Viking's Prize

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  He unlocked the door impatiently and entered his chamber, noting at once that it was dim and growing cold. The fire had evidently long since extinguished, and he frowned, for he’d not meant to leave her alone so long. His eyes scanned the room and found her at once, nestled within his bed, her tiny form enshrouded by the bulky furs.

  Moving silently, so as not to disturb her, he went to the hearth, stirring the embers, but the effort proved fruitless. The fire was cold. From a pile of timber stacked in the corner he chose new wood, placing it within the hearth, and having done so he left the bower momentarily to retrieve a torch from one of the wall braces on the facing wall.

  Using the torch to ignite the wood, Alarik waited to be sure the orange-blue flames climbed and licked a path into the new wood. Once he was satisfied the fire would thrive, he returned the torch to its brace and then closed the door behind him as he entered, going to the bed. He stood over her, watching her sleep. She seemed so serene, yet he could still see evidence of her tears. His hand went to her cheek, cupping it delicately. She stirred slightly and the gesture became a caress.

  She moaned softly and his body responded with a vengeance, yet he forbade himself even the thought of waking her.

  He’d sworn to protect her, had vowed to take naught she didn’t freely give...

  However, he’d said absolutely nothing about lying down beside her, and that he would not deny himself, for he determined that one day soon, vow or no vow, she would welcome his loathsome Viking touch.

  Again the dream.

  Again the same; first Mother Heloise held her in the safety of her arms, then Alarik, so tenderly, gazing down upon her with those steel-gray eyes—confusing eyes, for the emotion nestled within their murky depths was unknown—like no other her own eyes had e’er beheld.

  Then abruptly, that unnamed emotion was fled, and so were the gray eyes. Now they were as violet as her own, and sorrowful. There was no face to frame the eyes, still Elienor recognized her mother in them.

  “What?” she asked desperately, for the eyes seemed to be warning her. But of what?

  Again, she withdrew her hand from about Alarik and once again discovered blood.

  Betrayed.

  The shield... she saw it again so clearly, the bright sun striking against the majestic gilded hawk... and there was Alarik at the helm of his longship, no longer at her side. Defiantly, he cried out and leapt into the sea. Elienor watched in horror as his shield followed him beneath the surface. With morbid fascination, she watched as the hawk’s wings spiraled beneath the churning waves and disappeared completely. She glanced at her hand—the blood remained.

  All about her were shouts and threats and ships jarring together, hundreds of them. Steel against steel.

  Yet in that moment, all sound seemed to pass away, for suddenly Elienor understood.

  It was war they were at...

  And Alarik would die.

  CHAPTER 16

  “By the hounds!”

  Alarik bolted upright at the scream.

  His mind sleep-fogged, it took him a befuddled instant to realize it came from Elienor, and another to discern that she slept still, her rest fitful, though unbroken.

  His heart still hammering, he settled back down, incredulous that she could slumber through such a shriek—regardless that it was her own. Hella’s curse, it had been shrill enough to wake the bloody dead!

  Raking his fingers across his scalp, he wondered with a weary sigh what demons tormented her so ruthlessly that she failed to sleep peacefully even through one night. And in the quiet of the moment, as he considered that question and listened to the sounds of her stirring beside him, he became fiercely aware of his nudity... as never before.

  Never had it given him such gratification.

  Never had the bedsheets seemed so cool.

  His skin so hot, despite the chill.

  A vow so despised.

  She whimpered and his arms reacted of their own will, drawing her into his embrace, soothing her with a hand at her shoulder, the small of her back, caressing her. It was a mistake he realized far too late, for his hand was suddenly upon her thigh where her chemise had ridden up, her skin silky smooth beneath his fingers. His pulse quickened as his fingers caressed her ever so delicately, relishing the feel of her flesh.

  Soft...

  His heart felt as though it would erupt from his chest it thrummed so savagely. Slowly, languorously, his hand slid upward, between them, across her abdomen, his fingers sensuously spanning her belly before moving down to skim over her woman’s mound.

  Of their own will, his fingers gathered up her gown, until he could feel at long last the soft curls of her womanhood beneath his knuckles.

  Was he mad?

  Aye, he was—and lost as well! With no will, at all. He was weak, and worse...

  He was a liar.

  He tried to convince himself he had to cease his foraging, forcing himself to recall his vow to Elienor. Yet in utter defiance that self-same hand slid to her luscious bottom. He groaned with pleasure at the sensation of her filling his rugged palm. Groaning, he drove her hips forward to crush against his groin, his eyes closing in pleasure, his head thrust backward with carnal relish. Spurred onward by a heady, sleep-induced drunkenness, he found himself undulating softly into the sweet warmth between her thighs.

  Elienor felt as though she were wavering between darkness and light, alternately descending through the deep blackness, only to ascend and grasp for the golden stream of light that teased her senses. She tried to lift her heavy lids, failing miserably, and moaned with pleasure, her mind engulfed by a velvety haze.

  Somehow, Alarik had returned from the murky depths of the ocean, somehow, he was holding her, cherishing her as she’d never been cherished before...

  But wasn’t it just a dream?

  His mouth hovered above her own, ready to kiss her as Count Phillipe had, only she’d felt nothing with Count Phillipe—not like this.

  Desperately, she concentrated on those movements beside her that seemed so earthy and tangible and sighed in her sleep.

  If this was a dream, she never wanted to waken.

  Never had she known such pleasure!

  She didn’t attempt to deny herself, for it wasn’t real.

  It was naught but a dream... a hazy... pleasant... dream.

  Alarik’s hands worked quickly to lift her gown, revealing the dark tips of her breasts against luminous white flesh in the flickering light of the chamber. Instinctively, his lips moved toward them, seeking out their heat, desperate to suckle like a babe of her milky softness.

  Feeling himself harden fully, he rolled her backward, and followed, his knee settling between the softness of her legs as his lips suckled her. There he hovered, fighting a fierce battle against his will. Yet even as he vied for control, the hand that had grasped her bottom moved upward to the small of her back, holding her still for his lip’s devotion. Feeling the nipple harden upon the tip of his tongue, he groaned and brought it fully within the heat of his mouth.

  And in that moment he dared to imagine the woman in his arms awake and aware, eager to let him spend his passion deep within her.

  He dared to persuade himself it was so.

  Almost feverishly, his lips moved to her neck, nibbling the flesh there as he kneaded one breast with his free hand. He wanted to devour her.

  God—was he daft to be loving an insensate woman?

  Ah, but what a beautiful one she was.

  For the briefest instant he thought he felt her undulate along with him and it gave him the most incredible burst of euphoria.

  He thought he would explode in that moment, yet still he burned.

  Intensely.

  He eased himself down upon her, half-mad with need, beads of perspiration dotting his brow as he worked himself into a gentle but unstoppable rhythm.

  Did he truly care that she was unaware of his loving?

  Did he care?

  She felt so good, and he needed r
elease so badly—it had been too long... too long...

  He muttered unwittingly in answer, for he knew that in truth, it did matter. He could not continue in this without Elienor’s awareness at least...

  Else he was no better than Red-Hrolf.

  That sobering realization discouraged him enough that he shoved away from the woman beneath him and turned onto his back.

  By damn, it did matter.

  And he didn’t like it one whit!

  What ailed him anyway?

  Sensing that morning was near enough, he heaved himself up from the bed, dressed in the dim light, and stalked from his chamber, delivering himself from temptation once and for all!

  Stretching beneath the blankets, Elienor wondered dazedly of Clarisse. How did she fare? She wondered if she would have the opportunity to speak with her today, and then suddenly... she recalled the dream—all of it, and her face burned crimson with shame.

  Sweet Jesu, she’d dreamt of him in the most shameful manner! And now in the light of day she could not bear to recall it. She glanced about the chamber suddenly and found it brightly lit, and then spied the reason why and came fully awake, but too late to avoid it. Elienor gasped as frigid water struck her full in the face, cutting off her breath.

  “Lazy thrall!” Nissa hissed. “Here we cannot afford to lie abed all day!”

  Sputtering, Elienor opened her eyes to find Nissa poised above her, an empty ewer within her clutches, her gaze accusing. She pitched the ewer vehemently, barely missing Elienor’s face and striking the wall behind her.

  “I said get up! Do you think to lie about like the French whore you are? I vow you will earn your keep if I have to have you beaten!”

  Elienor’s heart tumbled. From Nissa’s expression she could very well believe the woman would do just as she claimed. She scrambled from the furs, trying to comply as quickly as she was able. No sooner had her feet lit upon the wooden floor than Nissa seized her by the arm, jerking her forward.

  “Go, bitch!”

  Elienor tugged her arm from Nissa’s grip. “You need not abuse me!” she said.

  Nissa eyed her balefully but said nothing, and Elienor began walking in the direction indicated, grateful that she was dressed, at least, for the contemptible woman had not even given her the opportunity to straighten the wrinkles from her gown—not that it mattered how she appeared to these barbarians. She cared not what they thought of her!

  Nor did she care how Alarik saw her.

  Liar! a little voice mocked.

  They found the great hall deserted.

  As in the bedchamber, a stone-lined fire pit sat in the center of the hall where smoke billowed and curled in an attempt to escape through a narrow shaft in the wooden ceiling. Flanking the pit were tremendous wooden tables, lined with benches that were carved with small heathen figures. At the furthest end of the chamber sat the dais, with its great high seat. She imagined Alarik there, and paled when she saw for the briefest instant... the image of herself sitting there beside him.

  Nissa didn’t linger in the hall. She hurried through, booting a runty pup from under foot. It wailed pitifully and scurried beneath a table with its tail tucked between its legs, its eyes sad and somehow looking as desperate as Elienor felt. Resisting the urge to stop and soothe it, Elienor wondered at Nissa’s skittishness, for if Elienor didn’t know better, it seemed Nissa was glancing about as though afraid to be caught.

  The kitchens, Elienor found, were located in a separate building, not unlike the kitchens at Brouillard—likely as a safety against fire. Also like the kitchen at Brouillard, it was crowded and overheated. At the largest table Nissa released her, shoving her forward.

  “You will work here today,” she informed Elienor curtly. She lifted up a large kitchen blade and buried it into an unplucked hen.

  Elienor swallowed, stepping away. Her eyes must have betrayed her apprehension, for Nissa smiled thinly. After a lengthy moment, she gestured toward the table.

  “I told you. Here everyone must earn their keep! You will pluck hens, and if you manage to finish—” She sneered as though she doubted the possibility. “Then you will go to Alva. She will know where to send you next.” She gestured toward a plump, dark-haired, older woman, who wore the strangest expression as she glanced in Elienor’s direction. “Do you understand?”

  Elienor nodded, her gaze reverting to Alva. The older woman shook her head at them, made a face, and sighed.

  “Good,” Nissa said, and satisfied that Elienor would comply with her wishes, she left to supervise other duties. Elienor felt only relief watching her go. At once she set about the task assigned to her, lifting up the hen.

  “She’s a haughty one!” a voice declared. Elienor glanced up to see the one called Alva ambling to her side. “Thank goodness the jarl has returned!” the woman exclaimed. “He will return the shrew swiftly to her place.”

  Elienor couldn’t help but flash a smile at that very accurate description of Nissa. “Set her in her place?” she ventured. “Who is she, then... if not his wife?” She ignored the tiny jolt in her breast as she asked the question. She knew better than to be so intrusive, yet if this was to be her home, she would know her situation.

  It had absolutely naught to do with her curiosity over whether the jarl had a wife.

  She didn’t care.

  Liar!

  At any rate, she doubted Nissa was his wife... unless here men and women didn’t share the marriage bed.

  “She’s Ejnar the Dane’s daughter,” Alva revealed, peering up at the door where Nissa had departed. “Her father has long sought a union betwixt the jarl and his daughter, yet the jarl has never shown the least interest in her. Still, her father is a powerful man and ’tis best not to make discord with Nissa.”

  Elienor glanced at the door as well. “She’s not his mistress, then?”

  “Humph!” Alva exclaimed, gratefully overlooking the unseemliness of the question. “Not his mistress, nor his bedmate—though certainly not for her lack of trying! The woman’s as ceaseless as the sea! Still,” Alva relented, “one must grant her allowances. I believe she’s not so wicked deep down—mind you, you wouldn’t know it to speak with her, though I fear she is as vulnerable as you are, my dear.”

  As vulnerable as she was? Snatched from her home—forced to share a bed with a man not her husband. Unlikely! “How so?”

  Alva shook her head a little sadly. “She seeks so desperately to please her father—and to no avail. The man is cruel.”

  “Why do you tell me this?” Elienor asked.

  The woman glanced at her slyly, and said cryptically, “The jarl has never brought a woman home before.”

  “I’m his captive, nothing more!”

  The woman raised her brows, nodding. “Of course you are, my dear.” She chuckled, glancing down abruptly at the chicken upon the table. “Here,” she said, seizing the hen from Elienor to demonstrate what to do with it. “I would venture to say you’ve never done such a chore as this before. ’Tis really not so difficult—”

  “But I have,” Elienor broke in.

  The woman looked at her a little skeptically.

  “It has been a time,” she ceded. “But I remember only too well how ’tis done.”

  Alva raised both brows. She drew Elienor’s hands into her own, turning them for her appraisal. “I see,” she said approvingly, “well, then, ’tis best to busy yourself. Until the jarl can speak to Ejnar’s daughter, she will make your life miserable lest you comply with her wishes.”

  Elienor glanced at the door and was momentarily surprised to see Clarisse being led in by Nissa.

  Nissa pointed the girl in Alva’s direction, and then watched to be certain Clarisse obeyed. In that instant, Elienor met Nissa’s gaze. At once she looked away, unwilling to provoke the woman further. It was obvious Nissa liked her not at all.

  “How is it that Nissa has the right to remain unwed in Alarik’s household?” Elienor asked Alva when she could.

  “Alar
ik?” Alva smiled knowingly at the way Elienor addressed him. “Nissa abides with her eldest sister who is wed to Ivar Longbeard, one of the jarl’s men.” When Elienor’s brows drew together, she added, “She came here to Gryting years ago to help with her sister’s birthing, and stayed—to everyone’s dismay!”

  “A... Alva?” a soft voice inquired.

  Elienor set the hen she was working on down upon the table and glanced up at Clarisse, heartened to see that the girl was truly well.

  “That is me,” Alva said cheerily. She turned toward the white-faced Clarisse. “You are to work with me, I presume?”

  “Aye, madame,” Clarisse replied quietly, her gaze shifting uneasily between Alva and Elienor. “M’lady,” Clarisse said, her face screwing pitifully as her eyes pleaded with Elienor to understand. “I am sorry to have caused you so much pain!” She hung her head in shame.

  Elienor resisted the inclination to embrace the girl, for she knew Clarisse would feel ill at ease to accept the affection. Alva watched them. “Oh, nay, Clarisse! I am pleased that—” She glanced at Alva.

  Alva nodded for them to continue. “Don’t mind me!” she said cheerfully, yet she kept her gaze locked on them, willing to miss nothing of their conversation.

  Annoyed at the prospect that her life might never again be her own, Elienor’s gaze reverted to Clarisse. She placed a consoling hand upon the maid’s forearm. “Truly, I’m only pleased you are well. I worried so!”

  Clarisse’s face lifted, her expression remorseful. “I’m sorry, m’lady! I awoke to find you ensconced within the tent, and I wanted so desperately to go to you, but Sigurd would not allow it.”

  “Sigurd?” Alva asked, her brows rising higher. “Truly this discourse grows more interesting by the instant—and yet…” She bent to whisper, “if you value yourselves you will work all the while you gossip.” She gestured toward Nissa, who was watching them intently. “Snatch yourself a hen, Clarisse.” Clarisse hesitated. “Come, come—don’t just stand there, my dear. Choose yourself a hen and set yourself to work!” Alva offered a smile. “Go on!” she prompted again.