Once more, the Goldenhawk tilted violently. With hoarse shouts and curses, the men braced themselves against the tempest, lest they tumble into the frothy sea. Alarik stood his ground like an effigy from hell, not wholly real, but paralyzing in his towering might and intensity.
Satisfied that he would have no more resistance from his men, he gave his complete attention to the woman at his feet.
Chapter 9
“She’ll bring unrest,” Red-Hrolf said at Bjorn’s back.
Bjorn didn’t bother turning.
“She’s a Christian,” Red-Hrolf persisted.
A prickling crept down Bjorn’s spine at Red-Hrolf’s proclamation. He paused at his task, turning.
Red Hrolf’s expression was filled with scorn. “What else would a Frenchwoman be?”
Shuddering over the notion, Bjorn frowned, returning to the task of lowering the sails. He tugged violently at the lines. “Why should that concern me? You heard as well as I... she is mine brother’s problem! Speak to him if you would!”
Red-Hrolf’s eyes narrowed balefully. “Are you so blind, Bjorn? I say she is a threat to all of us!”
“She’s naught but a puny wench.”
“You underestimate her!”
“I think not.”
“Like a coiled adder is a woman’s bed talk. If you allow it, she’ll work her accursed faith upon you both! Destroy your alliance with the old gods! Mark my words, friend—else you will fall to its force... as has Olav... as has Alarik.”
Bjorn’s face contorted with disgust, and he dismissed Red-Hrolf once and for all. “You lie!” he charged. “My brother has not claimed the White Christ! I would know. No matter what else lies betwixt us, there has always been truth.”
Hrolf’s face contorted. “Do you not see how he risks us to save her? Nei, Bjorn, we all see what value he places upon our lives—your life.”
At once, Bjorn’s gaze was drawn to where Alarik knelt over the Frenchwoman. He stood watching a moment, doubts creeping in even against his will.
Red-Hrolf said darkly, “Watch them closely,” he warned, and with that spun away, leaving Bjorn to mull over his counsel.
As the storm abated, frosty white flakes fluttered down from the northern skies, sweeping their way into the icy blue sea.
Despite the fact that the gale had been brief it was fierce and Alarik estimated that it had borne them at least a full day closer to their destination. He’d been concerned for a time because the third and smallest drakken had vanished from view, but only moments ago it had been sighted ahead of them, its sails slightly tattered from the winds, though otherwise intact.
A cool flake lit upon the bridge of his nose, dissipating almost at once. Considering the fact that the temperature had already dropped considerably, he made his way to where the small canvas shelter had been erected utilizing the mast, cursing himself for doing so yet again.
Nor could he discern why he’d spared the other wench’s life when it was possible his men could have been right. She might, in truth, have carried the pestilence—something he could not have risked at sea. Yet he had. All because the little Fransk had protected her so fiercely. But why should he be so affected by that accusing glare of hers?
And why, by the thunder of Thor, should he care what she thought of him?
It was only meager consolation that the other wench was so much improved, for he had, in truth, risked more than he ought to have in letting her live. Alarik had no idea what malady had possessed her earlier, but she appeared to be recovering now, and Sigurd seemed to have taken to her, as well. The old warrior managed to play nursemaid to her when not otherwise occupied, and Alarik could well see why, for she was a comely little thing.
Reaching for the tent flap, he hesitated before lifting it, torn between his loyalty to his men and that which he had sworn to the woman within. He should be aiding with the navigation, he knew, but he also knew he could not attend to his command without first seeing to the wench, and his scowl deepened.
Surely he’d been bewitched.
With a disgusted shake of his head, he shoved aside the flap and stooped to enter the small cloth-enclosed chamber. Once within he straightened to his full height and moved silently toward the figure slumbering so peacefully upon the pallet. At her side, he dropped to his knees, noting that the wet rag he’d left upon her forehead had fallen to the side of her face. Lifting it, he contemplated the paleness of her skin.
In the dim light her features were ethereal, the fine bones of her face set in the most perfect arrangement he’d ever beheld on a woman. And her skin... as pure and unblemished as freshly fallen winter snow. Nevertheless, it was her eyes that drew him most, held him inexplicably spellbound. They were a work of artistry, with the delicate line of her brows arching over bewitching violet irises. Though closed now, Alarik could still see their vivid violet color, startling in its clarity.
To him, she was more beautiful even than the imagined Valkyrs of his youth, though he was well aware that few others would share his opinion, for she was darker than the maids of his land.
Retrieving the skin of fresh water that lay discarded atop the coverlets, he uncapped it, dousing the rag once more. He’d watched her do the same for the other maid and had surmised she’d done so to cool the fever. He was well aware that fever induced madness, and thought that it might have incited the other maid’s fits. Recapping the skin, he tossed it carelessly aside, then refolded the dampened cloth, considering the woman lying before him.
She’d slept without waking in the hours since her injury, causing him to wonder. With his own eyes he’d witnessed such a state where the injured fell into the deepest slumber and remained therein for days, weeks, months even, ere waking. Some were said never to revive at all. But such was not the case with this one, he assured himself, his mouth curving into an unconscious smile, for the little wench babbled as much in her sleep as she did while awake.
Indeed, for the better part of her slumber it seemed she’d dwelled in a world of vivid fantasies.
On impulse he moved the coverlet down to view her body beneath.
In removing her wet kyrtle, an undertunic of fine embroidered linen had been revealed, affirming the fact that she was a woman of substance. Discarding the rag, he placed his hand at her ribs, ascertaining whether the garment had dried, and despite himself his body quickened at the feel of her warm, soft flesh beneath the filmy gown. Unable to recall when he’d been so affected by a wench, he shook his head in self-disgust.
His eyes were drawn upward, and he stared, transfixed at the canvas, his heart hammering like mighty hoof-beats against his ribs. With all his might, he resisted the urge to slide his hand up to cup one luscious breast, squeeze it gently… he craved it madly.
Was he no better than Red-Hrolf?
Cursing himself, his hand drifted downward, away from that which tempted him so sorely, only to encounter something hard and round beneath her gown. Curious as to what it might be, he slipped his hand quickly within her neckline, his eyes closing with self-restraint as his fingers moved between her bare breasts, skimming her warm flesh. Surely the Gods taunted him.
He drew from her undertunic a long leather string, and his brows lifted in surprise, for suspended from it was a gleaming silver ring, generously embedded with tiny jewels.
For the longest instant, Alarik merely stared, transfixed, studying the ring thoughtfully. If his memory served him—and it did—the design within the raised border was the same worn by the Frankish King.
Who, then, was this woman to be wearing such a ring as this? A thousand possibilities crossed his mind, none of them acceptable.
“By the jaws of Fenri!” he whispered. He removed the ring from about her neck and weighed it speculatively within the palm of his hand. “Who are you, wench?”
He caught it suddenly, closing his fist over its hardness, and then with a muttered curse drew it over his own head, dropping the ring beneath his tunic. Taking hold of the discarded rag once mo
re, he raised the cloth to the woman’s forehead, smoothing it over her brow. And despite the grim turn of his thoughts, the ache in his groin intensified as he slid the moist rag down her lovely throat... so white and soft.
Was she mistress, or daughter?
He refused to consider that she might have been Phillipe’s bride. She had claimed he was not her count as yet. Mayhap then, she was his betrothed?
He didn’t bother trying to convince himself he’d taken her for revenge, for he knew it wasn’t true—not when the merest thought of Phillipe touching her left acid burning in his gut.
As an afterthought, he lifted one hand, inspecting it, noting the calluses that contradicted the noble breeding the rest of her proclaimed. Strange that a highborn woman should bear the hands of a laborer. He considered that an instant, and then released her hand abruptly, letting it drop at her side, and then lifted his fingers reverently to her lips—such a luscious pink they were, despite the fact that they had been chapped by the wind.
But it was her hair that was her crowning glory, the color of richest sable. This moment, it was spread like a crown of shining velvet about her face, with a wayward lock entwined about her slender neck. Moistened with water from the rag, it clung to her silky flesh like a jealous lover. The comparison fully aroused him.
Determined now to view all he would lay claim to, he drew the blanket down to her ankles.
His eyes never made it beyond her breasts. Beneath the sheer undergarment her nipples were dark and lovely, hidden only by the gossamer linen, and he resisted the nigh irrepressible urge to touch them, telling himself that he was content to savor them with his eyes as they rose and fell with her gentle breath.
Later he would have his fill of her... later when she was healed and able to partake... later when he could take pleasure in the passion he knew he could arouse. He didn’t doubt that he could, but he knew he would need to leave her be for now. Unlike Red-Hrolf, he’d gain no pleasure from this manner of loving.
Flinging the coverlet over her, making certain those parts of her body that would tempt him were covered, he rose abruptly, considering what he would do about Red-Hrolf, for as certain as the wench had beguiled him, he also knew Red-Hrolf would cause dissension among his crew. He might have been distracted with the wench, but he’d not missed the confrontation Red-Hrolf had with Bjorn—nor had he missed Bjorn’s agitated expression afterward.
It boded ill for all.
Raking his hand across his scalp, he moved toward the tent opening, peering out speculatively at his men. All was quiet for the moment, but another tempest was brewing.
He could feel it in his bones.
Chapter 10
Elienor first became aware of the bitter chill seeping through the blankets, and immediately thereafter of the briny scent of the sea.
Where was she?
Such strange, strange dreams. Ships and warriors. A battle at sea—and that face—his face!
The floor beneath her swayed suddenly and she winced against the sharp pang that surged through her head at the unexpected motion. Struggling to sit upright, she brought her hand to her throbbing temple. It was then she saw him. Everything came rushing back at once. Her voice faltered. “What have you done with Clarisse?”
He turned abruptly toward her, his brows rising, but if she thought she spied relief in his expression she was sorely mistaken. His lips twisted sardonically as his silver eyes narrowed and met her blue ones. “Last I looked, you were in no position to command answers from anyone.”
Elienor said nothing, only glared at him.
“I take it you recall?”
“Would that I did not!”
A lethal chill entered his silver-flecked eyes. “Nevertheless,” he countered, and the depth of his tone sent shivers down her spine, “what is done, is done.” His eyes were alight with challenge and mockery. “Were I you, I would worry now only with covering myself... lest it be your aim to tempt the beast.”
Following his gaze to where the coverlet pooled at her lap, Elienor gasped, seizing it to her bosom, her face burning scarlet. “Where are my clothes?” She drew her arms defensively within the blanket.
“Wet,” he announced matter-of-factly. “I removed them, lest you catch the ague.”
“And what of Clarisse?” Elienor persisted, her chin lifting slightly.
When he didn’t reply, only lifted a brow at her, she swallowed at the inevitable conclusion she drew. She closed her eyes briefly, resisting bitter tears. When she opened them again, it was to meet his penetrating gaze. God help her, but she had to know for certain.
“Tell me, my lord Viking,” she said trying to sound conversational, but failing miserably. “Did you relish watching her take her last watery breath?”
A muscle ticked at his jaw as he stooped to lift up the skin of water at her side and uncapped it. He drank from it slowly, as though he considered his answer, never taking his eyes from her.
Elienor bristled at his apathy.
Swiping the back of his hand across his lips, he asked, his brow lifting in challenge, “You would have had me instead expose my men to whatever malady she might have carried?”
Elienor’s heart twisted violently at the affirmation. Her eyes squeezed shut as hot tears threatened to flow. “Jesu!” she declared in an agonized whisper. “You are all beasts!”
She heard him stir toward her and she averted her face, crying out in fear that he might strike her for the insult. But he didn’t. There was only silence between them—a massive silence in which the creak of the mast and the drone of voices from beyond the tent opening screeched into her conscious. That along with the sound of her heart pounding against her ribs.
“Scorn not what you cannot comprehend,” he replied with deceptive calm. “’Tis the law of the sea, wench.”
Elienor dared open her eyes to look at him. But it was her undoing, for the intensity of his gaze ensnared her.
“’Tis the law of the land, as well,” he disclosed in the same mesmerizing tone.
“To murder the innocent?” He expected her to simply accept such a thing? Not ever! “Not of my land!” Elienor returned miserably.
He lifted a brow. “Nei?”
Elienor shook her head, her eyes averting to the skin of water, and then returning.
“Mayhap,” he conceded, his dark eyes growing darker, stealing her breath away.
It was ludicrous—inconceivable, even—but he would not release her gaze; it was as though he held it physically within his grasp and refused to yield it.
“Then, again... I was not born of your land,” he disclosed, and glanced down at the skin of water in his hand. He took another modest sip and then surprised Elienor by holding it out to her.
Elienor stared at the skin as though it were sin itself he were offering, wetting her lips and cursing her weakness, for as thirsty as she was, she could not even begin to refuse it.
He smiled suddenly, as though he’d read her mind, and thrust it closer. “You don’t have to,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth at her expense.
Elienor blinked.
“Do you always speak your thoughts aloud?” he asked.
Elienor’s color deepened—curse and rot her wayward tongue! “So I’ve been told,” she ceded grudgingly, removing the skin from his hands—enormous hands with long, graceful fingers, she couldn’t help but note.
Tipping the flagon to her lips, she remembered the warmth of his touch on her face and sighed. And then she stiffened abruptly, catching his scent.
To her dismay, she found the scent of him lingered on the skin—she could swear she tasted him as well—yet it was absurd. Her brows drew together, and distressed by the discovery, she drew the skin away from her lips, as though singed, only to find that he watched her still, ruminating, something peculiar in his expression.
“The Northland is cruel to those not hale enough to endure it,” he announced suddenly. “Those not up to the trial are best put to rest.”
&n
bsp; By his expression, Elienor thought he might be trying to justify his decision to murder Clarisse. Let him try—naught could justify it, she reflected bitterly.
As though to escape her accusing eyes, he rose abruptly, moving to peer out of the tarpaulin. There was silence a long moment, and then he countered, “Is it not more heartless to let the weak live... only to see them die another day?”
“What say you?” Elienor glared at his back, horrified to remember against her will the firmness of his flesh beneath her palms as he’d carried her out from the kirken, and then again to the ship; the refined strength in his every movement, the ease of his stride as he’d walked. She swallowed convulsively.
“Only that I see it as an act of mercy, and not cruelty, to free the weak from misery,” he said simply.
“Mercy?” Elienor repeated incredulously. “Mercy?” She shook her head. “How can you think so? ’Tis murder and naught less!”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, as though considering her reply. “Mayhap you think ’tis more merciful to let the sickly live and thereby allow others to suffer for it? In the Northland food is scarce—oft times ’tis what drives men from their homes to seek another...” Again he turned to peer out from the tarpaulin and there seemed a note of self derision in his voice. “It is what also leads men blindly into slaughter for the mere chance to hold a parcel of fertile land.”
“You are right,” Elienor said acerbically. “I don’t understand. How can the one justify the other? If one endures hardship, it would seem his compassion for others would be greater.”
“As surely as the healthy would be deprived of food in meager times, did the sickly child live… had the girl carried the pestilence, then all my crew would have suffered for it.” He peered over his shoulder at her, asking pointedly, “Should I have allowed the many to perish for a single wench who would doubtless die on her own?”
It finally occurred to her what it was he was trying to say. “Do you mean to tell me that you kill innocent babes? That a mother would allow it?” Her own mother had gladly forfeited her own life to save a child not of her blood.
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