Page 13

Lust for Power

Morag stood between the mauve velvet draperies of the ceiling-high windows in her lush royal chambers, watching the handsome young Master of Horse ride the dappled gray mare.

At her husband’s request, Lord Liam rode the palfrey daily across the grassy plains of the courtyard.

She knew the king would now be seated in his comfortable chair, a warm blanket wrapped around his bony shoulders and another across his weakened legs, staring out from his forlorn bedroom window, clutching desperately to the memory of his beloved daughter.

In the eight months since Issylte’s death, King Donnchadh had become more and more withdrawn, preferring the solitude of his isolated royal chambers—tucked away in the farthest corner of the first floor of the castle, far from her own rosy bedroom on the second floor, where she now observed the last living link between King Donnchadh and his dearly departed daughter.

She experienced a rare pang of jealousy. Not because she no longer attracted her husband’s interest. Quite the contrary. His reclusive, nearly catatonic state had given her the freedom to enjoy more frequent trysts with her lusty lover. No, she did not regret the loss of her husband’s desire.

She was jealous that a father could love his daughter so very, very much.

For Morag had never known paternal love.

She’d been the greatest disappointment of her father’s life since the day she’d been born female.

Her father, who had so desperately wanted a son, had rejected not only the worthless infant, but the useless wife incapable of bearing him a male heir.

Her mother, in turn, had blamed the child for the loss of her husband’s affection, seeking solace in newfound piety amidst the company of scornful priests in her private, inaccessible, royal chapel.

Neglected by her regal parents, the little princess grew up craving affection that was never given, learning instead to fill the hollow ache in her young heart with a different sort of attention.

The sort that she’d seen burning in the eyes of every lord she met once her feminine curves had blossomed into the voluptuous petals of an irresistible flower they longed to pick.

Every noble lord, striving to please the beautiful, disdainful princess. Every lovestruck suitor, spoiling her with exquisite jewels, elegant silks, and the finest furs. Every loyal knight, eager to defend her honor—or warm her bed—with their mighty swords.

Lust. The source of her power over men.

And the means to satisfy the lust for power in her cold, withered heart.

A knock at the door interrupted Morag’s reverie.

Her attendants cinched the corset of her shimmering lilac gown a bit tighter, adjusting the strand of flawless pale amethysts at the base of her throat.

A pair of silver combs held the sides of the long, black locks cascading down her back.

Scented with lavender, his favorite smell on her.

Like the silken sheets in her tantalizing, lavender-scented bed.

Just the thought of him in those sheets created a painful throb deep inside. She shivered with delight.

Her servants opened the door and scurried out like squirrels as the Morholt strode into her royal chambers and feasted his hungry eyes upon the lavender queen. He dropped to one knee, his head lowered in homage. “My queen.”

The deep rumble of his voice sent a thrill rippling through her body.

She slid across the floor, the silk of her lavender gown rustling as she approached, placing a slender white hand upon his massive shoulder.

The salty tang of sweat and a hint of smoke emanated from his dark green woolen tunic as she raised him to his feet to stand before her.

Although Morag was quite tall, her eyes only came to the level of his throat, which she kissed seductively, humming her contentment at his presence.

He touched the glittering amethysts at her neck. “My gift pleases you.”

“Truly. I am most pleased.”

She rested her hand upon his. Her Viking had brought back many gifts, but this was by far her favorite. The color of lavender. Another ripple of pleasure flooded through her.

Her Black Knight’s brutal raiding expeditions had indeed been most profitable—the sleek bottomed drakkar longships could not only traverse the seas, but venture inland for miles, sailing up rivers to raid foreign monasteries and churches, brimming with gold and valuable jewels.

Such as the brilliant lavender amethysts sparkling at her throat in the early morning light.

He lowered his lips to the side of her neck, sending a wave of longing down her spine. Her breasts tingled at his touch.

“The color of lavender,” he whispered, burying his nose into her hair and inhaling deeply. “The scent of passion.” His eager lips returned to her swanlike neck.

Then, just as Morag expected to feel his hands caress her soft, silken bottom…he turned abruptly away and walked over to the window.

Something was wrong. He never resisted her. Morag’s pulse quickened as he turned to face her, his eyes filled with longing. And regret.

“What is it? Something is troubling you. Tell me.” She squelched the urge to fling her arms around his neck and pull him towards the bed.

“My queen, with the taxes you have raised, I now have every sea wright in the kingdom of Ireland constructing drakkar warships. Hundreds of knights training here at Castle Connaught, with thousands more preparing for battle with my men-at-arms.”

Where was he leading with this? What was he saying? Morag’s heart hammered in her chest.

“My raiding expeditions have been most profitable. I have made you a very wealthy queen.”

His deep green eyes blazed with fire. Her mouth went dry as she lost herself in their verdant depths.“But I wish to offer you more than jewels and gold. A gift to lease you immeasurably. A treasure you will value beyond all others.”

He strode forcefully across the room and halted abruptly right in front of her. The indomitable Viking warrior who cowered even the most courageous kings. She locked eyes with him, the hum of power filling her veins.

“The Cornish crown.”

He took her hand and lowered his lips to caress it. Her knight raised his eyes to meet hers, his full lips upon her hand, cradled in his own.

Intrigued, Morag withdrew her hand and placed it at her side, stroking the soft silk of her lavender gown. To calm the tremors of thrill rippling up her long, lean legs.

“I have been raiding Cornwall for months. Pummeling them with incessant, brutal attacks. Weakening their forces. Capturing slaves.”

He began to pace. A lion ready to roar.

“The men, I force to row our Viking longships. To plow the fields and harvest the crops to feed my expanding army. The women, I give to my soldiers. To produce more slaves and make us all the richer. The beautiful ones, I sell to wealthy nobles who tire of their boring wives and long for the heat of passion to warm their frigid beds.”

He strode across the room and seized her, bending her over one arm as he lowered his lips to her throat, covering the swell of her breasts with his warm, wet lips. Lips that every inch of her body ached for.

He stood her back up, his eyes fierce as they bore into hers.

“But, to give you the Cornish crown, I must first beg your leave.”

Her mind raced. He wished to leave? Why?

“I do not understand. Morholt, explain.”

He began pacing again, a fury simmering beneath his rugged muscles. A power yearning to be released.

“I wish to transform the seaport of Dubh Linn into a Viking fortress, where I can launch slave expeditions in full force. Where my drakkar longships can have direct access to the Celtic Sea, while still being protected by the harbor and stone defense walls surrounding the city. I can store hundreds of vessels there. Fortify the naval forces of Ireland. And conquer Cornwall for you, my queen.”

Morag saw the potent desire that blazed in his eyes. That’s why he thrilled her. His lust for power matched her own.

He would bring her the Cornish crown. Thank the Goddess she’d eliminated her simpering stepdaughter. To think that she’d considered marrying the girl to King Marke, when her Black Knight could accomplish so much more!

He’d bring her gold and silver, flawless gemstones, slaves to empower the kingdom of Ireland. And her Morholt would bring her the Cornish crown. She nearly swooned with desire.

His feral gaze never left hers. He was waiting, her virile red lion. Her Viking warrior, the Scourge of the Celtic Sea. Her indomitable knight, ready to crush the Cornish king. And bring her his glittering crown.

Morag could no longer hold back. She flung her arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers. Her chest was heaving, her body quivering against his. She could feel his desire, straining against her hips.

“You have my leave, Morholt.” She exhaled into his face, tugging his lip with her teeth.

“Transform Dubh Linn into the most powerful seaport in all of Europe. A Viking stronghold for your merciless slave raids.”

She teased his lips, sucking them into her warm, inviting mouth. He pressed firmly against her hips, his desire enflaming her own.

“Weaken the Cornish king. And bring me his crown.”

Her beloved Black Knight growled into her neck, unlaced her corset, and slid the lavender silk gown to the floor.

He scooped her up into his arms, carried her nude body across the room, and threw her down upon the lavender scented bed. He grinned ferally as he unstrapped his sword, letting it clatter to the tiled floor.

He removed his boots and his tunic, which he flung across the room, his savage eyes locked upon hers. Her breath hitched as he offered her the magnificent view of his expansive chest, covered in dark russet hair, brutal scars, and tensely coiled muscles, poised to strike.

He removed his breeches and crawled onto the bed, her red lion ready to pounce. He hovered over her, his eyes blazing, as he pushed her legs apart roughly with his powerful thighs.

And drove Morag wild with his ardent, amorous assault.