Viking's Prize

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Like this,” he urged, guiding her hips slowly with his hands.

  Elienor undulated as Alarik commanded, and his head thrust backward in response, the cords of his neck taut. He moaned, and she soon found her hips moving of their own accord in the same deliciously slow rhythm he’d created. His arms embraced her firmly, searing her skin even through her gown, making her burn, until the very slowness of their rhythm was a torment. Once again his name erupted from her lips.

  It drove him to the edge.

  Alarik held her possessively as the landscape momentarily blurred. Were it not for the death grip his legs held about Sleipnir’s flanks, they would both have spiraled to the ground. Within the instant, she muffled her own cries into his shoulder, and then, sighing blissfully, she closed her eyes and lay against him. At once, Alarik turned her about and gathered his mantle about her.

  Physically spent from their loving—that and the fact that she’d slept little the night before—she allowed herself to drowse in his arms.

  Snuggled securely within his embrace as she was, she didn’t see the way that he gazed down at her; he stared, as though by the intensity of that gesture he could see into her soul, searching, probing, questioning, for while their loving, as always, satiated his body’s hunger, he was left still wanting.

  Placing his lips to the crown of her head, he tangled his fingers into her hair and rode on. And for the briefest instant, as he held her, it seemed as though she accepted him, at last. He found himself wishing he’d never be forced to turn back.

  Nevertheless, even as he thought it, he redirected Sleipnir, and it wasn’t long before he discerned that they’d somehow ridden past the grove that was his original destination. His lips curved ruefully at the realization. So much for privacy.

  Yet they hadn’t needed it, he acknowledged with a smug grin. His little sleepy nun had forgotten everything in the heat of her passion.

  As had he.

  Despite that fact, as they made their way back to the steading he continued to brood, for while he’d indisputably won Elienor’s surrender...

  He couldn’t help but feel something lacking still.

  “I come with news you’ll not relish,” Hrolf said with a smirk, leaping down from his mount. He tossed the reins over its withers and then leaned his back against the nearest tree to catch his breath.

  Bjorn clenched his teeth, crossing his arms. Hrolf had sent a man to his bed well before daybreak with a message that Bjorn wanted to meet him in the grove this afternoon, and Bjorn had come out of curiosity. Impatiently, he waited for Hrolf to explain himself now.

  Hrolf merely grinned, bracing his foot against the tree. He unsheathed the dagger from his boot and then swiped at the sweat upon his upper lip with his sleeve. “I suppose you wonder why I’ve called you?”

  Bjorn tilted his head irritably.

  Hrolf’s brows lifted. “It seems Ejnar has decided you are not worthy of his daughter,” he said at last. Satisfied with the look he’d gleaned from Bjorn, he picked his teeth with the tip of his blade. Again his brow lifted as he eagerly awaited Bjorn’s reaction to his revelation.

  Bjorn’s chin jutted forward. “You summon me in broad daylight? I risk myself to come—to hear this? Nei, Hrolf, I think not. If Ejnar had decided not to deal with me, then ‘tis his way to simply ignore me. ’Tis my guess you have a proposition for me.”

  Hrolf nodded. “You always were a shrewd one,” he answered. His gaze averted momentarily to the blade in his hand, and then returned to Bjorn, again measuring, his eyes brilliant with purpose. “I wonder what might have been were you to have held Alarik’s high seat instead,” he suggested slyly.

  Bjorn’s hands fell to his sword, unsheathing it. The metal hissed as it left his scabbard. “I have never coveted Alarik’s seat,” he denied hotly.

  Hrolf poised himself with dagger in hand, anticipating Bjorn’s attack. When none came, he laughed, taunting, “You lie!”

  Bjorn lunged at him, but Hrolf dodged him and stood ready once more, dagger in hand. His eyes narrowed, his lips curled viciously. “Still, Ejnar perceives Alarik as the best match for his daughter,” he revealed. “He’s convinced that if he kills the Frenchwoman, Alarik’s interest will return to Nissa.”

  “Return to her?” Bjorn snarled, striking his sword against the tree. “Mine fool brother has never wanted her for aught! Damn him! Damn mine brother!” He turned to face Hrolf, ready to listen.

  Hrolf agreed with a nod. “My sentiments wholly. You and I perceive thus much, but Ejnar refuses to acknowledge it. Then again... he can be a very persuasive man.”

  He allowed Bjorn a moment to digest his meaning. “Nevertheless, ’tis none of my concern whether Alarik accepts the bitch, or nei. My concern is only that the Fransk, along with Olav and the holy man, are poisoning Alarik’s mind... that soon Alarik will turn from the old ways as has Olav. Were he to join with Ejnar’s daughter, I fear to think of the power he would have at his hands. Consider it, Bjorn.”

  “I’ve said afore,” Bjorn argued, though with less passion, “Alarik will never embrace the Christian faith. I’ve told you. I should know, for he is mine brother.” .

  “Ja, well...” Without warning, Hrolf heaved his knife at the tree behind Bjorn. The bone hilt quivered portentously. “We both know what value he’s placed on that of late.” He raised a challenging brow. “Don’t we, Bjorn?”

  “’Tis none of your—”

  “I wonder why he’s so often spied at the kirken these days?” Hrolf interjected harshly. “He seemed to have little regard for the place before.”

  “’Tis no secret that he bums for the Frenchwoman.”

  “Nei, but mark mine words—’tis merely a matter of time before he begins to employ the same harsh tactics Olav adheres to.”

  Hrolf snatched up his blade, glaring at Bjorn wrathfully. He re-sheathed it within his boot. “At any rate, I came to relay only this... if you should find yourself wishing to oppose your brother, you have mine support... as well as that of others, for neither am I pleased to be with Ejnar. There is naught for me to gain in remaining with the Dane.”

  Bjorn straightened, one tawny brow raised. “What you propose is treason.”

  “What I propose is freedom from Olav’s persecution!” Hrolf countered. “Think on it, Bjorn... you could have both the high seat... and Nissa as well. Consider it, at least,” he suggested. “And then let me know what you decide.”

  Having said all he wished to, he turned and seized his reins, then leapt back into the saddle.

  Bjorn watched him, saying nothing, his brows knit.

  “You won’t hear from Ejnar again—not directly,” Hrolf told him. “As you so aptly speculated, he has determined it beneath himself to acknowledge your request. So... you should consider my counsel carefully.”

  With that he turned his mount about, but swung back to add, “Oh, and Bjorn... you should keep in mind that once Alarik has joined Ejnar by ties of wedlock, all will be lost to you. Apprise me soon, if you would.” With that, he turned again, riding out of the grove, leaving Bjorn feeling more impotent than ever.

  In truth, Bjorn prized his brother—despite the fact that they had so little in common. But what if what Hrolf said was truth? He would not be forced—he refused to cleave to this new faith!

  And then there was Nissa...

  Peering up at the glowing orb of fire that was the waning sun, he watched Hrolf go, and then turned and started back toward the steading, Hrolf’s words simmering like a potion in his head.

  Alarik reined in suddenly at the sight of the lone rider racing away from the grove. Even from this distance, he recognized the sun-fire bright hair.

  Hrolf Kaetilson.

  He stiffened, for moments later Bjorn rode out as well, racing toward the steading, clearly so preoccupied that he failed to notice he had an audience.

  Alarik’s eyes darkened as he watched his youngest brother’s flight, his emotions wavering between fury and regret, and then he swor
e beneath his breath and spurred his own mount after him.

  CHAPTER 27

  Alarik and Elienor arrived at the steading mere moments after Bjorn. Perceiving that Bjorn would have ridden directly to the stables, Alarik reined in before the longhouse, shaking Elienor awake. “Elienor,” he said hoarsely.

  Sleepily, she Lifted up her head.

  “Wake yourself!” he demanded, and the brusque edge to his voice instantly alerted her to his dark mood. She straightened and he dismounted, hauling her down after him. “I would have you go to the eldhus.”

  Disoriented from her nap, she asked, “The kitchens?”

  Alarik gave her a curt nod. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell Alva to delay the serving of nattver.”

  Elienor nodded, looking puzzled by his change in mood, and turned to go.

  He watched only an instant to be certain that she complied, and then he sought out Olav.

  He found his brother in the skali, seated at the high table, drinking horn in hand. As he made his way to where his half-brother sat, his look was blacker than the deepest night, causing Olav’s horn to arrest in midair.

  Making certain that Bjorn was not present, he bellowed a dismissal to everyone within the hall, ordering them not to return until the meal was ready to be served. Only when he stood before the high table did he speak.

  “Backbiting, sniveling fool!” he declared, ripping off his mantle and hurling it across the table into his empty chair at Olav’s side.

  “Do you speak to me?”

  Alarik’s face contorted with cold fury. “Nei. Bjorn! A week ago I was told he sent a messenger from Gryting. The man was followed well into Dane territory.” A string of oaths erupted from his tongue. “This afternoon he met with Hrolf Kaetilson. Loki take the boy!” he exploded. “He’s never wanted for aught under mine hand!”

  Olav dropped his horn to the table. “Can he not have come upon Hrolf unintentionally?”

  Alarik struck the table with his fist in bitter rage, not caring that he risked his sword hand in the angry gesture. “Nei!” he bellowed. “Curse him—a thousand times, curse him!”

  “What do you propose to do?” Olav asked quietly. He well understood Alarik’s outrage, for Alarik had long coddled the boy—going so far as to soothe Bjorn’s wounded pride when he’d felt threatened simply because Olav had appeared in their lives.

  Olav had never known his sire, for he’d had the misfortune to be born in the year after his father’s death. Directly thereafter his mother, fearing for her son’s life at the hands of those eager to claim his father’s seat, took Olav and fled to safety. He alone had returned, a man grown. It was incredible to look upon the brothers, for other than the color of their eyes and hair, there was little disparity between them.

  There were times when Olav envied Alarik that he had known their sire, yet not enough to cross his half-brother, for Alarik was, in more ways than not, his kindred spirit.

  Bjorn was another matter entirely.

  Olav and Bjorn bore no blood relation to each other, save through Alarik, nor did they bear each other much affection. From the very beginning Bjorn had resented Olav coming between him and Alarik, for Bjorn had been a youth in awe of his elder brother. Olav’s arrival had driven a wedge between them, yet Olav could no longer bring himself to care, for Bjorn had rebuffed every attempt Olav had ever made to befriend him.

  Still, Olav would have saved Alarik the pain of betrayal. “Perhaps my little errand with Burislav could be useful in some manner?”

  Alarik heaved a weary sigh, leaning heavily upon the table. He peered up at Olav, his eyes red rimmed and glazed. And then his gaze settled upon the ring about Olav’s neck. A rage as he’d never experienced in all his life erupted within him as he stared at that ring. King, or nei, brother, or nei, he wanted to leap over the table and strangle Olav with the leather that bore it. “I’ve no idea what to do,” he ceded, his voice tense. “But ’twould be wise to keep this to ourselves... for now... until I can at least ascertain what he intends.” Again, he slammed the table and spat another oath.

  Olav nodded “’Tis agreed, then. We shall wait—”

  “Where did you get that ring?” Alarik demanded, his voice strained. A thousand possibilities raced through his mind, none of them palatable, for Elienor wore the ring always, well secreted beneath her gown. His eyes blazed.

  Olav’s brows lifted, his hand going to the band. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he peered over Alarik’s shoulder, a motion beyond the door catching his eye. His shrewd green eyes met Bjorn’s blue ones, and then Alarik’s iron gray ones. “Speaking of the beast,” he said quietly.

  Alarik pivoted about to face his youngest brother, willing himself to remain composed. Damn the fool boy! Some part of him wanted to tear out Bjorn’s heart—carve the blood eagle upon his back—rip out his lungs! Controlling his features to conceal his ire, he attempted a smile. He clasped Bjorn’s arm as it was proffered.

  “Mine brother?” Bjorn said warily. Alarik nodded, and Bjorn winced at the unyielding grip maintained upon his arm.

  Bjorn turned to Olav, his mouth twitching as he noted Olav’s grave expression. Olav watched them as though he expected something dire to occur any moment.

  “Alarik!” Bjorn protested when Alarik failed to release his arm. He slapped a hand over Alarik’s fist, easing Alarik’s fingers from his flesh. “Mine arm,” he appealed. “Forsooth, mine bror, at times I believe you forget your own strength.”

  Alarik’s lips curved only slightly as he released Bjorn; it was all the smile he could muster. “We missed your company today,” he said softly, too softly. “Where have you been?”

  The silence within the hall was palpable.

  Bjorn peered again at Olav, noting the ill-at-ease way that Olav drummed the tips of his fingers upon the table, his eyes fixed upon Alarik.

  “Alarik?” Olav prompted. “Mayhap Bjorn would care to join us.”

  Alarik’s gaze narrowed upon Bjorn, his brows lifting. He made no move to reply to Olav. “Holed up with some wench no doubt?” he asked of Bjorn.

  His eyes flickered when Bjorn gave him a nod. “Well, then, I do hope she was worth it.”

  “Indeed, she was!” Bjorn replied.

  Alarik gestured toward the high table. “Won’t you join us, then, mine brother?”

  Bjorn’s brows drew together, sensing Alarik’s request was more a command. Awkwardly he made his way around the table, taking his seat upon the bench directly at Alarik’s left, away from Olav, sending Olav a resentful glance as he sat. He felt a twinge of regret over the decision he’d come to as he rode home—though merely a twinge, for in his heart he felt that what he’d decided was for the best of the steading.

  Hrolf was right.

  Alarik was not thinking rationally—not if he was thinking like Olav.

  The very air within the hall seemed to crackle with tension as Elienor entered. She felt the unease tangibly. When Alarik motioned her to the high table, she resisted the urge to flee past him into his bedchamber—his bedchamber, for she still could not claim it despite the fact that she spent her nights there within his arms.

  It was his.

  As was she, in more ways than she cared to acknowledge.

  As she made her way to the dais, Alarik elbowed Bjorn, and spoke to him softly. Elienor heard not a word, but she had no need to guess what had been said, for Bjorn stood suddenly, toppling his bench backward. His legs were braced apart, his eyes blazing hatred at Elienor. “You displace me for her?” His voice rose. “For her! I’ll not move!”

  “You will,” Alarik returned softly.

  “I’ll not!” Bjorn exploded

  Alarik stood, raking his chair backward. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “You will! And you will do so now,” he said with deadly menace.

  Bjorn’s ire exploded with an appalling string of oaths. Elienor had never heard such words. ‘Take it then—give it to the whore!” And with that, he kicked the bench away. He sta
lked off without a backward glance at Alarik. Elienor’s face paled at the look he shot her in passing. She glanced at Olav. Then Alarik. Then Olav.

  Olav’s green eyes missed nothing. He lifted a brow in silent question, and something in his look triggered a memory, something in the intensity of his gaze.

  Something...

  She felt dizzy suddenly and reached out to steady herself. The room swam before her and then her vision went momentarily black. She saw him again standing at the prow—Olav. It was him, she knew, for the eyes were green. Green. The ship’s prow twisted before her eyes into the head of a serpent. One instant Olav was holding it, the next he was in the water, his crimson cloak swirling downward after him, into the deep blue sea.

  “Elienor?” It was Alarik’s voice that penetrated her dazed senses.

  Yet she couldn’t come back. Something held her still. Vaguely, she was aware that he came toward her, and the vision solidified before her eyes. She saw him upon his own ship, watching, too, as Olav plummeted into the ocean. And then again she saw Alarik’s face torn. He was torn, uncertain whether to come for her... or to go after his brother. In a split second he made his decision—to come for her. Like a hawk, he soared the distance over the churning water. At the same instant, a gleaming axe was hurled through the air, toward his back.

  Elienor cried out. Her legs went weak.

  “Elienor?” Alarik shook her firmly, the sting of his grip upon her arm bringing her back. “Elienor?”

  Aware suddenly that he was supporting her, she steadied herself, shaking her head, but she swayed, giving no substance to her words. “I... I... fine,” she said much too quickly, breaking away. She glanced down at her hands, her heart beating erratically.

  No blood.

  There was no blood.

  She glanced back up at him in dazed shock.

  Alarik stood there before her, his brows drawn together in confusion. Yet her dream foretold of his death. Her gaze went to Olav, who sat still at the table, and then returned to Alarik. She shivered. Both! Both would die—not one! She felt suddenly ill with the revelation. “I... I... I’m not hungry!” she exclaimed, bolting past him.