She tossed her head back, a defiant gesture that the nuns—admonishing her—said was worldly and proud—not virtues suited to one promised to the cloth. Then again, she’d never felt the calling in her soul—had always fought against her disobedient self in order to be what the nuns had wished of her.
She appraised the Viking contemptuously. “What know you of my God?”
Again he chuckled. The sound reverberated within the chapel, unnerving her. “Enough to know he’ll not intervene for you this night,” he said evenly. “As of now, little Fransk…” One finger swept down her cheek, beneath her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his shadowed eyes. “Whether you like it or nei,” he informed her, “you are mine to do with as I will. And there is no one here who would gainsay me—not you, not your spineless count...” He chuckled again, the sound wholly sinister. “Not even your God!”
His laugh mocked her.
Elienor’s eyes closed with loathing as she shook the Viking’s offending fingers from her chin. But his hold only tightened in her hair. Her scalp screamed under the torture, yet Elienor dared not break.
“He was not my count as yet!” she informed him. Again his fingers tightened. Elienor winced, but would not be so easily cowed. Her chin tilted. “Nor was he craven!” she added. “Count Phillipe was good and kind and true!”
It had to be so, for surely her uncle would never have given her to one not worthy. Despite her resolve not to give in to hysteria, her heartbeat quickened, though she hid her fear.
He’s but a man, she reasoned wildly. Aye! her mind argued, a man! But a blood-thirsty Viking as well!
With fingers so warm and gentle they sent quivers down her spine. Her eyes welled with tears. Nay! she scolded herself. You will not go to pieces in the face of this! If she feared, it was only for Stefan—at least that was what she told herself as she felt the trembling work its way through her unsteady limbs.
The Viking’s brow arched. “In fact, your precious count is as spineless as they come,” he countered, his voice full of derision.
Elienor shivered at the malice in his tone. “Is?” she returned contemptuously. “What is he now but dead? And by your hands! You murdering sav—” She felt his fingers tighten against her scalp and she cried out in pain.
“I would have a care with that blade of a tongue were I you,” he advised softly. “If I say he is, ’tis because the bastard lives. He fled the castle, I’ll warrant.” Her eyes narrowed in disbelief and his brows arched. “Did you not realize, he’d left you to die at our hands? You have been forsaken by your count and your God.”
As stunned as Elienor was by his disclosure, she could do naught but glare at him.
Beneath her, Stefan moaned and her eyes flew to him fearfully. She prayed fervently that he’d not wake. If he would die... best he not know it! Best he not feel the cold blade of the barbarian’s blade meet with his tender flesh!
The Viking glanced down meaningfully at Stefan’s twisting form. His eyes glinted dangerously. “Mayhap ’tis him you shield even now?” he suggested.
“Nay!” Elienor cried, her heart pummeling madly. “I swear ‘tis not! Leave him be!”
The Viking’s gaze never wavered, and Elienor found her own eyes locked steadfastly with his. Sweet Jesu!
Mercy! she pleaded silently. Mercy!
Alarik contemplated the wench’s reaction to the boy. It was evident there was some bond between them. What it was, he wasn’t certain, but his curiosity was piqued now.
Tightening his hold upon the woman’s hair, he rose from his stooped position, hauling her up against him as he came to his feet, and the feel of her soft body hardened his more fully. He noted briefly there were no grunts or moans against the pain he knew he inflicted; and he could only admire her mettle. “Who is he, then?” he asked, his tone as menacing as the gleaming blade of his axe, “if not your precious count?”
The woman wet her lips. “He... Stefan is but a boy... please... please—leave him be!”
His lips broke into a slow grin as he pressed closer, savoring the feel of her high, round breasts against his chest. Bending to whisper in her ear, his lips brushed her lobe. “Leave him be? You wish me to leave him be?”
She nodded frantically.
“And what prithee will you pledge me if I do?”
She closed her eyes, yet he would not be swayed. The feel of her against him so warm and soft and firm in all the right places drove him to shift his pelvis for comfort. Stirring into her, he stifled a groan of pleasure.
“What do you pledge me?”
CHAPTER 5
Elienor swallowed convulsively, for the look in the Viking’s eyes left no doubt as to what he wanted of her. Mother Heloise, in preparing her for Count Phillipe, had enlightened her to the needs of men, and it was that need she sensed the Viking sought to quench just now. But that he would barter for it seemed out of sorts with these men who were so willing to take without mercy.
“I... I...”
Stefan stirred slightly, moaning as he lifted his head. Elienor’s gaze flew to him at once.
Scowling suddenly, the Viking turned to observe him, as well.
Forgetting that her hair was raveled so tightly about the giant’s fist, she hurled herself at Stefan, as though to shield him with her body, and with a wounded gasp halted her dive to the floor, turning again to look into the Viking’s smoldering silver eyes.
Tears brimmed as once again she locked gazes with the Viking. Hysteria welled within her. For the first time in her life she was well and truly at a loss for words. For what could she say? Barbarian, sir, could you be so kind as to release my hair so that I may warn this kind boy against you? Hah! Likely he’d laugh in her face before plunging his sword into Stefan’s heart... and then mayhap into her own! Yet, whatever he would do to her, she could not allow him to harm Stefan. At any cost she would save the boy.
Her eyes closed. She swallowed. “I... I have naught of value,” she said bitterly. “Please...”
The Viking grinned, his teeth flashing white in the shadows, and then he laughed outright.
Elienor shivered at the wicked sound of it. “Naught save myself,” she told him honestly. Her eyes misted traitorously, but she held herself rigid and proud.
Alarik’s brow lifted as her eyes filled with telltale tears. His lips twisted sardonically.
So, she knew how to cry after all?
Again he pondered what bond she and the boy shared that she would protect him so fiercely—even so far as to offer him her body in payment to save him. Did she always offer so freely? The possibility rankled, though he knew not why it should.
He said more sharply than he’d intended, “What makes you think ’tis your body to barter with, wench? As of now ’tis mine already. Why would I bother to haggle for that which I already possess?”
Alarm flared in her blue eyes, and that too, rankled—that she would find the thought of him so repulsive. Yet what else would she feel for him? And why should it matter? As he gazed into the misty, violet-blue pools of her eyes, he was compelled to release the hold he had upon her hair.
At once she fell to her knees over the boy—and it was a boy, for now he could discern the whiskerless face.
A quiver sped through him as the long, dark strands wove their way out of his callused fingers like cool silk. The pleasing sensation sent a surge of familiar heat rushing through his veins and a smile curved his lips as he imagined that whispery length tangled about his bare thighs. In that instant, he craved her more even than he did revenge over the spineless count, and the realization jarred him. More than that, he wanted to know her—that barely subdued passion he could see with such clarity in her eyes. He wanted her acquiescent—and so consumed with desire that she would whimper and sigh beneath him.
“’Tis settled, then!”
Startled, the woman glanced up at him, her expression confused.
He smiled darkly. “You have yourself a bargain, my little Fransk.” When she still seemed bew
ildered, Alarik explained, “Your compliance for the boy’s life.”
He felt no need to point out that he had no intention of harming the lad anyway. He had no taste for slaughtering children, but it would serve him well if she thought he might.
She swallowed visibly, and shuddered, but nodded agreement before returning her attention to the boy. With a quick flip of her hand she removed the length of her dark hair from his pale face.
Feeling a sudden rush of heat and anticipation, Alarik stepped forward to better observe the pair. The woman’s nondescript kyrtle covered her form completely, yet even in such a shapeless garment her generous curves were more than, and he felt the burn of his loins intensify.
Never, in all his experiences, had he seen her equal—hair as. dark as the Byzantine, yet skin and features as fair as the Norse—and he found himself mentally disrobing her, drawing up a luscious picture in his mind. For the first time ever he was sorely tempted to lie a wench flat and ride her against her will. But he would not. He abhorred such weakness in his men—though now, for once, he could comprehend what drove them to such ends.
He watched in silence as she gently lifted up the boy’s dirt-smudged face unto her scrutiny.
With her eyes, Elienor warned Stefan to remain silent. With her heart, she prayed he would understand.
“My lady,” Stefan moaned, wincing. “What have you done to me?”
Tears pricked at Elienor’s eyes as she envisaged the outcome of the battle. “’Tis over, Stefan. There...” She swallowed. “There is naught to be done now.”
Stefan moaned pitifully. ‘Then I am shamed!” He lifted himself up and thrust his head into her lap to hide the moistness gathering in his eyes. Elienor felt the telltale wetness even through her layers of clothing.
Tears of frustration came to her own eyes as she searched for the words to ease Stefan’s conscience, but before she could utter another sound, the Viking giant suddenly gave a fearsome growl of displeasure and lifted her up into his arms, over his hefty shoulder, pinning her there. She gasped, startled. Blood rushed to her head as he swooped down yet again to yank Stefan up, as well.
Startled, Stefan struggled to gain his feet.
With scarcely an effort, the Viking hauled them both outside into the clear light of the moon.
As she watched Stefan struggle, Elienor’s heart went out to the boy, and she vowed in that moment that she would die trying to save him. Furious that he would be treated so harshly when they’d already effected a bargain, she demanded at once, “Release him!”
The giant said naught, merely kept his pace, and Elienor pounded his back with all her might. “Beast! You made me a bargain!” she reminded him fiercely.
Stefan was suddenly dropped to the ground, though almost as swiftly as he was released, the Viking caught him by the back of his tunic and began to drag him across the empty yard behind them, like a dog by its lead rope.
Elienor’s anger intensified. “Is force the only way of your people?” she accused him. As soon as the question left her lips, she felt a fool for asking it. Of course it was! Wasn’t that what she’d always been told? “Barbarian!” she spat.
Abruptly, the Viking lifted Stefan to his feet, urging him to walk, but Stefan only stumbled to his knees. The giant hauled him up once more, then shoved him forward.
“Walk!” he snarled, “Or you will find yourself without legs!”
Thankfully, Stefan did as he was told without balking, though his knees wobbled visibly all the way into the donjon. Elienor’s heart stung for him. As they approached the now brightly lit hall, her nostrils flared with the overwhelming stench of blood. Her eyes widened at the gruesome sight that greeted them; a horde of Vikings frolicked about the hall, partaking of ale and whatever else they encountered. One man, his writhing form as naked as the oak in winter, danced merrily over the body of the dead sentry, Gaston. She cried out, clutching the giant’s tunic lest she fall with the wave of nausea that assailed her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to block the sight of it from her mind.
Cheers resounded the moment they were spied coming into the hall. Viking voices hailed them—no doubt praising the barbarian that had carted her in! The din threatened to burst her eardrums, and she knew in that moment that the shoulders she’d been irreverently slung over belonged to none other than the leader, himself.
“Jarl! Jarl! Jarl!” they bellowed, each man louder than the one before.
One bedraggled beast with hair the color of the noonday sun came to stand behind Elienor’s captor. Roughly, he jerked her up by the hair to see her better.
Heathen! What she wouldn’t give to slap his face just now, not for herself, but for all the terror they had wreaked upon Count Phillipe’s castle! For Stefan! For the way that he’d been treated! Bon dieu, were she not such a peace-loving soul she’d strike the heinous smirk from his face but good!
Unable to stay her hand, Elienor’s palm cracked along the side of his face.
Abruptly, the hall went silent, and one by one, every pair of eyes turned toward them.
The flame haired’s gaze narrowed upon her, his eyes fairly sparking with fury.
Her palm stung. Still, she held it in midair, poised to strike again. She peered up fearfully to see a welt beginning to form upon the flame haired’s cheek.
“Jesu!” she whispered hysterically. Seeing the ire in his eyes, she regretted her rashness at once, despite the fact that he deserved worse!
Beneath her, the Viking’s shoulders began to quiver, then shake, and then rumble, and she found to her dismay that he was laughing.
Laughing?
How dare he!
The fiend she’d slapped, on the other hand, glared at her. But to her immense relief he responded only by gurgling his ale in her face. When he finished swooshing it, he grinned, letting the sudsy, amber liquid seep from between rotting and missing teeth. She winced as a sprinkling caught her full upon the brow, and resisted the urge to swipe the revolting droplet away.
Beneath her, the golden one’s shoulders shook ferociously with mirth. Bracing her palms against her captor’s back for support, Elienor willed him to perdition and beyond! Though even as she struggled for balance and blasphemed him, his husky laughter filled her senses, riveted her, and only belatedly did she realize that Flame Hair had taken another hearty swig from his tankard. He swooshed it again, puffing his cheeks to spew it upon her. Fie! No doubt all would burst into fits of hilarity this time. Uncouth savages! She squeezed her lids closed and braced herself for the deluge.
It never came.
The metallic hiss of a sword being drawn caught every ear. Stefan’s voice resounded off the stone walls, flying upward into the tower. “Leave her be!”
Elienor’s eyes flew wide as he charged at the leaders back.
Her mouth formed a scream that never materialized, for what happened next happened so quickly that she would never be entirely certain of the chain of events; Stefan came at them with blood lust in his eyes, his sword rising up. One instant, the Viking leader was empty handed. In the next he held his sword and was facing Stefan, ready to strike. With astounding ease, he’d also managed to snatch her down to hold her by the waist before him. Next she knew, Stefan lay skewered by his sword.
“Nay!” she screamed. “Nay! Nay! We made a bargain!”
Frantically, she resisted the Viking leader until he was forced to release her. “You made me a bargain!” she cried as she tumbled to the floor beside Stefan’s body.
His face in death was still as sweetly innocent as it had been in life, no fear, no regret—he’d done it for her. “Nay... oh, nay!” He was but a boy! God have mercy, he’d died for her! She seized him, clutching him to her breast, rocking him. “Stefan!” she whimpered. “I’m so... so... so, sorry!” It was her fault.
She cried out, her features twisting with horror as she lifted her tear-stained face to the chaos about her. Bodies were strewn about the once spotless hall, littering every corner. Tables were toppled. S
tools, so beautiful once with carved legs that clawed the ground, were axed into little more than rough-hewn splinters. The only lives that seemed to have been spared were those of the female servants who now screamed for mercy beneath the abusing bodies of murdering Northmen.
Nay, they were not being raped, but how long before they were all defiled? How she wished she could aid them! She released Stefan, and tried to rise, but her vision blackened as blood rushed into her temples. Desperately, she fought another wave of nausea as she rose. Her legs had never felt more unsubstantial.
Anger unlike anything she’d ever known soared within her. She whirled to face the Viking leader, loathing in her eyes. “You made me a bargain!” she cried furiously. She lifted her fists to strike him and he caught both wrists in midair with a single fluid movement.
Wrenching herself free, Elienor turned to face the rest of his butchers, all the while shaking her head in denial. “He was just a boy!”
The flame-haired Viking laughed uproariously. Undaunted, she met his gaze without fail, her own eyes vivid with fury. He would laugh? He would rejoice at the death of a child? Too furious to consider the consequences, she lunged at the flamehaired Viking, too desperate to avenge Stefan to consider the consequences.
An arm caught her firmly about the waist. Elienor screamed, bucking and squirming against the iron hold.
“Think you a boy cannot deal a death blow?” a husky voice asked at her back.
“As God is my witness, I wish he had!” Elienor told him and meant it with all of her soul. “Set me free, you deceiving, misbegotten cur!”
Trying in vain to shake herself loose from the leader’s grasp, she kicked him. He dropped her at once. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a Norse curse, he spun her about, his expression furious, though he said not another word.
Blinding tears welled in Elienor’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks, but she lifted her chin, daring him to make her repudiate her words, daring him to say aught more to defend himself. They’d struck a bargain and he’d forsaken it, and she’d not forget it. Ever!
Viking's Prize Page 3
