Viking's Prize

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  That he take the decision from her hands.

  “Tell me, Elienor,” Alarik said softly, gruffly, his gaze unrelenting, “does Mischief’s lady abhor me, as well?” She lowered her face. He forced her chin up with a finger, but her lashes remained stubbornly upon her cheeks. “Does she?” he demanded.

  Elienor’s lashes flew up, her eyes misting. Her heart cried out in agony for shameless as it was, she’d given herself freely and of her own accord. To her enemy. She shook her head miserably, resenting the truth with all her heart, yet unable to deny him the answer he sought.

  At her reply, the harsh lines softened in his face. A shuddering took him. “You please me,” he told her gruffly. He rose abruptly, drawing her up with him.

  Elienor cried out as he drew her against the hard strength of his body.

  His face lowered to hers. “What can I do, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes,” he murmured silkily, “to please you in return?”

  Vernay cleared his throat discreetly, afeared that the situation would advance in an unseemly manner. “My lord?” he objected softly, his eyes remaining downcast.

  Mortified, Elienor’s gaze flew to the monk—the pate of his head shone back at her—and then to Olav.

  Olav looked pensive, saying nothing.

  She spun back to Alarik, her spine stiffening in humiliation to have been spied in such a shameless embrace—by a man of the cloth, no less! Olav, she could bear, for he and Alarik were two of the same, but Brother Vernay—It was miserable!

  “You could take me home,” she appealed brokenly, her eyes stinging with tears. “Take me back to Francia.”

  Before I lose my soul, she appended silently.

  Alarik shook his head, his eyes narrowing in displeasure at her suggestion, for it made him consider himself without her—empty, less than whole. And damn him, for he could less bear the thought of being without her than he could the debilitating fact that he should need her at all. “Nei, Elienor!” he said. His fingers gripped her arm in frustration. He shook her. “Ask of me something I can give! I wish to please you!”

  “I want naught else!” Elienor declared fervently. “Please, let me go!”

  “My lord?” Vernay interjected, rubbing his own arm as he observed the possessive way Alarik held her.

  Still Olav said nothing, only watched the scene unfold, tucking everything away for later.

  Alarik glared at Vernay, then at his brother, who sat silently across the room, his expression strange.

  He straightened suddenly, as though checking himself, and his expression was guarded as he released Elienor’s arm. “You say your work is complete for this day?” he asked Vernay without meeting the monk’s gaze, nor Elienor’s, but still looking directly at Olav, warning his brother without words to stay away from the kirken... from Elienor.

  “If ’tis your wish, my lord.”

  “It is,” Alarik asserted. The fine line of his control redrawn, his gaze returned to Elienor, his eyes shadowed with a hunger no amount of self-control could dispel. “Fetch your mantle, my lovely little nun... I find I’m in sore need of a bath,” he told her bluntly.

  Olav roared with laughter.

  Vernay choked.

  Alarik’s gaze returned to the monk, disregarding his brother completely. From the corner of his eye he noted with satisfaction that Elienor hurried to recover her cape as he bid of her. “You have objections?” he asked Vernay.

  Vernay’s brows clashed, but he shook his head quickly. “Nay, my lord! ’Tis but that..

  “Good!” Alarik declared, cutting him off. When Elienor returned, he snatched the cape from her hands impatiently, placing it about her shoulders. That done, he opened the door and ushered her out, assuring Vernay that she would return at her appointed hour on the morrow.

  He said nothing to Olav.

  “Mischief!” Elienor exclaimed, remembering the pup as Alarik drew the door closed behind them.

  “Vernay will see that he makes it safely to the manor. He won’t be able to keep up.”

  Elienor made no more objection as he led her to his horse, lifting her upon its back. And then, in one fluid motion, he mounted behind her, driving his heel into Sleipnir’s flank.

  In a little time they reined in before the bath house, and all Elienor could think was that Mischief truly wouldn’t have been able to keep pace. Alarik had ridden as though demons cleaved at his heels.

  The realization swept over her suddenly that she wasn’t going to be able to stop this.

  She wasn’t even certain she wanted to!

  Dismounting hastily, Alarik drew her down to her feet. Elienor’s knees faltered, but he steadied her, and then opening the door to the bath house, he ushered her into the shadowy interior. He’d not even taken the time to have Alva restore the fire, and the dying embers glowed eerily.

  “My lord!” she protested, in panic. “’Tis day yet! There are people about!”

  He kicked the door closed, his lips curving diabolically. “We’ll not be disturbed,” he told her with certainty. Taking her by the arm, he swung her about sharply, until her back was to him, and then proceeded to undo the brooch at her right shoulder, not needing to see it to undo it, his fingers deft at their work.

  Her gown slid down on the right side. Crying out, Elienor clutched the silk to her breast, halting its descent. “’Tis cold!” she protested.

  “Not for long,” Alarik promised at her nape, his breath warm as it hissed across her flesh. The determination in his voice sent a quiver down her spine. He unfastened the twin brooch at her left shoulder, and with a gentleness that belied his strength, drew the gown down.

  Elienor whimpered, her eyes squeezing shut as the silk was pulled out of her grasp. But he wasn’t satisfied, for no sooner was the silk overgown discarded than he began to undo the laces of the matching undergown. That done, he drew it up over her head and tossed it aside, baring her wholly to his hungry gaze.

  It settled with a whisper upon the furs.

  With a sigh of intense pleasure, Alarik traced a finger down her spine, content for the moment merely to gaze at her perfect form. The flush of her skin was perceptible even in the shadows of the dying firelight. She gave a startled whimper and stumbled back against him, and his heart somersaulted like that of an unseasoned youth with the unexpected contact.

  “Elienor,” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes closing. He shuddered with pleasure at the feel of her bare skin against him. “Do you know what you do to me, my little nun?”

  Do you know what you do to me? she thought to herself.

  He chuckled suddenly, as though pleased, and his arms encircled her waist. He embraced her a moment, and then his hands drifted upward to seize the prize he’d exposed, his fingers lightly skimming her ribs.

  “Please,” Elienor moaned. “I... I...”

  Alarik tensed in anticipation of her protest. Although after her whispered declaration, he knew it would take little to sway her—she seemed to have little, or no control of her wayward tongue—at times, this time, it played to his advantage. He bent to place a long lingering kiss upon the delicate swell that crested her shoulder. She said nothing, only whimpered softly in the back of her throat, and he inhaled deeply in satisfaction.

  The sweet, heady fragrance of her hair accosted him, lingering in the air, enshrouding him. He found it near as potent a potion as the sound of his name on her lips. With an oblivious groan, he buried his lips within the softness of her hair, and hearing her faint exhale only heated his senses more.

  “Elienor,” he moaned. “Elienor... Elienor... Elienor…”

  Elienor ceased to breathe at the intensity with which he spoke her name. She dared not turn to face him—lest he see the hunger in her own eyes—dared not speak, lest her words and voice betray her.

  She fought a fierce battle with her conscience as he held and caressed her body. It felt so right, so right, yet she knew it to be wrong!

  As his hands slid beneath her breasts, cupping them with hard b
ut sensitive palms, her body exposed her for the wanton she was. She shivered expectantly as rugged hands fondled her and inflamed her senses, made her burn. She swallowed, her heart leaping into her throat as his lips touched her bare shoulder once more. “I... I thought... I thought you wanted me to aid you with your bath?”

  Alarik smiled at the uncertainty in her voice. “I do wish you to aid me,” he told her provocatively, bending to whisper into her ear. “But I fear the bath will have to wait, my exquisite little Fransk.”

  Elienor gasped as she became aware of the hardness of him pressing her back. Her heart pounded violently as she fought a battle with her will. Gently, he swept the length of her hair aside, placing a kiss upon her other shoulder.

  She trembled, feeling herself losing, losing—not just the battle, but the war itself.

  Her resolution to deny herself the pleasure he could give ebbed with every expert touch of his masterful hands and lips. As his fingers gently kneaded her bosom, her head fell backward helplessly, allowing him his will. As though pleased with her response, his breath hissed over the curve of her neck, and she felt her knees go instantly weak.

  Alarik’s body quickened when she went limp in his arms. He steadied her. “Art sweet,” he whispered. “So very... very... sweet.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath as he nipped her neck, tasting the sheen of desire upon her flesh.

  The coppery firelight caressed her creamy white flesh. As though compelled, his hands stroked her wherever the light revealed her, and perceiving that she was at last his for the taking, he groaned deep in the back of his throat, a sound of victory. Impatiently, he tore at the laces of his breeches, undoing them swiftly and with ease. He shuddered with exhilaration as he freed himself. Then, holding her steady, he stepped away to discard the restrictive clothing.

  Trembling where she stood, Elienor closed her eyes, listening to the telltale sounds behind her—the rustling of garments as they melted from Alarik’s body.

  With every part of her, she willed herself to cry out and flee.

  And then he was behind her once more, the naked heat of his flesh searing her clear unto her soul. Her heart pounded within her breast, drowning out everything but its wild beating, yet arrested completely as Alarik enfolded her within the warmth of his arms once more.

  And then her blood swept into her head and her heart began to pound violently once more as he rocked her, unabashedly, from behind.

  Lord have mercy upon her soul. She would die!

  Gently, he brought his right hand down and splayed it across her abdomen, holding her steady while he rocked her.

  Alarik’s arms dropped to her waist as he went to his knees, compelling her downward with him. His heart hammered and his breath became labored as he anticipated how he would take her this time—with all the primitive fury of the Northland! Once she was firmly upon her knees on the soft furs, he molded his body over hers until he was able to settle himself between her legs, shuddering over the exhilarating sensation. In that instant, he knew an incredible desire to please her, as well. He brought his hand around to stroke her, all the while kissing her back, breathing deeply of the scent of her hair.

  His eyes closed as he guided himself into her, groaning unconsciously.

  Elienor gasped, her head arching backward.

  With his chin, Alarik nudged her hair from her back and tasted her warm, velvety skin with his lips. He savored her with his tongue, committing the taste and feel of her to his mind, all the while disregarding his own body’s demands; he stroked her until she cried out beneath him, and then he lifted himself, and holding her hips steady for his pleasure, he gave himself up to his own dark passions.

  Elienor whimpered in ecstasy at his every thrust, crying out when heat exploded within her once more, wracking her body with delicious spasms. She was helpless to arrest the cry of his name that came to her lips.

  The whispered name exploded within his head.

  With an incredible rush of pleasure, Alarik gripped her hips tighter, and with one last powerful thrust, poured his life and soul into her.

  He remained pressed into her until he was certain his seed was buried so deeply within her womb that she would surely conceive his babe.

  He quivered almost violently then, separating from her, and collapsing to the furs. Rolling to his back, he took her with him, and holding her close, stroked the length of her hair until he could feel the smooth even rhythm of her slumbering breath. He stroked her until his own breathing settled and his heartbeat tempered.

  And still he caressed her, for she felt so right beneath his fingers.

  The last thing he thought before dosing his eyes was that he was tired of fighting what he felt for her.

  He could no longer deny it.

  Whatever the bond, it was too powerful. If it was his destiny to love her, then so be it—to hell with the part of him that warned him not to succumb!

  The pull was irresistible. Yet, he would, in fad, resist.

  As he’d long ago discovered, the heart was a powerful weapon. He could not so freely give his.

  He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  CHAPTER 26

  Alarik came to fetch Elienor earlier and earlier each afternoon, and so it came as no shock when, a week later, the door to the kirken burst open a mere hour after she’d left the manor house.

  Brother Vernay cleared his throat, lifting his brows. “Er... you’ll be needing a bath, my lord?”

  Alarik gave the monk a frown. “Among other things,” he ceded. His lips curved into a satisfied smile as Elienor straightaway rose to retrieve her cape, displacing the demon dog from her lap in the process. His mood was so high that he felt it no hardship to ignore the yapping pup and the fiendish way that it once again attacked his boots. He gave it no more than a mildly disgruntled glance, shaking it off.

  Vernay’s cheeks reddened as he came forward to lift up the seething animal, embarrassed by the jarl’s frankness, nevertheless pleased at what he sensed between them. “I fear we shall never finish at this rate,” he said disapprovingly, though with little insistence.

  Alarik grinned. “Mayhap not,” he relented, smiling at Elienor as she returned to him. The monk was forgotten completely when she returned his smile, though tentatively.

  Yet it was a beginning.

  Impatiently, he drew her outside, leading her at once to where Sleipnir stood tethered. He lifted her up onto Sleipnir’s back, then untied the horse, bounding up behind her. Only this time, instead of directing the animal toward the manor, he led it away.

  “Where are we going?” Elienor asked in surprise.

  “For a ride,” Alarik replied. And without further warning, he turned her about to face him, cursing himself even as he did so, for he couldn’t even wait until he had her alone. “I burn for you Elienor,” he told her huskily, unlacing his breeches as she watched.

  Elienor’s eyes widened. A shiver burst through her, both from the cold and the sheer determination in Alarik’s gaze.

  “We can’t!”

  “You’re like ambrosia,” he whispered, ignoring her protest. “The more I savor...the more I crave.”

  His desire reared itself like a fire-breathing serpent in his veins. He was overtaken with the need to impale her so deeply that she could never leave. The need to brand her, to hear her whisper his name in rapture once more, was inexorable.

  He felt her shiver and smiled knowingly.

  “We can’t simply...” Her voice broke.

  Elienor’s heart skipped its normal beat, for he watched her with that covetous, heavy lidded gaze that stoked the embers of that treacherous fire within her. “Not here!”

  “I need you, Elienor,” he murmured, grinning. Drawing up her gown, he left no doubt as to his meaning. And with the gown out of the way, he lifted her suddenly, seating her upon his lap. Elienor gasped as he eased into her right there in the broad light of day, under the gray-blue heavens, and atop his steed, for God and all the world
to see.

  She clung to him.

  Alarik groaned, dosing his eyes at the incredible feel of her, his arousal grown violent in its intensity. “Wrap your legs about mine waist,” he demanded. She did, at once placing them behind him as he’d asked, and he hooked his feet about hers, anchoring her, then bent his head to murmur his plea into her ear, “Now love me, my little nun.”

  Elienor closed her eyes, his bold words setting her body awash with color and fire. Yet some small part of her dung to a shred of reason.

  The tiniest shred.

  “Alarik,” she protested.

  “Shhhhhh... let me please you. Odin’s eye!” he swore. “As I live and breathe, wench, I have never desired anything or anyone more!”

  Elienor stifled the tears that threatened to flow.

  She sagged against him in defeat, bracing her hands upon his chest. “Not here,” she pleaded again, brokenly, her heart screaming something else entirely: Desire? Desire? “Why?” she whispered. “Why? Why?”

  “Because I need you!” Alarik murmured.

  He wrapped his mantle about them both, forming a warm cocoon around the two of them.

  Elienor’s fingers dug into his flesh. Regardless that she so desperately wished to, she could not control her body’s treacherous response to him. Yet at the moment she didn’t care, for she feared she loved him.

  She gave in to the impulse and slid her arms around his chest, reveling in its size and sinew, as though to unite them together forever. She felt him quiver at her gesture, and his response emboldened her. She buried her lips into his neck, tasting the salt of his flesh, her heart crying her love, even as her lips refused to give it voice.

  Instead, she whispered his name.