The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham

her tone was as cool as his.
    “Immediately.”
    “To whom, may I ask, my noble king?” The tone of her voice was subtly sarcastic. The inflection was not lost upon Alfred.
    “I am sorry to hurt you in any way, Rhiannon, but I am doing what I must. I have betrothed you to Eric of Dubhlain. The wedding will take place here, in two weeks.”
    She could not believe him. The words washed over her and then seemed to fall at her feet like cold droplets of rain.
    She shook her head. “No. This is some jest.”
    “Nay, Rhiannon, no jest.”
    The cold seized her. It surged through her. He meant to give her to some unknown prince. To an Irishman, a foreigner with Norse blood. He had usedher like some playing piece in a game, as an appeasement for what had happened.
    “Alfred, you cannot mean this. You cannot do this to me. I am in love with Rowan and he with me.”
    “Rhiannon, love is a luxury I cannot allow you at this time. Rowan has understood that I had no choice. You must do the same.”
    Seconds elapsed. She stared at him, stricken. For the first time in her life she did not know how to deal with the king.
    Supplication, she thought swiftly. She had always been one of his favorites. She must plead.
    “No. Please!” she whispered, and she hurried to him, falling upon her knees before him. “Alfred, however I have offended you, I beg your pardon! And I beg your mercy! Please—”
    “Stop it! Stop it!” he roared at her. “Get off your knees. You have not offended me. This is no punishment. You will do as you are told, for I have commanded that it will be so. I have done you no injury! I have given you to the son of a king, and the grandson of the great king of all Ireland. You will not shame me by protesting this arrangement.” He jerked his hand away and turned from her. “Get up.”
    Stunned, amazed, Rhiannon stared at him. She could not believe that he would turn so callously from her.
    She stood slowly, staring at the back he presented to her. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “I cannot. I will not do it. Perhaps your Irish prince never stepped ashore, but his Norse henchmen destroyed my town and my people. I will not marry the man.”
    He swung around in fury. “You will!”
    “No,” she said softly, emphatically. She felt so very cold, almost numb. The king was not angry. He was not seeking revenge, and she could not plead her case before him. He was a man obsessed; he had set his mind and issued his command. And he
was
the king.
    “You have no choice,” he told her flatly. “If you continue to argue with me, I will have you imprisoned until the day of the wedding.”
    “Do what you will, I will not marry this man!” she vowed.
    “You force my hand, Rhiannon.”
    She remained silent. “Allen!” he called out sharply.
    “What are you doing?” she demanded desperately. She hadn’t wanted to lose her control, her dignity. Now he was calling upon one of her least favorite of his men to … to do something with her.
    Her control snapped. He was her cousin, her guardian. Tears formed in her eyes and hovered on her lashes. She sprang to life, her dignity abandoned, and raced toward him. She slammed against him with passion and fury, beating against his chest. He caught her arms and her hands fell futilely against his chest. She met his eyes and thought that he was glad of her wrath, that he welcomed the storm of her fury, for it somehow absolved him.
    “Alfred, whom the English hail as great!” she whispered scathingly. “I will never forgive you for this. Nor will I marry this man!” she promised.
    For one moment it seemed that he would soften. His lips parted as if he would speak, his hands moving as if he would stroke her hair. He did not. He thrust her from him. “Allen!” he called again.
    Allen came at the second call. Rhiannon kept staringat the king. Allen touched her arm, and she jerked free of him, approaching the king heatedly once again. “I’ll not do it! You cannot force me! I