“No, daughter, it’s me,” came a familiar voice, a large warm hand covering hers.
“Father?” Struck by sudden foreboding, Zora opened her eyes to find Mstislav seated next to the bed, his image blurred and fuzzy. She tried to raise herself on her elbows but immediately fell back, wincing at the sharp pain in her side. “You haven’t sent him away, have you? You haven’t sent Rurik away—”
“Sshh, Zora, he’s in the other room. I finally convinced him to allow the physician to attend to his leg. He’s a stubborn one, that Varangian of yours. It’s the first time he’s stepped away from your bed since we brought you here last night.”
“Last night?” She was answered with a nod, her father’s face gradually becoming more focused. His expression was somber and he looked weary, as if he had gotten little sleep. Yet his gray-blue eyes held the affection she had always known there.
“You gave us a scare, daughter, one I hope never to relive. Seeing you lying here so pale, the healers doing everything they knew to help you…” Mstislav sighed heavily and fell silent, adding after a long moment, “It reminded me of when your mother fell ill…except that time, nothing could be done—”
He seemed to choke and he looked away, but not for long. Meeting her eyes again, he squeezed her hand, a faint smile touching his lips.
“You’ll be up from this bed in no time, or so I’ve been promised. Fortunately the knife did not go deep but glanced off your ribs. Yet you lost a lot of blood—”
“My babe?” Zora broke in, beset by fear.
“The child still thrives within you, daughter,” came his reassuring reply. “I only regret that I’ll not be there at its birth, for you will be far away in Novgorod.”
Her eyes widening, Zora stared at him incredulously. But before she could say anything, he went on.
“I had much time to think during the night and knowing as I do now of everything that happened to you, I cannot in good conscience break apart a marriage that God has ordained. If Lord Rurik had not been at that trading camp, no matter that he had been sent to spy against me…” Again, Mstislav had to pause for the quaver in his voice and this time, it was Zora who clasped his hand.
“I love him, Father. More than I could ever say.”
He exhaled slowly, nodding. “I know this, Zora. Your courageous act last night could not have proved it more clearly. I loved once, too, but could not marry the woman who captured my heart. It is a pain I have never overcome, and I do not wish such suffering for you. You and Lord Rurik have my blessing.”
Swept with elation, Zora could only smile her thanks. Yet she sobered at the thought that suddenly came to her and she asked softly, “What of Hermione?”
Mstislav’s expression hardened, but it also held regret. “I’ve banished her to a convent in Tmutorokan until I decide what else is to be done with her. I cannot forgive her for her cruel treachery toward you, but she, too, has suffered. I never loved her mother, and though I tried to treat both of you equally, Hermione must have sensed that you were the joy of my heart. I’ve never heard such bitterness as she spewed at me last night. I fear Ivan’s death has driven her half mad.”
Neither of them spoke for several moments, their shared silence a pained one. Finally Mstislav gently stroked her cheek.
“Your sister’s troubles are not your fault, Zora, and I will not have you blame yourself. This is my cross to bear.” He gave her hand a last reassuring squeeze, then he rose and moved to the door. “I will tell your husband that you are awake—”
“I already know, my lord.” Rurik stepped into the room, not caring that his voice had gone hoarse. His gaze flew to Zora’s face. Just to see her conscious again, her beautiful eyes anxious and yet so full of hope, made his chest swell with gratitude. He was certain at that moment that the gods must be smiling. “I’ve been waiting outside until you finished…not an easy task.”
Becoming oblivious to all else but Zora, Rurik was scarcely aware that Prince Mstislav had left them, nor did he recall walking to the bed and kneeling beside it. It seemed that suddenly he was there. Reaching out his hand, Rurik touched her tawny hair with shaking fingers.
“I feared…” His voice caught. Swallowing hard, he began again, not caring that his eyes were blinded by tears. “I feared that I wasn’t going to have the chance to tell you that I love you, Princess. God forgive me for being such a fool, I love you!”
Zora’s heart was too full for her to speak, but she didn’t need words. Her own eyes brimming, she took his battle-scarred hand in hers and pressed her lips to his palm.
She knew it had been enough when he smiled, then bent his head and kissed her.
~ The End ~
If you enjoyed this book, try more in the Captive Brides Collection by Miriam Minger...
Twin Passions
Captive Rose
About Miriam
Miriam Minger is the award-winning author of ten bestselling historical romances and a romantic suspense thriller, Ripped Apart. Writing as Miriam Aronson, she is the co-author of the popular Little Mike and Maddie series of children’s picture books about a lovable pair of dogs and their motorcycle escapades. Writing as M.C. Walker, she is the author of Blood Son, an inspirational romantic suspense thriller.
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Viking’s Prize
By Tanya Anne Crosby
Chapter 1
Alarik Trygvason knew full well the risk he took by navigating so far up the river Seine, but the French Count deserved this retribution. Never again would the spineless bastard plot against him—of that he would make certain.
He should have perceived the true reason Count Phillipe had sent his squat little balding man with his gift of French wine. But he’d been too hungry. Too mesmerized by the lush green beauty of French soil. Too enthralled by the prospect of holding a meager parcel of it. He should have recognized the ruse at once—native soil in exchange for peace between them? Loki take them all!
Like vipers they had slithered into his sleeping camp. And like vipers they had attacked. He’d lost full half his men before any of them could clear their heads of wine or sleep. Sotted as they’d been, they had been ill-prepared to fend off the strike, but thanks to the count’s little balding man, Alarik’s eyes were open wide; he knew precisely who to thank for the night’s unexpected call.
Phillipe of Brouillard.
His eyes narrowed vengefully.
The deceiving fool doubtless believed that if he rid himself of Alarik, he would deliver King Robert from the terms of their agreement. But Phillipe had chosen the wrong man with whom to match wits and might.
Tonight he would pay the price.
His gaze fixed upon the horizon, his expression hard as unyielding steel. His features were chiseled like that of his namesake’s, the hawk, and his pewter gray eyes had been likened to the silver of his sword, Dragvendil, for they could slice into the heart of a man with the ease of a fine gilt-edged blade.
The single turret appeared first, standing sentinel alone, its battlements a hungry mouth open to the heavens, jagged teeth exposed and ready to devour the concealing vapors.
Gracefully, with little more sound than the lifting and parting of skin-wrapped paddles from the black water, the drakken prows slid toward shore.
Like a mantle of misty white, the impenetrable fog cloaked his men from the fortress’ view, though Alarik spied the guard atop the stone tower at once, and a prickle raced down his spine as he waited for the man to sound the alarm.
He heard nothing—nothing but a tumble of thunder, an approval from the heavens.
His men took heart. “Thor! ’Tis Thor! He is with us!” his men declared.
Their victory was predestined.
Alarik, no longer cleaving to the old gods, allowed his men their enthusiasm, but did not share in their triumph. He acknowledged their belief with a
deferential nod, but would not accept that a mere rumble of thunder would predetermine the outcome of this battle. Their superior warrior’s skill alone, hard earned by the sweat and blood of their bodies, would give them the victory they sought tonight. That and naught else.
The wind picked up, feathering the haze away, leaving them completely exposed to the watchman’s view...
Still nothing but silence.
With a calmness that belied the occasion, Alarik listened and waited, his face tilted skyward with no emotion evident in the intense silver of his stare. He eyed the sentry intently for some sign that the alarm had already been sounded... that he’d missed it somehow, but there was nothing. His eyes never left the turret.
All the while, the current brought them closer.
Closer…
With a flick of his hand he motioned for his men to cease their rowing. Their forward momentum alone would complete their glide to shore, and he needed the silence to better determine their position.
The oars were abandoned, but the night air remained undisturbed, the whispering wind the only sound to reach his ears. Incredibly, there were no shouts of ‘To arms! To arms!’ to be heard from within—despite the fact that Alarik was certain the guard had spied their approach. With an absent gesture, he stroked the hilt of his double-edged sword, considering the goal, assessing their options with narrowed eyes.
“A trap, jarl?”
By now, every man aboard the three warships had spied the lone figure atop the tower, but it was Sigurd Thorgoodson, Alarik’s most loyal, who came forward to voice the concern.
“Nei,” Alarik said, his gaze returning to the figure above. The silhouette grew slowly clearer as they neared. “They could not have known we would come.”
None of the count’s bumbling mercenaries had lived to carry the tale. He had no inkling why the witless guard did not alert the castle.
Brouillard’s thick masonry walls were a deterrent to most in this day when castles were built of timber, but Alarik knew this one’s damning secret and his lips twisted with ill-concealed contempt as he thought of the man whose blood he sought to spill this night.
Coward.
Only an incompetent, craven bastard would have such an escape portal. And there was only one thing Alarik despised more than a coward: a traitor.
Count Phillipe was both.
The latter had decreed the count’s fate, the former now sealed it.
Concealed by the dense trees and bush of the surrounding forest lay the means to breach the mist-enshrouded monstrosity—a hidden passage that backed deep into the sheltering woods. And he grinned at the thought of it, a slow, merciless smile that swept winter into the silver of his eyes. For that bit of knowledge he could also thank the little balding man, for by it Alarik would return the count’s favor tenfold this night.
His grip tightened about Dragvendil’s hilt as he thought of the portal, for it was fitting the hidden passage should be the count’s very downfall this eve.
He had no qualms whatsoever about catching the count unawares. As declared by Phillipe’s own Christian God, it was fitting to take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth... a life for a life. Just as the count had dealt with him, so would he be dealt with himself.
The chill wind rose, swirling the remaining fog in its wake, obscuring the figure upon the turret momentarily before being sucked into the turbulent heavens.
It was only then, in that instant, as the ship’s prow nudged its keel into the soft muck of the river embankment and ended its journey, that Alarik clearly beheld the figure standing above them.
To his absolute shock... it was a woman... her dark hair long and fluttering wildly in the breeze... her light colored kyrtle billowing furiously with the wind.
The sight of her made the hairs of his nape stand on end.
Elienor shook her head in denial, but the proof sailed before her eyes, appearing from mist and shadows like a grim specter from the dark.
She braced herself against the buckling of her knees for the dream that had awakened her and had sent her dashing to the tower to disprove it was, in truth, unfolding before her eyes. The rising wind buffeted her face, flinging her hair into wild disarray at her back, and sending icy prickles of fear down her spine.
Merely coincidences, Mother Heloise had said. Always when she would dream, and the dream held true, the old abbess would assure her that she was not afflicted with her mother’s curse. And because her visions were few and her desperation great, Elienor had readily believed her. But the sight before her gave testimony to her fears.
Now what was she to do? Turn and flee down the steps, a voice whispered.
Warn the castle.
Her legs would not move.
If only her gifts would not mark her for a witch and condemn her to her maman’s tragic fate. She shivered as the wind, bitter as ice, lashed her face and froze her tears. In that instant, she saw herself again as a child of four, standing atop a knoll of forsaken graves, the white lily she’d picked for her mother held firmly in her little hands. In her mind, the voice came back to her with such clarity. “What possessed you to come here, child?”
Hearing Sister Heloise’s voice, Elienor had nearly cried her relief. She had swung about and hurled herself into the sister’s welcoming arms.
“The lily!” she said, squirming. The old nun struggled to keep Elienor within her embrace. “The lily!” Elienor insisted.
“Non, non ma petite! ’Tis raining. We must go now! I will bring you again.” she coaxed. “When the rain has—”
Elienor struggled more fiercely. “Nay!” she cried.
Freeing herself, she scurried to the blossom and hastily scooped up a handful of wet soil from the center of the mound. Handling the lily gingerly, she planted the end of it into the hollow she’d formed, covering it carefully, taking her time whilst Sister Heloise hovered above her, shielding her back from the pattering rain.
Elienor’s eyes filled with tears as she turned and thrust herself back into the sister’s arms.
Sister Heloise lifted her up. “There, there, now,” she soothed. “Sister Heloise will love you now, ma bonne petite. Together we will care for your maman’s lily. Oui?”
Elienor nodded into the warmth of Sister Heloise’s shoulder. “Maman loves lilies,” she said sadly. Her chin turned up a notch, and a tear slipped defiantly from her dark lashes. “She loves them so much!”
Sister Heloise carried her away and she turned to peer over the nun’s shoulder. With stark violet eyes, she watched the grave recede as they made their way down the hill. Her words were broken with emotion as she raised her little hand to wave farewell.
“Adieu, Maman. Adieu!”
The fates were cruel, indeed.
Elienor gulped back a sob of despair. The pain of her mother’s death was still fresh in her heart, even after all these years. To die so cruelly, for naught more than predicting the course of a babe’s illness... and the greatest insult of all… a cold grave far from hallowed ground.
She blinked, focusing on the specter ships below. If she warned the castle, would they question why she’d come to the tower tonight? She closed her eyes and begged for strength.
Mayhap it was yet a dream...
But nay, for she felt the bitter wind as surely as she felt the numbness stealing into her bones. If only she were not such a coward. The thought of meeting the same fate as did her mother made her knees weak and her tongue weave knots.
Even now she could hear her mother’s screams and see her writhe helplessly against the flames of hell.
At four, they’d made her watch, restraining her by the hair so she could not look away.
Her mother’s final shrieks still echoed in her brain.
She bit into her whitening knuckles as she watched the ships advance—black shadows against the river.
No more time to linger.
There was no need to say what had driven her to the tower, was there? No one need know. She could tell them t
hat she had come for air—that she could not sleep.
But warning them would not save them, she knew. Nothing could save them tonight.
Stricken with grief for the fate of Brouillard, Elienor watched only an instant longer, needing to be absolutely certain. But she waited no longer than to see the Vikings land their vessels upon the moonlit shores, for little more time could be spared if she were to warn the folk.
She spun about and hurried down the tower stairs, tears brimming in her eyes, her body stiff with terror and cold.
She should have known it was too good to be true. That Count Phillipe had asked for her hand in marriage and her uncle had assented was true enough, but that it might actually come to pass was more than she should have dared to believe.
With assurances from Mother Heloise that Elienor was not beset with her mother’s curse, her uncle had withdrawn her from the cloister mere days before she was to make her vows to the church. So long she’d waited and despaired. Tonight marked one full month since she’d first come to Brouillard, and in little more than a fortnight she would have become its countess. At last she might love and be loved in return. She would bear children into the world, love them, care for them. At last.
But it would never be.
Despite the fact that Mother Heloise had plainly perjured herself for Elienor’s sake.
Tears welled in her eyes as she rushed down the stairs. Fumbling for the silver ring that hung about her neck, she lifted it out from within the neckline of her bliaut and pressed it firmly to her breast. The night was well advanced. She only hoped she could rouse the castle in time to save a few—but to what end?
Tears streaked down her pale cheeks, for deep down she understood.
Their fates were sealed.
The Viking would prevail tonight.
Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set Page 72
