Nor would he ever return a handful of dirt to the Lady Rhiannon.
    Alfred frowned. He was angry with the implacable prince, and angrier still with Rhiannon. Eric of Dubhlain would not change his mind; the king saw it in his glacial eyes and in the unrelenting set of the man’s jaw. And Alfred saw his dream of peace within Wessex fading before him. He could fight and he would, and by all that was holy, he would win. He was a great king.
    But he could not go to battle without more men. Englishmen had sprung to his aide. Untrained warriors had died for him. And now a great reckoning was upon him. He wanted these fighting Irish-Vikings with him. He wanted these warriors with their fearlessness and their courage and pride and sheer strength and training. He wanted the power to
win
.
    “We could do fierce battle here again—my forces, your forces—were I to strip Rhiannon of all that is hers,” Alfred said.
    “Ah, well, then, I wonder if we can come to terms at all, for I feel that there are things I also need to settle with the lady,” Eric said softly.
    “With Rhiannon?”
    “She ordered my ships attacked,” Eric said. He wondered why he chose not to tell the king about their more intimate meeting.
    Alfred moistened his lips. “All right. I will give youthe Lady Rhiannon as your wife, and therefore all of her land—more than you have requested—shall be yours.”
    “What?” the Irish prince said, startled.
    “I will give you the Lady Rhiannon to take as wife, and therefore you will be lord of all her lands. The people will accept a marriage in Christ, and they will see that we are bound together by these ties. And when I give you my own goddaughter, your men will know that treachery did not come by my hand.”
    Alfred was surprised to see the look of pure amusement that came to the Irish prince’s ruggedly handsome face. “But, Sire,” Eric of Dubhlain protested, “I do not wish a wife.”
    The king drew back, offended. Every noble in his court and from far abroad had vied for Rhiannon. God had created no angel more beautiful, nor had he ever granted a woman such grace.
    Or given her such fine lands to boot.
    “Eric of Dubhlain,” he said sharply, and his fingers drummed against the table. “We speak of a woman of my own blood, a child of the Royal House of Wessex and a descendant of two of the royal houses of Wales. And We give you land that far surpasses a dream of conquest, for it is exceptionally fine land, land that you, yourself, crave.”
    Eric gritted his teeth. He wanted vengeance; he did not want a wife. He had learned what it was to love once and had lost that love. He’d never been able to call Emenia wife, and now he wanted no other. His heart had hardened. It was one thing to find pleasure in the company of a talented whore,quite another to take a wife. Even the thought of it repelled him.
    And Alfred spoke of not just any wife. He would wed Eric to the girl with the fire in her hair and the rage in her heart.
    Eric almost laughed aloud. That would truly be a match made in hell!
    “Alfred, I do not mean to offend you. First, I remind you, I am the son of a king, the grandson of the Ard-Ri of all Ireland, and also the grandson of a very powerful Norwegian jarl. I do not offer myself lightly at any bargaining table.”
    “I would not take you lightly, sir. I offer you my own blood.”
    “I doubt that the lady would be amenable to such a betrothal.”
    “She will do as she is told. I am her guardian and her king.”
    Eric shrugged. He almost smiled. It did have its ironies. He had warned her that she should pray that they not meet again. Surely her prayers were going quite unheeded. The king, in his passion, was