Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (10 page)

“Sometimes, although I believe in God and am his servant, sometimes…I feel called to the old ways.”

“Called how?”

Elisead’s eyes scanned the floor as she searched for an answer. “I…I can
feel
the presence of the ancient spirits in the woods, in the river…and in rocks.” Her fingers grazed a carved stag leaping nigh off the border of the stone. “’Tis why I am moved to carve. It is almost as if the stone is whispering to me.”

Alaric let her words settle around him. She truly was touched, either by a spirit or a god, he knew not which. “And that is a bad thing?”

She drew her hand away from the stag and moved it to the still-emerging figure of the woman on horseback. “I do not know. I am not supposed to stray toward the pagan etchings that whisper to me. Carving is meant only to elevate God. But…but isn’t it an elevation of God’s creations to celebrate His animals and plants, and to let His stones sing?”

Alaric’s lips curved softly. “I fear you’re asking the wrong man. But I know my gods would smile on a gift such as yours, not try to control or repress it. And from what Laurel has told me of your God, He sees all. He knows what is in your heart as you carve.”

Relief washed over Elisead’s beautiful features. Her golden eyes suddenly sparkled with unshed tears.

“Thank you for that,” she breathed.

Alaric’s gaze dropped to her full, pink lips.

Suddenly the air around them stilled and seemed to thicken with taut desire. Thor’s blood, he wanted to kiss her again—
needed
to, for his entire body screamed with demanding lust. Against all his willpower, he leaned forward slowly.

Her eyes slipped to his mouth, and as he had, she tilted toward him.

A mere breath separated them now. How he longed to taste the honey of her lips once again—and so much more. He wanted to worship her body, to make her writhe in pleasure, to hear his name on her tongue as he made her come undone.

Voices suddenly sounded outside the tent. Alaric snapped his head back and reality crashed around him. What in Odin’s name was he doing?

“Thank you for the lesson in stone carving,” he said stiffly, rising to his feet. She remained seated, her eyes swirling with surprise and longing.

He stepped from the tent just as Tarr, Eyva, and the others filtered back into camp.

“Our first sowing in Pictland is complete,” Tarr said merrily, drawing cheers from the others.

A flash of embarrassment washed over Alaric before he quickly concealed it with a practiced smile. He should have been with his crew, not drawing closer to Elisead. His desire could only result in breaking his word and destroying his whole mission.

“Good,” he said levelly. “Now on to the next task—making this land our own once and for all.”

A sennight passed, but still no word arrived from Elisead’s father about further negotiations.

Elisead rolled her neck to relieve the stiffness there, but no amount of movement could undo the knots that had formed after a morning spent leaning over the enormous stone in her tent.

She stood, dropping the pebble she’d been using into the pouch on her belt. A little seed of rebellious satisfaction budded in her chest as she surveyed her work.

She’d finished the border, the one area where she was allowed to let her creativity bloom. Vines and leaves curled around woodland creatures, each in motion. It was a testament to the old ways, when the forest was thought to be alive with spirits and gods. The stone itself seemed to dance under the patterns.

The maiden riding sidesaddle in the middle of the stone was more distinct, but Elisead hadn’t gotten as far on it as she should have. Nay, instead she’d focused on a new object toward the bottom of the stone.

The long body of the ship was just now surfacing from the surrounding rock. Rectangular sails drifted forward as if emerging from mist. She wouldn’t be able to convey the dark red of the sails, but she could add groves to show that they were striped.

Defiance bubbled up once more. Her father would be furious.

The stone was meant to shine a light on Elisead’s obedience and purity. As a bride gift, it symbolized the passing of her worth—her virginity, her use in making an alliance, and perhaps even her skill in carving. The last thing Maelcon would want was to hand an unruly woman off to his hoped-for ally. The evidence of her disobedience was now literally carved in stone.

But Una had taught Elisead that the purpose of carving was to honor the
stone
, not men’s egos. Una’s carvings blended the old ways with the new, paying respect to God for His creations while also letting nature run wild across the stone’s surface.

Most of all, Una had instilled in Elisead that to carve was to become one with the stone, which meant that Elisead had to give herself over to its whispered wishes as she worked. And this stone, intended as a bride gift to a future Pictish King, spoke of Northmen now.

Elisead stepped to the tent flaps and pulled them back. A few clouds broke up the sky, leaving the air cooler than it had been in the last several days. But the air was fresh, laced with salt blowing in from the North Sea.

She’d been inside the tent too much in the nigh fortnight she’d been amongst the Northmen, but it seemed to be the only place she was safe from Alaric’s searching green eyes.

Safe from her own tugging desire to see him, touch him, and be enfolded in his embrace, more like.

Rebellion once again stirred in her breast as she inhaled the fresh, salty air.

She wanted a Northman.

She could admit it, if only to herself. It was wrong in every way, but she wanted him nonetheless. His gaze, his touch, his kiss had awakened something within her, something that felt wild and free. And something that also felt strangely…
inevitable
, as if the spirits themselves had guided them together.

Elisead bit her lip against the desire to smile. Nay, she could not give in to her own wildness. And it was madness to think that the ancient spirits were somehow driving her toward a Northman. She’d let herself imagine too much.

She turned to reenter the tent, but the dim light and still air within repelled her. She had grown accustomed over the years to moving freely in the woods, despite her father’s orders not to. She’d been cooped up too long.

A glance around the Northmen’s camp revealed the normal bustle of activity. No one seemed to pay much attention to her. She never ate with them or sat around their fire pit, despite the fact that they switched to the Northumbrian tongue in her presence in a courteous attempt to include her. But she had kept to herself this last fortnight—it was her only defense against the threat of caring for them. Or caring for one of them in particular.

She stepped away from the tent, but still no one looked up. As usual, they busied themselves with sparring, mending, or cooking over the fire pit. Since the first field had been sown, many of the Northmen were occupied in either tending the barley or clearing more land for cultivation.

Involuntarily, her eyes scanned for Alaric. Her cheeks grew warm as she remembered the last time she’d thought he was away from camp and that it was safe for her to wander to the river.

But today she wasn’t headed for the river, and so there would be little chance of stumbling upon him naked. Why did that thought cause her belly to sink in disappointment?

She entered the tree line, giving the camp one final glance. Either no one noticed her movement, or no one cared.

Of course, if harm befell her, their hopes for peace with her father would be dashed. It was strange that Alaric never told anyone about the cart accident a sennight and a half ago. Though he hadn’t said more to her about it, she knew he sensed foul play.

But she was only a woman, not deigned to have a say in the maneuverings of men. Did Alaric feel that way? From all she’d seen, Northwomen had a great deal more freedom than Pictish women did. Alaric’s sister was a warrior. And Eyva, the other warrior woman in camp, worked just as hard as her husband, Tarr—and got just as much respect from the others.

She ducked under a pine bough as she wandered deeper into the forest. With a mental scold for herself, she brought her attention to the woods around her. She hadn’t come out here to worry. She could do that back in the tent.

Elisead inhaled deeply to remind herself of her freedom, at least among these trees, at least for a little while.

Her wanderings took her up one of the many smaller hills that separated the Northmen’s camp from her father’s fortress. At the top, she tucked her long tunic between her legs and stuffed the material into her belt, giving her greater freedom of movement.

An ancient yew tree spread its arms out, inviting her into its limbs. She began climbing, the feel of the bark beneath her fingertips as soothing as ever.

When she was several dozen paces off the ground, she scooted along an outstretching branch that was as thick as her torso. A salty wind rustled the leaves around her, making them look like a thousand hands flickering merrily.

Another gust of wind separated the leaves enough to give her a view of the river as it wound through the lush green hills. Her eyes traced the river westward and soon enough she spotted the gray stone walls of the fortress. Warriors the size of ants crawled along the wall. Inside, villagers swarmed around the wooden great hall.

What was her father doing at that moment? Was he plotting his next move in the negotiations? Or did he plan on leaving his only child alone with the Northmen forever?

That was a silly girl’s thought. Her father was a pragmatist. He needed her for his much-desired alliance with Causantín mac Fergusa. He wouldn’t let harm befall her—unless it was somehow more advantageous for his plans.

Her gaze slid back down along the river. As the slow, clear waters met the more churned, salty depths of the bay, the colors blended and swirled. There, along the shoreline, she could make out spots of off-white wool—the Northmen’s tents.

Something tugged deep in her chest at the sight of the Northmen’s camp. What were the spirits telling her? Where did her fate lie?

A rock shot past her head, barely missing her temple. It smacked into the oak’s trunk just behind her.

She screamed and jerked in fright. Her movement dislodged her from her seat straddling the yew bough and she slipped.

Her hands clawed at the bough, her nails digging painfully into the bark. A heart-pounding moment later, she regained control, clutching desperately to the bough with both her thighs and arms.

If she had slipped just a hair more to the side, she would be hanging upside down from the branch she now clung to—or she’d be on the ground several dozen paces below, dead.

Elisead looked down at the forest floor and swallowed hard.

Feitr stood below the yew tree. He stared up at her, his ice blue eyes flat. He held a sling in his hand.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” she snapped. Though she tried to imbue her voice with authoritative ire, it sounded shrill with fright to her ears.

Feitr shrugged as if he hadn’t almost just caused her to fall to her death.

“I needed to get your attention. The wind is high enough that I thought you wouldn’t hear me over the rustling leaves.”

Elisead’s heart at last began to slow, but unease still filled her. “Why do you need my attention?”

“Your father sent me,” Feitr said. “He wishes to speak with the Northmen again.” A flicker of something crossed his pale eyes, but Elisead was too far up to read it.

“I saw you up here and assumed the Northmen and your father would both like to have you at the meeting. So I got your attention.”

Again, his voice was disconcertingly flat. Did he not know what danger he’d put her in? He’d almost hit her with the rock he’d shot. And if she’d fallen, Feitr would be blamed for her death—assuming he didn’t just slip away into the woods.

Elisead felt Feitr’s cool gaze on her as she carefully made her way down from the tree. The Northman slave had always been strange, but he was no threat, she told herself firmly. He had always obeyed orders without trouble. There was no reason to fear him now.

“What does my father wish to discuss this time?” she said as she planted her feet firmly on the ground. She silently sent up a prayer of thanks to both the old gods and the new for the fact that her neck was unbroken.

Feitr’s eyes slid over her, and she quickly untucked her tunic from her belt, hiding her legs.

“Even if I knew, what does it matter? I am a slave and you are a woman, which are almost the same thing. We don’t have a say in our fates.”

Elisead’s mouth fell open in shock. It was the boldest she’d ever heard Feitr speak. His voice held only the faintest barb of bitterness, and yet what he said was all too true.

Feitr stepped forward and took hold of her elbow. She stiffened under his touch, but he didn’t seem to notice. He turned toward the Northmen’s camp and began making his way through the underbrush, towing Elisead behind.

“The reward for obedience is not found in this life, but in the next,” Elisead said. She didn’t know why she threw a priest’s words at a Northland slave, but the fact that he had linked the two of them to a fate not of their choosing made her uneasy.

“I do not believe in your White Christ,” he said over his shoulder. “My gods only see our actions in this lifetime. If a man does not make his own glory, he will be shunned forever.”

She shivered at his words. Though she didn’t fully understand them, they sent foreboding slithering up her spine.

“And what will you—”

Her words died on her tongue as they suddenly broke through the trees and stepped into the Northmen’s camp.

All of a sudden everything was happening at once.

A flash of sun glinted off metal.

Feitr stopped so suddenly that she bounced off his back.

“
Take your hand off her
.”

Alaric’s voice was deadly low, his sword tip pressed against Feitr’s neck.