Like it or nay, this was her future.
“I suggest you change for bed,” advised Alva. “I heard the jarl saying that he and Olav were to leave early in the morn—something about gathering men for Olav’s voyage. If ’tis so, he’ll be in directly, I think, for he’ll be wanting his sleep.”
Having revealed this, Alva took her leave, though not before imparting one last bit of advice. “Best you hie to it lest he comes and you be forced to undress before him.”
She stifled a giggle as she closed the door, for Elienor immediately thrust the bundle from her arms to the bed.
Having been forewarned, she quickly divested herself of the loathsome silk over and undertunic. And then, after snatching her own garments from the pile upon the bed, she donned them hastily, leaving herself concealed only by the frail linen undertunic. Before she could scurry into the sanctuary of the furs, however, the door clicked opened once more.
“Do mine eyes deceive me?” a husky voice remarked. “Or are you truly so eager to share mine bed this night?”
Elienor froze, her heart beating frantically as she turned to face him. She crossed her arms as Alarik closed the door, concealing herself. Her face flamed under his scrutiny. He took a step forward and she instinctively took one backward, reassuring herself with the simple fact that he’d yet to force himself upon her.
It was unlikely he would begin now, she told herself.
And in truth, after this morn, she wasn’t certain he wasn’t as repulsed of her as she claimed to be of him.
Her brows knit suddenly.
Claimed?
Nay, she amended silently, was!
She was repulsed of him!
So why did she feel so strangely excited by the possibility that he might desire her? Averting her eyes to the floor, she stammered, “A-Alva advised me—sh-she said you planned to seek your bed. I-I only thought to...”
“Conceal yourself before I arrived?” Alarik asked dryly, his gaze riveted, despite her lack of dress, upon her lips.
Elienor swallowed, her heart turning violently at his question. His eyes, like shards of molten silver, impaled her as he took a step forward.
To his annoyance he’d been able to think of nothing else all day, even in the face of Olav’s political concerns. Hella’s curse, even now he remained in a state of painful arousal with the merest thought of those warm, sweet lips upon his own.
Her gaze returned to him, and the deep violet pools lured him closer. He took another step forward, diminishing the distance between them, fearing he’d finally reached the point of madness, for his reason had all but fled now that he was in her presence once more. “Have I given you so much cause to fear me?” he asked huskily.
Elienor managed to shake her head in response.
“Have I taken the slightest liberties with you?”
Again Elienor shook her head, for in truth, he’d not.
She had been the one to take them, for he’d asked only to be washed this morn. Naught more.
Elienor’s breath quickened, for his eyes impaled her still, burning with something wholly carnal as he came even closer.
“In certainty, who forced whom this morn?” he challenged, as though he’d read her thoughts.
Or had she spoken them aloud?
She couldn’t discern.
“’Tis you who forced me!” Elienor replied a little hysterically, retreating until the back of her legs encountered the bed. The look of purpose in his wintry eyes alarmed her. “I... I did not ask to bathe you,” she asserted. “Nor did I...”
He stopped before her, reaching out casually to lift her thick plait into his palm, and Elienor gave a little shriek.
He slid his hand up the length of it and back, admiring the healthful shine, holding her gaze. “Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes,” he murmured silkily, a quiver snaking through him as his eyes finally acknowledged the rest of her. “I vow, you’ve bewitched me,” he said softly.
His fingers slid to the end of her plait, and at once commenced to unraveling it.
Elienor shivered at the charge, closing her eyes to steady herself, suddenly feeling so light-headed and weak-kneed that she feared she might swoon before his eyes.
It was said that her mother had bewitched her father...
She refused to tread in her mother’s shoes—refused, for she could not abide the repercussions!
“Tell me who taught you to use your tongue so,” Alarik demanded, his whisper faint but warm upon her face.
Her heart racing, Elienor opened her eyes to find him staring intently at her lips.
Sweet Jesu, did he wish to kiss her now? After spurning her this morn? Surely not?
“Answer me.”
Elienor swallowed, trying desperately to think what it was he was asking. “I... I...”
She could not compose her thoughts, yet she sensed it had something to do with the kiss by the way he stared so intently at her mouth. “I... I did not mean to!” she cried suddenly, shaking her head. “I...” Her voice faltered. “I swear, I...” Her mouth snapped shut, for his face was suddenly so close to her own that she feared even to breathe lest they vie for the same breath.
“Who taught you to use your lips so?” he demanded once more.
“Ph... Phillipe,” Elienor replied honestly, her chin lifting. “I... in my country ’tis the custom for lovers to...”
His fingers gripped her plait and he rocked backward upon his heels, as though buffeted. “Lovers?” His eyes slitted. “Were you lovers, Elienor?”
His look unnerved her, yet Elienor could not wrench her own gaze away to save her life.
Nor could she calm her raging heartbeat.
Or the sudden heat that flared within her at the memory of his powerful body beneath her fingertips. The fact that he was fully dressed now did little to banish the sultry image of his smooth chest, glistening bronze with sweat and steam from the bath chamber.
A muscle twitched in his jaw as he anticipated her response. “Were you lovers?” he demanded once more, his tone soft but ruthless, nonetheless. Elienor glanced at his hand uneasily, her heart quickening, for with her plait unraveled, he stroked a lock of her hair between his fingers. If she angered him, what would prevent him from using it to subdue her?
She shook her head in answer.
A look of fierce satisfaction came over his harsh features. He brought the lock he was caressing to his nose, breathing deeply of its scent. “That pleases me,” he told her, his gaze softening considerably. His fingers moved to tangle deep into her hair, and a quiver swept Elienor’s spine as she felt them curl about her nape. Had she wanted to flee him, she couldn’t have, for he held her firm now. His other hand lit upon her hip, and she started with a gasp of surprise. He smiled, squeezing gently before sliding his arm about her waist. She cried out as in the next moment she found herself hauled forward and crushed against the incredible heat of his body.
“I’ve known kisses afore,” Alarik said bluntly, his eyes glittering strangely. “Kisses of homage betwixt men...”
He touched his warm lips to each side of her face, lingering as though to savor the scent and taste of her skin. Elienor’s blood rushed into her head at the delicious sensation. Instinctively she knew that never were those kisses he spoke of so lingering and spine tingling as this one had been.
“Kisses of promise,” he continued gruffly, “those meted behind the backs of fathers... or between lovers,” he added pointedly, pecking her lips softly.
When their lips parted an eternity later, Elienor felt a heart pang over his disclosure. Yet why should she object that he’d shared such kisses with others, she asked herself scornfully.
He was her enemy, she reminded herself.
His smile deepened. “Never,” he revealed fervently, his molten silver eyes penetrating her defenses, “have I thought to taste so deeply.”
Elienor looked up at him questioningly, and he shook his head slowly, his provocative mouth stirring closer, his lips brushing hers as
he spoke. Elienor whimpered softly at the soft caress, and his grip firmed upon the back of her neck as though to keep her from escaping him. “Never have I considered it, even,” he told her, “for ’tis not our way. Yet I find the flavor of you lingers, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes. Lingers,” he whispered, “like exquisite Fransk wine—strange to the palate… intoxicating nonetheless.”
Mesmerized by the heady sensation of his lips so close to her mouth, Elienor’s limbs weakened, yet as his lips pressed into her own, her sanity returned enough that she shoved at his leather-garbed chest in confusion.
Alarik merely grinned. “I’ve had babes give more of an effort,” he told her bluntly. “Mayhap you are undecided?” His silver eyes mocked her.
A quiver raced down Elienor’s spine, yet she managed to lift her chin as best she could. “Unhand me!” she cried softly.
“Elienor,” he whispered, relishing the sound of her name on his lips. His brows flickered a little, his eyes growing openly amused. He chuckled deeply, and the sound made Elienor’s senses scatter. “Ever you amaze me, my little nun. Men tremble before me, yet you seem not to fear me at all.” He crushed her to him once more, a demonic smile curving his lips. “Still, you cannot think to entice me,” he advised, a glint of wonder in his eyes, “only to deny me later.”
Elienor felt a flush rise to her face. She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came. Suddenly, and without warning, he swooped to take her mouth as though he were famished for the taste of her.
Alarik groaned in satisfaction as Elienor allowed his tongue to sweep across the soft fullness of her lips.
Resistance came only when he attempted to enter the silky warmth of her mouth. She whimpered and pressed her lips together to deny him entrance—a last dire effort, he knew, but he refused to be denied.
His body quickening with the feel of her in his arms, he reveled in the taste of her sweet lips, nipped them, lapped them, feasted upon them, coaxed her to open unto him. When that failed, he lifted her abruptly to the level of his face. Too long he’d waited, and now there was no more patience, no more reason. “Open for me, Elienor!” he demanded harshly, his breath ragged. By the blood of his father, he’d sworn to take naught she did not freely give, but he couldn’t be certain what he would do if she refused to yield!
Elienor cried out, her heart leaping into her throat. She clung to Alarik for support, her eyes closing in desperation, and obeyed at once, her lips parting softly.
God forgive her, but she found she could not help herself, could not deny him.
At once Alarik reclaimed her lips. Half-insane with the desire to taste her, his tongue drove in at once to explore the velvety recesses of her mouth. His heart hammered.
Loki take him! She was more delectable than he remembered.
The pit of Elienor’s stomach responded with a tumultuous swirl as his moist, firm mouth demanded a response. To her horror, even as she called herself wanton, fool, and shameless, she reveled in the kiss.
Like liquid fire his tongue stabbed into the warmth of her mouth, drinking of her as though his soul demanded it... and the saints protect her, she delighted in it, radiated with it. The thought crossed her mind in that instant that she’d never been cut of holy cloth, for surely no bride of Christ would respond so eagerly to a mortal man.
Much less her sworn enemy!
Her heart twisted.
He was her enemy.
Alarik nearly came where he stood as Elienor offered her soft little tongue. Yet he thrust it back savagely with his own, determined to retain control this time. And then suddenly he paused and drew away.
“I...” Alarik swallowed, unaccustomed to asking for aught. Nevertheless, he would have her willing, or not at all. “Elienor... I would show you what else these lips... this tongue of mine can do.”
She opened her eyes, looking up at him, half-dazed.
Elienor’s heart flew into her throat. She said nothing—dared say nothing, for she feared that if she spoke, the answer would come forth as aye, when she knew it should be nay. It had to be nay! She could not, in all good conscience, simply give herself to her enemy!
“Elienor!” he implored, plunging her to the bed abruptly.
Elienor felt a scream catch in her throat as he trapped her between his arms. Yet his lips did nothing more than to seek out hers and brush them in a surprisingly gentle kiss—hot and persistent, coaxing, tormenting, burning.
“Elienor?” he hissed between her lips.
All thought of protest vanished when his tongue slipped into her mouth once more, this time finding easy entrance.
Was she so faithless? So wanton?
Her heart ached at the thought. She gasped as Alarik lowered his body to cover hers. This time she managed a whimper of protest, and turned her face in vain.
It stopped him not at all. His lips sought her neck instead, nibbling feverishly, consuming her... and to her shame, Elienor found herself responding in ways she’d never conceived possible.
Her body arched of its own will. Desire, like molten fire, flowed through her veins, coloring her cheeks with mortification. Yet to her dismay, she simply moaned in pleasure as his hands cupped her face and he sought her mouth once more, his tongue stabbing in, and out, then in, out, in, the rhythm mesmerizing. With each thrust her heart leapt higher.
With an oblivious groan, Alarik suckled Elienor’s tongue, greedily taking everything she would give. His body hardened more fully with each taste of her, and so did his resolve; he would have her—tonight, by Odin! He must have her.
Or grow mad.
Her passionate whimpers melded with his groans of desire until that sweet melody was the only sound to fill his ears, spurring him onward, exciting his senses.
All the while, her hands stroked him unconsciously. He doubted she was aware of that, nor that her body writhed beneath him in virginal frustration. When her pelvis careened into his instinctively, he rocked forward ruthlessly in answer, eagerly pursuing what she so naively offered.
More than aught else, he yearned to bury himself deep within her—she was so soft... so soft and supple in his arms.
He swore beneath his breath.
She tilted her pelvis once more, and the desire he’d harnessed for so long erupted violently within him. Need clawed him like a wild beast, stealing reason. Yet despite his instant of oblivion he found a moment to lift himself, to remove his boots, discarding them hastily upon the floor beside the bed. At the same time, before she could regain her senses enough to protest, his fingers slipped up her gown, until he found her, and he quivered with anticipation when he felt her wet to the touch.
Elienor cried out, starting at the unexpected touch of his fingers in her most intimate place.
Slowly, seductively, his head thrusting backward in sheer pleasure as he discovered her, he stroked her, wanting naught more than to rip the gown from her body and feel her more intimately beneath him. Yet he restrained himself, knowing patience and cunning would gain him more. A sheen of perspiration broke forth, bathing his flesh with the salt of his body as he drove his finger once more into the depths of her, stroking the nectar within, preparing her for the size of him. When she closed her legs instinctively, he nudged them apart with hands that trembled, so potent was his lust.
Elienor moaned, her body twisting. She opened her eyes, the turmoil clear in her eyes.
Indisputably, those eyes were the most bewitching Alarik had ever beheld. He stared, mesmerized by the violet-blue pools. “Truly, you are lovely,” he whispered huskily, teasing her still. He watched her breast rising and falling, her breathing quickening as she gazed at him, and in that moment he understood that she acquiesced with her startling blue eyes... and her silence. The knowledge filled him. His body quickening, he parted her once more and slowly inserted a finger. She cried out, tilting for him, her eyes glazing with passion.
He smiled mercilessly, shuddering.
Elienor whimpered, a helpless sound deep in the back of her throat and twi
sted in frustration. “You... you... promised not... not to force me!” she cried feverishly.
“So I did,” he admitted. “So I did.” His eyes glittered. “You wish me to stop, then?” His eyes flickered knowingly and his lips curved slightly when her eyes widened.
She forced herself to speak. “Aye!” she cried out, uncertainly, twisting on the bed.
He withdrew, smiling devilishly.
Elienor’s heart plummeted. Her face flushed, for rather than feel relief that he had adhered to her wishes, she yearned only for the return of his touch. She berated herself that it was a sin to lie with a man without benefit of matrimony, yet at this moment she feared she craved just that.
Mayhap it was the simple fact that Francia, Phillipe, Mother Heloise, and the priory were so far away, or mayhap, if she could be honest with herself, It was simply because she desperately wanted that certain something his kisses tendered, the promise of fulfillment.
Was it so wrong to seek it?
She’d despaired that she would ever know a man—indeed, had never dared to consider it until Phillipe. Yet now...
She feared she craved it with a madness that was shameful.
There was absolutely no guile to his little nun at all, Alarik acknowledged. Her eyes indisputably asked him to continue, yet he would hear it from her own lips. His own eyes narrowed ruthlessly. “Say it, Elienor.” She’d given him a taste of her passion, had shown him how sweet it could be.
He wanted her willing.
Or not at all.
Elienor shook her head.
“Say it!” he hissed, his knuckle returning to graze her curls. She cried out at the shock of his touch. “You want this,” he whispered huskily. The gray of his eyes smoldered as he looked down upon her.
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