Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (8 page)

As Alaric walked into camp, his crew’s activities stilled. With Elisead cradled against his chest and Rúnin pulling the cart-less donkey behind him, he was sure they made quite the sight.

Alaric felt Elisead stiffen in his arms at all the stares. His fingers dug into her soft flesh, longing to shield her from the scrutiny. Instead, he strode swiftly to the tent Elisead now used as her own. The subtle but sweet scent of her hair and skin lingered within, enveloping him as he stepped inside.

He set her gently on the mattress at the back, then turned to go. But she caught his sleeve, which was still red with her blood.

“Alaric, something goes on. Why won’t you tell me?”

She gazed up at him, her pleading eyes rending him like a knife.

“As I said, ’tis naught. Rest here for the day. The cut seems to have stopped bleeding, but you needn’t push yourself.”

Elisead’s soft lips curved down as she continued to stare up at him. But at last, she leaned back against the downy mattress with a sigh. Her dark lashes fluttered closed as she succumbed to fatigue.

Alaric should have turned away, but it was as if his feet were rooted in place, his eyes drinking in the sight before him thirstily.

Elisead’s auburn hair spread out beneath her head, wild and windblown. Her delicate features were at last easing out of their frown, though even in dismay she was stunning.

As her breathing evened, he watched her breasts rise and fall. With each inhale, those pert peaks strained against her finely made tunic, which was soiled and stained from their tumble in the forest.

What would those soft breasts feel like in his hands? Could he make her now-steady breaths catch in her throat with a swish of his thumb—or his tongue?

Alaric ripped his gaze away and stormed to the tent’s flaps.

What in Hel’s realm was he doing? He wasn’t fool enough to deny his attraction to the Pict chieftain’s daughter, but he knew better than to indulge in the kind of lust-filled musings that had nigh made him lose control just now. His manhood stirred rebelliously under his tunic. Bloody hammer, not only did he not have time for such thoughts, but they threatened his entire mission.

He yanked back one of the tent’s flaps and stomped out into the bright sunlight. Several members of his crew had gathered in front of the tent, waiting for him to emerge.

“What happened?” asked Tarr, the brown-headed youth who’d worked so hard over the last several months to join this voyage. “Rúnin wouldn’t answer us. He said he’d let you explain.”

Alaric flicked a glance at Rúnin, who was tying the donkey to a nearby tree. He gave Rúnin a swift nod of thanks, then pushed his way through the gathered crowd.

“Naught but an accident. The donkey was spooked on our way from the fort.”

That didn’t seem to ease the lowered brows and looks ranging between concern and suspicion at Alaric’s strange reappearance in the camp.

“And negotiations—how did your talk with the chieftain go?” Tarr probed. Though he was only a few years younger than Alaric, Tarr had an earnest determination about him that made Alaric forget just how sharply perceptive he was at times.

“Well enough. The old man still wishes to be courted—or coerced,” Alaric said, which drew some chuckles.

He made his way to the makeshift fire pit set off from the other tents. Though the day promised to be warm, he tilted his hands over the banked embers from the night before. It was something to do as his mind churned over the events of the last hour.

Most of his crew began dispersing to the tasks they’d abandoned when Alaric had arrived with Elisead in his arms. Some resumed sparring along the bay’s shoreline, while others took up mending their tents and clothes or tended to their weapons.

A few, however, followed Alaric to the fire pit.

“Was he amenable to giving us a portion of his farmlands?” Tarr took up a seat on a stump across the fire pit from Alaric.

“It hasn’t come up yet,” Alaric said through clenched teeth.

Tarr pressed his lips together but was wise enough to leave the topic alone.

Olaf, the red bear of a man, was not so wise, however. He snorted loudly as he took a seat on a stump next to Tarr.

“What is this
courting
of our enemies? Why have we not simply taken the fort from that blustering old chieftain and be done with it?”

Alaric felt his already grim mood darken. “If
you
had been placed in charge of this voyage by Jarl Eirik, the village, the fort, and all the Picts living here would be wiped away with naught to build on.”

Olaf, clearly missing Alaric’s dangerous tone, cracked his knuckles with satisfaction. He’d mistaken Alaric’s warning for a compliment. “Ja. Wiped clean and ready for our own settlement. We are Northmen, are we not?”

In one deadly swift step, Alaric cleared the fire pit and was standing in front of Olaf. The red-haired giant jerked to his feet, meeting Alaric. Though the older man was broad, tall, and battle-proven, Alaric’s sudden rage would give him more than enough strength to best Olaf if necessary. He would not be challenged.

“But you were not put in charge, Olaf Skull Splitter,” Alaric said, barely maintaining control over his fists, which he clenched at his sides. “
I was
. That is because I know when to fight and when to talk. And I also know when to keep my mouth shut.”

Olaf jutted out his chin, sending his red beard quivering. But at last the old bear took Alaric’s meaning. He grunted, then lowered himself onto his stump once more in clear concession to Alaric.

Alaric turned to the others who’d followed him to the fire pit. Rúnin, Tarr, Olaf, and Geirr, who’d earned a spot on this voyage at the same time Tarr had, all stared silently at him.

“Does anyone else have something to say about my decision to pursue these negotiations?” Alaric snapped. He knew he shouldn’t be taking his rage at the attack on Elisead out on his men, but he would suffer not a whiff of dissention among his crew. They needed to know who their leader was.

At the silence that met him, Alaric waved his hand, dismissing the men. All but Rúnin got up immediately and busied themselves elsewhere.

“Do you have something to add, Rúnin?” Alaric bit out crossly.

“You know that I, more than anyone here, appreciate the value of avoiding open conflict,” Rúnin said quietly. “I stand by you.”

Alaric pushed out a breath and sank to one of the stumps ringing the fire pit. “Ja, and I thank you.” After nigh fourteen years as an outlaw, Rúnin had survived far worse than what Alaric was dealing with now.

Perhaps Alaric’s judgement was clouded by his overpowering desire to fulfill the responsibility placed on his shoulders by Eirik.

“What would you do, knowing what you know?” Alaric asked carefully, catching Rúnin’s gaze.

Rúnin exhaled slowly. “You are right to follow a diplomatic route, but I sense that is not what you’re asking.”

At Alaric’s nod, Rúnin went on.

“You won’t like my answer, but here it is. You must wait. If you suspect Maelcon is behind the incident this morning and you confront him, you’ll destroy any chance for a peaceful settlement between our peoples. And if Maelcon is not responsible…” Rúnin shrugged. “If the plan was to harm the Pict girl to foil negotiations, the plan failed. Whoever is plotting against us will be forced to strike again.”

Alaric narrowed his eyes at Rúnin. “You are right—I do not like your answer. So you are suggesting that I leave Elisead open to attack? That she will be the bait to lure whoever is trying to destroy these negotiations?”

Rúnin leaned forward, his voice low but sharp. “Think clearly, Alaric. It is obvious you desire the girl for yourself. I didn’t want you to put Madrena in harm’s way, yet despite my frustration over the situation, I understand that it had to be done for the larger mission.”

Anger surged in Alaric’s veins, but he clamped his mouth closed on a retort.

Ja, he’d knowingly put his sister in danger in order to achieve his aim of a peaceful settlement. But Alaric would never doubt that Madrena could take care of herself. Elisead, on the other hand, seemed so fragile, so vulnerable. She wasn’t a fierce and skilled warrior like Madrena.

Still, Rúnin was right. Alaric wasn’t thinking clearly, and it was because of the flame-haired beauty sleeping in his tent as they spoke.

Alaric’s gaze drifted from the dying embers to Tarr, who had returned to where his wife, Eyva, had been practicing her sword work. Eyva’s presence in camp was a constant reminder to Alaric that she was there at Madrena’s insistence. How did his sister fare in the midst of the Pict fortress?

An idea began to form as he watched the two. They had earned their place on this voyage as skilled warriors, but he’d considered it an added bonus that they’d both been farmers before that.

“Maelcon will continue to drag his feet,” Alaric said to Rúnin even as he continued to consider Tarr and Eyva. “Which means that the longer these negotiations stretch, the more danger Elisead and Madrena are in.”

Without having to look at him, Alaric could sense Rúnin’s displeasure. But a plan was taking shape in his mind’s eye.

“Perhaps we can force his hand, though,” Alaric went on.

He glanced around the camp. Their tents could be taken down and packed away in the longships on the bay’s shore a stone’s throw away in a matter of minutes. The only alteration they’d made to their camp was to cut down a few saplings.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Tarr, Eyva!” Alaric called, not answering Rúnin’s question.

The two newlyweds stopped their sparring immediately and strode toward Alaric.

“Gather a dozen men of your choosing, and have them bring freshly sharpened axes. Bring the ards and seeds we brought to sow as well.”

Tarr and Eyva exchanged a surprised look, but Alaric hardly noticed, so fast was his mind racing.

“Are we…planting fields?” Eyva asked hesitantly.

“Nei, not just planting fields,” Alaric said. “We are making ourselves at home.”

Rúnin snorted, which was nigh as close as the man came to laughing. But he gave Alaric a little nod. “I’ll go with them. ’Twill be a relief to lean my back into something productive.”

As Tarr and Eyva moved off to gather the supplies and men they needed, Rúnin paused in joining them.

“So, you’ll force Maelcon’s hand by beginning to settle on his lands whether he likes it or not?” he asked, lifting one dark eyebrow.

“Exactly.”

“And if he sees your move of clearing land and planting fields as an act of aggression?”

Alaric felt a smile play around his mouth, and this time, it wasn’t one he’d strategically plastered there. Nei, genuine excitement swelled within him now.

“As you said, we need to apply ourselves productively, even if he wishes to talk in circles all summer. He can either go along with us, or sit by while we bring in our crops year after year—without our protection at his back.”

Rúnin nodded again, his blue eyes dancing. He extended his arm to Alaric, who took it in a firm grip.

As Rúnin released his hold and strode toward Tarr and Eyva, Alaric glanced down at his arm. Blood—Elisead’s blood—still darkened his sleeve. He was gambling with her life as well as Madrena’s.

The thought sent a stone of foreboding into his belly. He needed to think clearly, as Rúnin had said—like a leader, not a besotted lad. And to think clearly, he needed to clean himself.

A dunk in fresh water would order his thoughts. Alaric set out toward the river.

Elisead awoke with a start to the sounds of shouting, clanging metal, and the pounding of feet.

She bolted upright, unsure for a moment where she was. Male voices calling to each other in the guttural, rolling language of the Northmen filtered through the thin material of the tent’s walls and roof.

The now-familiar interior of the tent soothed her from her initial fright. She lay atop the downy mattress and furs that Alaric had meant to use himself. Her chest of clothes and personal items sat at its foot. The enormous stone that was to be her bride gift rested untouched along the other side of the tent.

Nay, she wasn’t in the middle of a Northman’s siege, despite the noise to the contrary. She slipped from the mattress and crept toward the tent’s door. Lifting one of the flaps slightly, she peered out.

Afternoon sun beat down on the little camp, which was swarming with activity. Some of the Northmen were lifting chests onto their shoulders, though she could only guess at their contents. Others hoisted long, flat slabs of iron the length of a man’s body and began carrying them away into the woods.

Two Northmen stood in the center of it all, apparently giving orders. Except while one was a tall young man with light brown hair, the other wasn’t a man at all.

It was the woman Alaric had pointed out before. She seemed impossibly small compared to the Northmen all around, but she was likely similar in size to Elisead. Unlike the others, who, except for Rúnin, had hair in shades ranging from light brown to white blond or flame red, the woman was dark-headed.

As before, Elisead had to marvel at the young woman. Even amongst all the towering blond warriors, she held herself with authority and confidence.

The flurry of activity was suddenly shifting direction. Under the man and woman’s commands, the dozen or so Northmen began moving off into the woods and away from the camp.

Elisead exhaled and let the tent flap drop. Though no one had threatened her in any way, she couldn’t help but feel relieved to have some space between her and all those Northland warriors.

But the interior of the tent was growing warm as the sun beat down on it. Elisead reached up to wipe a bead of sweat from her forehead, only to have her fingertips encounter a few flakes of crusted blood. She felt her scalp where she’d split it on a rock during that petrifying tumble away from the cart with Alaric.

If she let herself dwell on it, she’d have to admit that while being in the runaway cart had been terrifying, tumbling in Alaric’s arms hadn’t been. Or perhaps it was terrifying in a different way, for she felt strangely safe in his embrace, yet also precariously poised on the edge of danger—danger of doing something she shouldn’t, feeling something she shouldn’t.

She shoved the thoughts away. What she needed was a bath to clear her muddled thoughts and rid herself of the crusted blood that served to remind her of the tangle of events earlier that day.

Perhaps now was the perfect time to steal off to the river while the others at camp were away. Elisead hadn’t seen Alaric in their midst, but that was just as well. He was so often her shadow. No matter where she was around camp—and she mostly stayed in his tent—she always sensed his presence nearby.

No wonder her thoughts were clouded. How could she be expected to remain clearheaded when a giant, golden Northman was constantly watching her with those piercing emerald eyes?

Elisead moved to her wooden chest and snatched a clean underdress and tunic. She tucked a piece of heather-scented soap and her bone comb between the garments’ folds and stood. With a careful peek outside the tent once more, she slipped past its protection and made her way toward the river.

So lost in thought was she as she walked that she didn’t hear the splashing until it was nigh too late. She jerked her head up just as she was clearing the tree line along the river’s bank.

Rising from the slow-moving river like a god from the old ways…was Alaric.

Elisead’s breath caught in her throat. Her chest squeezed painfully.

Water sluiced off his golden head as he emerged from the river. Little streams flowed over his bare, broad shoulders, surprisingly bronzed by the sun.

He began to turn toward the bank, the slick muscles of his arms catching the light and rippling with movement.

Barely suppressing a squeak of horror, Elisead flung herself behind a wide tree trunk. Had he seen her? Would he march over to her—unclothed—and demand to know why she was lurking like a spy in the woods while he bathed?

She held her breath, her heart hammering loudly in her ears. But instead of the sounds of approaching footsteps, all she heard was sloshing water. Mayhap if Alaric had slipped below the river’s surface, she could slink away with him none the wiser.

Elisead dared a darting glance around the tree trunk, but to her dismay, Alaric’s head was still above water. He’d turned more fully toward her, exposing the naked expanse of his chest.

Sunlight rippled on the water’s surface, bouncing up to make little patterns across his torso. Though the shimmering, liquid light did its best to soften him, every line of his body was hard. She might as well have carved him from stone.

The thought sent heat flooding her body. Images assailed her—of her fingers running a pebble along every groove and ridge across his chest and abdomen. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from crying out with need or laughing hysterically—she wasn’t sure which she’d do at the moment, so addled were her thoughts.

By every god she’d ever heard whispers of, he was a work of art—nay, he was better. He was perfection.

She ducked back behind the tree trunk just as Alaric brought his golden head up. For the briefest of moments, she saw a flash of green as his eyes caught the light.

Her lungs felt close to bursting. Clamping a hand over her mouth to quiet her breaths, she sat transfixed behind the tree. Water splashed again, and this time she was sure he’d seen her.

But his commanding voice or the thundering footfalls of his approach never came. Instead, the sound of deep, rumbling humming drifted to her. She heard the rustle of clothing, followed by a faint scraping sound.

Just when her heart was finally slowing its galloping pace, he spoke.

“You can come out now.”

Mortification washed over her, but there was no point in hiding any longer or pretending she wasn’t there.

Slowly, she rose to her feet and stepped from behind the cover of the tree.

Alaric crouched along the bank of the river, his back—now clothed in a linen tunic—facing her. He was drawing a small blade over the stubble on his cheek.

Clutching her bundle of clothes to her chest, she walked past the tree line and onto the bank. Alaric glanced up at her, his green eyes dancing with merriment. Despite her embarrassment, she kept her head up, refusing to be shamed.

All at once, he erupted into laughter. Great barks of laughter. Seemingly never-ending rolls of laughter.

“You can hold your head up like a queen, girl, but that doesn’t change the fact that your cheeks are bright red!”

Despite her bluster, she felt her bottom lip tremble in utter humiliation. More heat flooded her face, and she quickly looked away so as not to be blinded by his wide, radiant grin.

Suddenly his laughter cut off and he was looming over her, his golden head blocking the sun from her eyes.

“I only meant to tease you, Elisead, not cause you dishonor.” His voice was a low, silky caress against her flaming cheeks.

She tried to turn her face down in order to hide the obvious sign of her guilt, but he captured her chin in one of his large, warm hands.

“You were watching me.”

It wasn’t an accusation, for he spoke softly. Yet his hand on her chin forced her to meet his vivid eyes.

“A-aye.”

“Why?”

She swallowed hard. “I only meant to come to the river for a bath. I didn’t expect to find you here, but you were—”

“Nei, I gathered that,” he said, his gaze flicking for the briefest moment to the bundle of clean clothes she still clutched against herself like a shield. “I mean, why did you continue to watch me when you found me bathing?”

“I…” Hot humiliation burned in her throat and stung her eyes. What could she say?
I kept looking because you remind me of the finest carved stone I could ever imagine? Because you are formed like one of your pagan gods?

It was too much. Her throat closed and her lip trembled again.

Now a look of compassion crossed his once-mirthful eyes—compassion and something else much darker as his gaze dipped to her lower lip, which quivered just above his thumb.

“You’ve never seen a man’s bare body before.”

Again, it wasn’t a question, but unlike before, his voice held an unfathomable suggestion in it.

She shook her head in confirmation, unable to speak.

He breathed a curse. “And I doubt you’ve ever been kissed before either?”

Again, she shook her head. The hot shame from a moment before was transforming into something new. It melted her insides and at the same time knotted them into a tight ball deep in her center.

Alaric pinned her with his gaze, but now all teasing had fled from his emerald eyes. He swished his thumb along her chin until he brushed her lower lip.

Elisead sucked in a breath, for though his hands were callused, his touch was feather light.

Somehow he drew even closer, despite the fact that they’d already been nigh touching. She could feel the heat of his body curling around her even through their clothes.

She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting at any minute that he’d slam into her, claiming her mouth the way that Northmen did everything—savagely. And far off in the back of her mind, she wanted him to. She wanted him to be the first to kiss her, to feel those soft, expressive lips on hers.

His thumb brushed across her lower lip again, making her jump with anticipation. Then she felt a hot breath close to her mouth. She inhaled, suddenly flooded with his clean, piney scent.

Each moment stretched as she stood suspended, unable and unwilling to move. His breath fanned over her lips once more, and she feared she would melt into a puddle along the riverbank.

Then at last his lips made contact with hers. But instead of a crushing kiss, it was the lightest, feather-soft brush. His mouth, at times so firm and at others so playful, was surprisingly gentle.

The hand on her chin slid along her jawline to the nape of her neck, holding her in place while he pressed more completely into her lips. He tilted his head so that their mouths slanted against each other, and suddenly they fit perfectly, as if their lips had always been meant to meld together this way.

She was drowning in sensation. Her scalp tingled where his fingers entwined in the hair at her nape. Her hands turned to claws in the bundle of clothes she clutched to her chest. And her lips—her lips were singing against his, coming alive in a way she never knew possible.

It was all so much. She swayed on her feet, hardly able to tell up from down anymore. His other arm came around her back and steadied her by pulling her against the rock wall of his chest. He was so warm and yet so hard.

And then his tongue brushed her lips. She gasped at the intimacy of such an act. But in doing so, she opened her mouth, and their tongues touched.

Ever so slowly, he caressed her, the kiss turning to liquid heat. Their tongues danced and embraced in an unhurried rhythm. She let him lead, unsure of how to stretch this perfect moment, to deepen the waves of pleasure washing over her. But soon she began to understand, and she met his strokes with her own.

He groaned, and she felt the vibrations travel from his chest to their lips. His hand tightened in her hair, shooting tingles of sensation down her spine—and between her legs.

What was happening to her body? It was as if her whole being had suddenly caught fire, kindled at the point where their mouths melted together.

Suddenly, he ripped his mouth away and dropped his hands from her as if he had been burned. He took an abrupt step backward, leaving naught but empty air between them.

Though the day was sunny, the absence of Alaric’s warm body sent a shiver through her.

“I…I shouldn’t have done that,” Alaric said. His voice was ragged and low, but his gaze still scorched her with desire.

Elisead felt her eyes widen. “Nor should I,” she breathed.

What had come over her? And over him? She was to be married to another come the end of summer. And Alaric had promised to leave her untouched, else his negotiations would fall apart.

How could she let a Northman kiss her? Besides carving in secret against her father’s wishes, she’d never done aught she wasn’t supposed to. And surely the way Alaric’s mouth had felt against hers, the way his hands had gripped her to him, the heat that had passed between them, couldn’t be right.

“I’ll be back at camp,” he said, at last averting his gaze. “You can bathe here without fear of disturbance.”

She nodded quickly and dropped her chin, once again feeling the warmth of shame touch her cheeks. A moment later when she raised her head, Alaric had vanished into the trees.