Catherine Coulter: The Viking Novels 1-4 by Catherine Coulter

Author:Catherine Coulter [Coulter, Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2012-03-13T00:00:00+00:00

2

Dublin, Ireland

Court of King Sitric

A.D. 924

THE FIRST TIME Cleve saw her she was arguing with another woman, a woman older than she, a woman endowed with the most glorious silver blond hair he’d ever seen. It wasn’t her mother, but perhaps an older sister. He couldn’t make out their words, but there was enmity in the air—bitterness and resentment of longstanding.

The young one said, anger thick in her voice, “You evil witch, I won’t let you hurt her again, do you hear me?”

“Just what will you do, you interfering little bitch? Go whining to your father? Mind your manners, show me the respect I’m due, or I’ll make you regret it.”

“Just living with you is the biggest punishment anyone could endure.”

Suddenly, without warning, the older woman, so exquisitely beautiful in her pale blue robe, that incredible hair long and loose to her hips, swung her arm as hard as any man and struck the girl’s cheek. The girl staggered back, lost her balance and hit her hip against a stone bench.

He was poised to run to her, to do something, he didn’t know what, when the girl bounced back, ran straight at the older woman and grabbed a good amount of that beautiful hair in her fists. She tugged hard and the woman began to yell, hitting her, struggling madly, but the girl didn’t let go. She was as determined as that scrappy little dog Kiri had begged him to keep when they’d been in Rouen just three weeks before.

It couldn’t go on and it didn’t. The older woman finally pulled free. She stepped back, panting, her face pale with rage and undoubtedly pain. Her beautiful hair was disheveled and tangled. “You’ll be sorry for that, Chessa. By all the gods, I’ll make you sorry. You think you’re so important here, so above me and my sons. Well, you’re not. Your father’s important, not you. His sons are important, not you. And I’m more important than all of them. Aye, you’ll regret this.” She turned and strode from the garden through a small door Cleve hadn’t noticed before.

“Are you all right?”

The girl turned at the sound of his voice.

“Who are you?”

Her breasts were heaving. They were nice breasts, full, straining against the soft linen of her gown. She was smaller than he’d first thought, seeing her leap at the older woman without a shadow of fear. Her eyes were as green as the wet moss beside the river Liffey. She looked ready to leap at him and pull out his hair, too. He said mildly, in his soothing diplomat’s voice, “My name is Cleve of Malverne, messenger from Duke Rollo of Normandy.”

She looked him up and down, all disdain and unveiled dislike. He waited for her to recoil, to say something that would hurt. He knew she would. After all, she’d certainly spoken her mind to that other woman with the incredible hair. But she said instead, more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice, “Not just a messenger from what I hear.

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