I have been with you always, bien-aimee. You must heed the warnings.
Elienor’s heart raced and a chill passed through her, sending gooseflesh racing down her arms.
“Mother!” she said, whirling suddenly, searching for the face that went with the imagined voice.
Heed them, Elienor.
Again she spun about, spying nothing still.
Jesu Christ! Surely it was only her imagination!
It was true she oft talked to herself—but never like this! “Dear God! I am mad!” she exclaimed a little hysterically. Eyeing the blanket she’d discarded upon the pallet, she felt acutely the crispness of the air. If she stayed in this tent another moment, the madness would be irrevocable. If she didn’t freeze to death first—and it was all his fault!
“Truly, I am mad!” she whispered again. Jesu, but it was cold! She started for the blanket suddenly, intending to wrap it about her shoulders. “Mad, mad, mad!”
“I’m inclined to agree.”
Elienor practically leapt out of her stockinged feet. She spun about to face the tent opening where Alarik, the demon, stood watching her, his arms crossed, his lips twisted with ill-concealed amusement. A grin suddenly overtook his features... those sensuous lips twisting devilishly. “Who can argue with truth?” he said, his eyes sparkling with rare humor. “Without question, you’re unusual, Elienor of Baume les Nonnes.”
Elienor shot him a look of contempt, forcing her gaze from his lips.
Unusual? Precisely what was he implying? Unusual, indeed! She dared not ask, lest he accuse her of witchery again. “Beg pardon if I offend thee, my lord Viking!”
“Alarik.”
Elienor’s eyes narrowed belligerently. “Pardon again! Alarik, the demon,” she countered, daring to use her own epithet for him. And emboldened by his silence, she dared even further. “Mighty Norseman, slayer of innocents!”
He stiffened as though she’d physically struck him.
Her voice rose in renewed anger over Clarisse’s senseless death. “Alarik, the executioner!”
“Enough!” he snarled at last, his eyes warning her. “Lest you wish to join your friend?”
Elienor snorted to cover her instant of fear. “You would!” she continued carelessly. Let him do what he wished to her! She refused to forget her pride ever again.
A muscle ticked at his jaw. “Aye, wench, I would... never doubt it.” His eyes glittered dangerously.
Yet he did nothing of the sort, Elienor noticed. He simply stood glaring at her.
Tossing her head back, she eyed him with cold triumph, daring to challenge him with every fiber of her being. Only the longer he stood, the darker his look became, and the more ominous he seemed, and Elienor began to truly doubt her sanity.
What was wrong with her that she would goad him so?
He said absolutely nothing, merely stood there, his eyes glittering with barely restrained fury, and then he flung her dry kyrtle at her.
Elienor gasped as the garment cuffed her in the face. She fumbled for it, missed it, and then fumbled for it again as it fluttered to the planking. She stared down at it numbly, glancing up in astonishment.
He was gone.
That was it?
She’d pushed and pushed, yet that was all he would do in retaliation? She felt giddy with relief. For a befuddled instant, she stood there gazing down at her saltwater-stained garment, illuminated suddenly by a dazzling shaft of sunlight, and wondered in horror how she could have forgotten what she was wearing—or rather what she was not wearing! At once, she fell to her knees, seizing up her bliaut, her face burning crimson with shame, and then again glanced at the tent opening.
Sunlight shone onto her face, and she shielded her eyes, amazed at how much light he kept from the tarpaulin when he stood in the doorway. With his departure the shelter was again awash with light.
Which led her to wonder just how she’d not sensed him standing there.
Worse, how long had he stood there before making his presence known?
“The cur!” she said aloud, and promptly drew the ruined gown over her head, smoothing it over her undertunic.
The man was impossibly arrogant.
Still she couldn’t believe he’d done naught more than swat her with her gown.
Leaving her so she could dress, Alarik vowed to stay clear of her—vicious wench that she was. So much for attempting civility. Had he felt bad about the way he’d spoken to her last night?
No more!
From here on, Sigurd was perfectly capable of carrying her meals to her—otherwise she could spend her days in solitude, or content herself with her biting tongue for company.
But as the day wore on, Alarik couldn’t quite remove from his memory the caged look she’d had on her face as she’d paced the confines of the tent. Nor could he erase the image of her standing there in dishabille, ripe and luscious, and very likely untouched for all that she’d disclosed. And Loki take him if that possibility didn’t make him burn all the hotter.
It was unlikely Phillipe would have forced himself upon her with her pious upbringing and her connections—whatever they were—to Robert of Francia.
Yet another thing that bedeviled him.
Leaning back against the prow, he eyed the tent restlessly, shaking his head in disbelief. The stupid wench didn’t even have the good sense to stay covered beneath the blanket he’d given her. Anyone could have walked in and spied her standing as she was.
What galled him most, however, was that she still blamed him for Clarisse’s death. Mayhap it wouldn’t so much if, in truth, he’d tossed the baseborn wench overboard, but he hadn’t—though he damned well should have—and what provoked him most was that the Fransk she-wolf didn’t even realize the truth.
And he couldn’t tell her.
Nei, he amended, he wasn’t about to tell her.
Let the witch believe what she would of him.
“Have you told her yet that her friend lives?” Sigurd inquired from the helm, as though he’d read Alarik’s thoughts.
Alarik gave his old friend a scowl for his prying. His brow rose slightly, yet he made no reply beyond that gesture.
“You could send Clarisse in to keep her company,” Sigurd suggested cannily.
“Clarisse?” Alarik asked with lifted brows.
Sigurd ignored the taunt. “Mayhap if you told her... she wouldn’t feel so confined... and her tongue wouldn’t be so sharp.”
“You overstep your bounds, Sigurd!”
“Couldn’t help but overhear,” Sigurd said, defending himself. At Alarik’s black look, he shrugged in mock resignation, and returned his attention to the steering of the vessel.
The hush that followed mocked Alarik.
“She has two legs of her own!” Alarik barked at his friend. “If she ever bothers to come out, she’ll know. Otherwise she can assume whatever she pleases!”
Sigurd shrugged and Alarik’s attention was again drawn to the tarpaulin.
He couldn’t make out her silhouette at the moment. It was only at night, highlighted by the light within, that her lithe figure behind the canvas taunted him. And not solely him, he knew, for he’d not missed the looks his men cast in her direction.
Damn the wench, for within that tent, she had no notion what spell she’d cast over his crew.
He didn’t give a rat’s piss that she felt confined, he decided suddenly.
She was his prisoner.
In truth, he didn’t much care if she starved herself to death either—stubborn, venomous wench. It’d save him the trouble of strangling her.
Chapter 13
Stooping as he entered the tent, Alarik moved swiftly toward her, heedlessly tossing at her side the wooden platter he’d brought. It settled upon the planking with a hollow clatter. “I don’t give a whit if you’re not hungry,” he snarled at her. “You’ll eat regardless—and smile as you swallow!”
Elienor blinked at his ruthless tone, so at odds with his actions. He didn’t care
... yet he brought her food?
Some of her outrage dissipated, leaving only confusion in its wake, along with a lingering dose of chagrin for the way that he’d found her this morn. Her eyes dropped to the platter. At the sight of it, her stomach grumbled.
“Don’t bother denying it, wench!” He sat back upon the enormous rounded block that supported the mast. “Even your body defies you.” He grinned suddenly. “Your belly rumbles louder than Thor’s hammer.”
To her dismay she could feel her cheeks heating. She glowered at him and averted her gaze, grateful that his smile faded, for the sight of it seemed to incite her heart to insurrection. Frowning, she glanced down at the platter, noting the assortment of cheeses and bread; she was grateful for the lack of pungent dried salmon he’d brought every other meal. To her chagrin, her mouth began to water at the sweet odors that wafted to her nostrils. She sat upright, trying to appear indifferent, yet failing miserably. Her stomach grumbled once more, and she cursed it, along with her pounding heart.
He slid down the block to sit upon the planking before her, and her heart turned over violently. Hardly able to understand what his presence aroused within her, Elienor tried her best to ignore him.
“Why is it that you don’t realize when you’re talking to yourself?” he asked with genuine interest.
Elienor looked at him, shrugging. “How should I know?”
“Has it always been so?”
“As long as I can remember,” she relented, trying to still the erratic beating of her heart. Again she cursed her tongue. How many times had she been reprimanded at the cloister? Too many to recount—and always at the hour of prayer.
After a moment, she offered, “Mother Heloise said it was because I have a restless mind.”
Feeling more agitated by the instant, she tried to discern the demon’s purpose in speaking so civilly to her, but could perceive no reason for it. Surely, there was something he wanted of her?
He nodded, apparently satisfied with her explanation, and reached for a slice of soft white cheese, surprising her by bringing it to her lips.
Elienor’s brows lifted. “You would feed me?” she asked, resisting the urge to snatch it whole into her mouth—and bite off his fingers in the process.
Alarik’s brow rose at her question. Retrieving the cheese, he tore off a modest bite for himself, popping it in his mouth. “Unless, of course, you’re not hungry?”
Elienor was, but she wasn’t about to beg for her supper. Let him eat it all if he would. She watched him chew, fascinated by the strength in his jaw... his lips... the way they appeared... so soft... and yet so hard. Her fingers went to her own lips, her brows drawing together, and then catching herself, she startled.
Forsooth, what did he want of her? That she would forget all that had passed between them in the space of an afternoon? Hardly possible.
Seeing her chin jut forward stubbornly, Alarik decided to cease with the jesting lest she starve over her stubbornness—he had not missed the confusion in her face when she’d watched him eat. The way she’d touched her own lips as she’d contemplated his sent talons of desire clawing through him. He held the cheese out once more. “A peace offering,” he suggested.
“Peace?” Elienor retorted. “Betwixt us?” Just to make certain there was no confusion as to whom she meant, she gestured between the two of them, her expression clearly disbelieving.
“Aye. I would say it was in your best interest,” he apprised.
“Mine? Since when do you trouble yourself with my best interest, my lord?”
My lord.
Not my lord Viking?
Alarik grinned, feeling a small victory at the concession.
His pewter-gray eyes assessed her and a quiver swept down Elienor’s spine, though she managed an indifferent shrug. Yet she was anything but unaffected. He had a way of looking at her that disconcerted at best. He offered the cheese again and she eyed the morsel malevolently.
“You feed all your captives this way?”
“All?” His gaze dropped from her eyes to her shoulders, to the cheese... or at least Elienor assumed it was the cheese. Something about the hunger in his eyes seemed more than just a bit carnal. “No.”
She crossed her arms, rubbing them as though to erase the gooseflesh that prickled her, and sensing that her stomach was about to betray her again, she indignantly swiped the cheese from his fingers and fought the urge to shove the tiny bite into her mouth.
“The truth is, Elienor, I keep no thralls.”
“Thralls?” Involuntarily her eyes returned to his lips. As she stared something fluttered deep within the pit of her belly.
His eyes glittered with amusement. “In your tongue… slaves.”
“I see,” Elienor said stiffly, her gaze affixed to his face as she nibbled from the cheese in her hand. “So then, what, pray tell, am I?”
Alarik’s half-grin faded, for he found himself suddenly at a loss.
What was she, indeed?
In truth, he rarely took prisoners. Every last one of the steading’s servants were freed men, hired for pay. And while slavery was indeed the way for many Norsemen, Alarik had chosen not to employ it. Mayhap it was the circumstances of his birth that kept him from it, for he wanted no bastard children born under him. He had no taste for begetting children who felt less than whole... and fancied they had something to prove to the world.
So, then, what the devil was the wench to be, if not his slave? His brow rose as he considered her question...and then he happened to recall the ring, and his gaze fell to the creamy expanse of her neck.
“I believe a more poignant question remains to be asked. What were you to Count Phillipe? Better yet, what were you to Robert of Francia… wench?”
He wanted her know with certainty that whatever her title was up to now... it was no more.
Elienor nearly choked on the cheese.
Her eyes widened, her hand flew to her breast. She flashed Alarik a look of alarm and his eyes bore into her with silent expectation.
She said nothing, merely stared at him with a look of panic.
Provoked by her silence, he gripped her suddenly by the wrist, jerking her toward him, though his other hand went to her temple, to her wound, caressing it without touching at all.
She tried to look away, but he yanked her toward him once more, annoyed by the way she studiously avoided his gaze. “Am I so repulsive to you, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes, that you would fly from my touch? Does my Viking face repulse you, even now, after I’ve cared for you? Fed you? Protected you? Can you not cease to judge me for who you think I am—the heartless barbarian Norseman—and see me differently? In truth, I am not so gentle as some, but neither am I cruel. Forsooth! I am but a man,” he finished angrily. “I’d not have you look at me as though I were a fire-breathing serpent.”
Elienor managed to shake her head.
Nay, if the truth be known, she was not repulsed by him just now, but by herself, and her body’s odd response to his touch—to his very presence. But she thought she might die if he didn’t release her at once.
“I’ll not harm you, wench,” he swore. “You need not shun my touch again.”
“Nay?”
The blue flecks in his eyes deepened and his voice was softer, huskier when he next spoke. “I grant you my word that I shall take naught from you that is not freely given.”
Her chin lifted, remembering his earlier threat. “Which is it, my lord… that you shall deeply enjoy the taking? or that you will take naught unless given freely?”
For the longest instant, he was stunned enough to say nothing. “My word!” he declared. “But take care you do not offend me further,” he warned, his eyes narrowing. “You’d do well to remember that it is I alone who stand betwixt you and my men. Understand my meaning?”
He squeezed her wrist lightly, though not enough to cause pain, his brows lifting in question. When Elienor nodded, he released her at last.
Yet he held her eyes fast.
>
Ensnared by his gaze, Elienor rubbed her wrist absently.
From beyond the tent came a sudden roar of merriment, diverting his attention.
Suddenly his look was full of satisfaction. The ire completely melted from his gaze and the grey in his eyes turned a lucid silver.
“At last… the Gareinger Fjord,” he said. When Elienor did not understand, he added, “Home.”
Chapter 14
Her face was full of dread, but Alarik had no desire to reassure her just now—not with the havoc her beautiful face played upon his mind—not when she looked upon him as though he were some mad beast from the wilds.
Never mind that she had a right to fear him.
She seemed to realize suddenly that even after he’d released her, she’d remained within a hair’s breadth of him, for her eyes widened, and she gasped, thrusting herself backward. Her reaction to him clenched his gut.
Avoiding her gaze as he stood, Alarik left without another word. He stepped outside into the bright sunlight, wondering what it was about her bewitching eyes that made him lose all reason.
Had he truly proposed peace betwixt them? When she obviously preferred his head on a platter instead? What ailed him, indeed!
As the Goldenhawk glided over the sun-lit waters, light as a gull, the crew shouted hoarse cheers to the two smaller drakken sailing in its wake.
Not a single man aboard the sister ships could suppress their exhilaration over the sight before them. Alarik’s mood lightened considerably.
Their home soil rose white and proud on either side of the ice-scattered fjord, reaching magnificently into the clouded blue heavens.
The drizzle was heavier now, the crisp air smelling of freshly fallen snow. With much pleasure, Alarik took the fresh, cold air into his lungs until they stung from the chill. The scene before him never ceased to overwhelm him, to fill him with satisfaction. There were times the Northland’s harsh winters left him aching for the sun and sea, but inasmuch as this was so, it was also true that an interval at sea filled his heart with a fierce longing for the rugged fjord that harbored his home.
Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set Page 80
