Page 84 of Hungry Like a Wolf
She clasped his face and kept staring into his eyes. Her pussy pulsed with pleasure as white-hot bliss raced around her body. Never had she felt so connected with another person. She could see into his soul. The goodness of him was there. He was the most amazing man she could have ever wish to meet.
“I love you so very much,” she gasped. “I always will.”
“As I love you.” He was breathing fast, his nostrils flared, and a few dots of sweat sat on his brow.
“Nothing will ever part us.”
“Nothing. I swear on Thor’s hammer, nothing will part us.” He kissed her, holding her close with his arms wound around her body. The breeze lifted her hair and a gull called overhead.
Carmel had lost her father, been taken prisoner, traveled to another land, and survived the throat sweats, and thank goodness all that had happened, because it meant God had placed her right where she belonged.
Here. With her Viking husband. King and Queen.
And happier than she’d ever imagined possible.
Epilogue
Meanwhile, at Castle Athol
Queen Elspeth thePious of the Westlands, Lothlend perched upon her throne. Her son, Seamus, was on her husband’s throne, and at her side. He sat with his small, pointed chin tipped and his fingers curled over the ornate wooden arms. His booted feet dangled. He was still so young, only eleven, and wouldn’t be able to truly rule until his feet touched the floor of the royal Athol throne.
If she were called away, she’d have to appoint a regent. And right now, that looked like a distinct possibility. There had been no word from her husband, or her daughter, and that gave her a dark, gnawing sensation in the very depths of her soul.
Something was wrong.
The battle in the east hadn’t gone their way.
She just knew it. Somehow.
“Enough. Go!” She waved her hand, the harpist who had been entertaining them suddenly annoying, grating in her ears, rattling around her brain.
“Your Grace. Your Grace.” A servant ran into the room, his steps heavy on the stone floor. “There is a messenger, just arrived.” He pointed at the lead-paned window that led to the courtyard. The sun shone through it, marking the floor in small, golden squares.
She stood, her long, scarlet gown falling around her ankles. She clutched her rosary. “He has come from the east?”
“Aye, Your Grace, I’d wager so.”
“Mother?” Her son slipped his hand into hers. “What is happening?”
“Perhaps we will finally get news.” Her knees weakened, and a hollow pit opened up in her stomach. Were the words she was dreading about to be delivered?
Lord have mercy on us.
Please let it not be so.
A maid came to her side holding a goblet of sweet rosehip wine.
She took it, drank deep, then handed it back.
“Your Grace.” A puce-faced soldier rushed into the room and came to a stop at the end of the long, emerald-green rug. His boots were caked in mud and a cut slashed over his left cheek. His bloodstained sword hung from a belt at his side. “I have news.”
“So spit it out.” She frowned at him.
“It is news of the battle at Tillicoulty.” He was breathing heavily, his hands balled into fists. “There was much loss…a terrible defeat.”
“And?” She squeezed her son’s hand. “What of the king? What of my daughter, Princess Carmel?”
“The king is dead.” The soldier crossed himself. “Dear God have mercy upon his soul.”
