Odin's Shadow (Sons Of Odin Book 1) (9th Century Viking Romance) (8 page)

Alrik reached his arms out for her, and Ulfrik transferred Selia's limp body back to his brother.
Little bird.
He had done all he could for her. For now.

He turned to go but Alrik called out to him.

"Wait. Swear to me you'll never tell her," Alrik commanded.

Ulfrik met his brother's gaze and nodded, but it wasn't enough for Alrik. "
Swear
it, right now."

He hesitated, and Alrik's face grew hard. "This is not the time to defy me, Ulfrik. Swear it or I'll run Muirin through the second we step off the ship."

It was all Ulfrik could do to maintain his mask of impassivity. He breathed through his nose, then let it out slowly, forcing his hands to unclench. "I swear it."

He had been very young when his father died, yet his recollections of that time were clear. If it was true that fear burned memories into the mind more indelibly than any other emotion, he would be able to remember Ragnarr's face for the rest of his life.

There had been a few occasions since the death of their father when a look would come over Alrik's face that was so like Ragnarr, it froze the blood in Ulfrik's veins. It was always brief, a sudden interplay of light and shadow that was gone as quickly as it came. His imagination, perhaps, or a buried memory. But now, standing in the rain in an Irish forest, the mad ghost of Ragnarr again smiled from Alrik's face as he gazed down at Selia's unconscious form. The vision was as clear and chilling as if the man had clawed his way out of his grave and stood before him.

This would end badly. And Ulfrik was powerless to stop it.

Chapter 10

Selia woke to the churning of a rough sea and a pounding head. The pain was excruciating, a sharp hammer strike with every beat of her pulse. What was wrong with her head?

She lay still for a long time, just breathing. She cracked open her eyes, saw she was in a tent, and shut them again.

The ship pitched sharply to one side. She rolled, but was stopped by something tied around her waist. A length of rope. She was clad only in her shift but was in too much pain to be concerned with modesty.

She heard footsteps outside, then felt blinded as the tent flap was flung open by a bald man whose name she couldn't remember. She threw an arm over her eyes to protect them from the light. The man shouted with surprise, and Selia groaned at the answering shot of pain in her head. There were more quick footsteps outside, and voices. After a moment someone crawled into the tent, whispering her name.

She opened her eyes again and saw Ulfrik smiling down at her. He stroked her cheek, and she recoiled. What did he think he was doing?

"Selia," he said again, but the voice wasn't Ulfrik's.
Alrik
? She blinked and forced her eyes to focus on his beard, braided instead of cropped. Her gaze wandered up to his eyes, which looked . . . kind. If this was Alrik, he was acting so unlike himself. Was she dreaming?

She would not be in this much pain in a dream, and her throat wouldn't be as dry as dust. "Do you have any water?" she rasped. Her tongue felt twice its normal size.

Alrik furrowed his eyebrows and said something she didn't understand. Norse, he was speaking Norse. Did she speak Norse, too? What on earth was the word for water?

Groaning with the effort, she raised a hand to her lips to make a drinking motion. He said something unintelligible, then left the tent. After a moment he returned with a cup, holding it to her lips with one hand while he lifted her head with the other.

White-hot pain exploded through her head, paralyzing in its intensity. Selia felt the water dribble down her chin before she succumbed to the sweet relief of the blackness once again. She had been here before, floating weightless among the stars in the night sky . . .

When she next woke it was dark, which didn't make sense because she was still in her tent. As long as she had been with the Finngalls, they had always made their camp on land, only sailing in the daytime. She could hear the sound of quiet breathing next to her. Instead of trying to turn her throbbing head, Selia reached out, fumbling, until she made contact with a large hand. The little finger was crooked.

Alrik stirred. "You're awake?"

It took several seconds, but she understood what he said. She raised her hand to her head, touching the source of the pain with careful fingers, and forced her lips to form the Norse words.

"My head hurts," she whispered.

"You fell. You hit your head on a rock."

She blinked for a moment, then closed her eyes and saw a flash of something bloody. Something mangled. Skagi's face. Suddenly everything rushed back to her.

Alrik.

He was a berserker, he had beaten Skagi nearly to death. She had run away—

He was here, lying next to her. Why was he being so kind, so seemingly concerned with her welfare after she had attempted to flee? It had to be a ruse—he must be planning something horrible to make her pay for what she'd done.

Selia whimpered and tried to move away from him.

"Shh," he murmured, shifting his body to put his arm under her head. She gasped in agony at the movement, but didn't lose consciousness this time. He put his other arm around her, stroking her bare shoulder with gentle fingers.

The rope around her waist had become uncomfortably snug when he shifted her, and she tugged on it to get some slack. He didn't trust her or he wouldn't have tied her up, but where did he think she would try to go? Overboard?

“I will not jump, Alrik,” Selia gasped. “I cannot swim.”

“The rope was to keep you from flopping around on the deck like a fish, little one. The sea’s been choppy for days.”

Days? Just how long had she had been unconscious? Selia slipped back into sleep before she could ask him.

She felt well enough to emerge from the tent the next evening. She bathed herself as best she could with a bucket of seawater, then dressed in her gown. Someone had washed it—she doubted it was Alrik—but it was stained, one sleeve ripped. The beautiful gown Eithne had worked so hard on was ruined.

Her legs felt disjointed and her head wobbly as she walked. Although she kept a firm grip on Alrik's arm, she was out of breath before she had taken more than five steps. He sat her down on one of the chests, calling for food and ale, then sat across from her.

Despite the uncommon kindness Alrik had shown to her since her fall, she still harbored a dark suspicion he would punish her for running away. But since he didn't mention it, she was reluctant to bring it up herself. And so it had remained between them, unspoken.

The rays of the setting sun enveloped Alrik in a halo of dazzling gold. How could a man be so beautiful? The sight of him made Selia's heart flutter in her chest, and she couldn't look away. He was a murderer, a berserker. Yet she still ached for him—ached to touch him, to feel his powerful body against hers. She couldn’t stop the rush of desire that flooded her senses, or the hot flush that crept over her cheeks.

He met her gaze, and her blush deepened. Alrik’s lips turned up in a smile. He hadn't touched her since the fateful night of her fall, and she knew from the short time she had been married to him, he didn't tolerate lustful frustration well.

Alrik watched her as she picked at her food. "Finish that," he urged. "You look like a bag of bones."

They had been at sea for some time. The bread was stale and the dried meat so tough Selia could hardly chew it. She flicked off a spot of mold with her fingernail, then forced herself to take another bite of the hard, dry bread. She had to drink deeply of the ale to swallow the yeasty lump.

"We will be in Norway tomorrow," he continued. "The food will be better then, little one."

Norway
. "To your home?"

He shook his head. "No, not yet. We will stop at Bjorgvin first, to trade. But we won't stay long. The men are anxious to get home."

Alrik was probably also anxious for his home, and for Ingrid. How excited Selia had always been when Niall would return from a long voyage. He would throw his strong arms around her, exclaiming how she had grown in his absence, then give her a trinket or two he had bought for her in some foreign port.

But how would she have felt if Niall had returned from a trip with a new stepmother in tow—a stepmother who was nearly her own age?

Her stomach tightened in an uncomfortable knot and she pushed the remainder of the food away.

"Alrik," she said hesitantly. "Will Ingrid be angry about me?"

He didn't respond for a moment. "Yes, I suppose she will. Ingrid is always angry, though."

"Why?"

He looked out to the horizon as he answered. "Her mother died last year. Ingrid blames me for her death."

The chunk of bread in her stomach threatened to come back up. Dear God, had he killed his wife?

She stared at him, unable to move.

Alrik scowled at her. "I didn't kill her, Selia. She died of an illness, and my two other daughters died with her."

She breathed out shakily. But why would Ingrid blame Alrik for her mother's illness? That didn't make sense. Before she could ask, Ulfrik approached them. He sat down next to Alrik and smiled at Selia. Unlike that of his brother, the smile reached his eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

She raised a hand to her head. "It hurts a little bit."

Ulfrik nodded. "You're lucky to be alive. That was quite a fall."

Selia flushed again, afraid of where this conversation was headed. Maybe she should apologize to Alrik now while Ulfrik was here as a buffer. He might be less apt to punish her in front of his brother.

"Yes," she said quietly. Her eyes fluttered to her husband and quickly away. "I am sorry I ran away, Alrik. I was afraid of you."

"Why?"

She gaped at him for a moment. Was he jesting? He and Ulfrik were both watching her very intently, awaiting her answer.

"Skagi," she said, and Alrik looked oddly relieved. As usual, she couldn't read Ulfrik.

"Skagi insulted your honor. If I had done nothing about it, I would have lost all respect from my men," Alrik retorted. "I should have killed him, but Ketill is a friend. I would not like to deprive him of a son."

Selia's gaze wandered over to the other end of the ship where Skagi sat with the men, a scowl across his distorted features. Although the swelling had gone down, his face was still covered with greenish bruises, and his shattered nose was packed with wool in an attempt to set it. His left cheek appeared to be sunken, and she knew it was where his teeth no longer filled out that side of his face.

She looked away. "I am sorry," she repeated. Were her words for Alrik or for Skagi?

Alrik leaned in closer to her, locking her gaze with his. "You must never run away from me again, Selia. You must never disobey me in front of my men. What will they think of me if I can't control my own wife? A man who doesn't respect his Hersir will hesitate in battle. And a man who hesitates in battle is dead."

Her lip quivered at the thought of being responsible for any more deaths.

She nodded as Alrik continued in a softer tone, "I didn't mean to scare you."

Selia swallowed. Was he apologizing? Was he not going to punish her after all? Perhaps he wasn't a berserker. Or maybe the stories about berserkers weren't true.

Or perhaps he did care for her.

Regardless, she was safe. At least for now. The relief that flooded her body was sudden and absolute, and Selia closed her eyes for a moment. She felt as though she could melt into the floorboards of the ship.

The brilliant light behind Alrik extinguished as the sun slipped over the horizon. He stood, holding out a hand to her, and led her back to the tent.

Chapter 11

Once again on dry land when they arrived in Bjorgvin the next afternoon, Selia's senses were overwhelmed by the noise and crowds, much larger than in Dubhlinn. It didn't help that the bustling town seemed to be inhabited by giants. She had not been the smallest person in Baile Átha Cliath, but she was positively dwarfed by most of the residents of Bjorgvin.

Alrik and Olaf moved through the crowd with Selia in tow, and she was soon out of breath trying to keep up with their long strides. Since her fall from the embankment she had felt vaguely disoriented at odd moments, as if she were floating. She still tired very easily. She breathed a sigh of relief as Alrik made his way toward one of the larger buildings, then pulled her inside.

The cavernous, smoky room was dimly lit but loud with the voices and laughter of dozens of people. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized she stood in a tavern. A serving girl walked past them carrying a large kettle of something that smelled delightful, and Selia's stomach gave an answering growl. She had eaten enough stale, moldy food to last a lifetime.

Alrik stopped the girl and leaned over to speak to her. Selia couldn’t hear what he said. The girl motioned in the direction of what must have been the kitchen, judging by the smells and commotion, and went on her way.

Alrik pulled a chair out from an empty table in a dark corner of the room, and Selia sat on it. "Stay here," he ordered. Then he nodded to Olaf and disappeared into the kitchen.

She settled in to wait. Hopefully Alrik had at least told the serving girl to bring them some food. Olaf stood next to Selia's chair with his arms crossed, as though expecting to have to defend her honor from one of the tavern patrons at any moment. Now that Alrik was out of sight, she could definitely feel their curious stares.

Tired, her head aching, the smoke in the air made her cough. If only she could just lie down while she was waiting.

She smiled as Alrik ducked back into the room, but her smile faded when she saw that a woman followed him—a very pretty, buxom redhead, with an annoyed expression on her face.

The pair stopped in front of Selia, and Alrik motioned for her to stand. She did, keeping her eye on the redhead, who looked askance at Selia.

"I don’t believe it,” she said to Alrik, after a long, critical perusal down her nose at Selia. "You married this girl?"

Selia bristled. She pulled herself up to her full height, which was somewhere at the level of the redhead's shoulder. Who was she?

"Gudrun." Alrik addressed the woman in a patient, almost coaxing tone, and Selia frowned. He had been so concerned with Skagi insulting her, yet he was willing to allow this woman to speak to her with disrespect?

Gudrun huffed loudly, then gave a curt nod in Alrik’s direction. She put her hands around Selia's waist in a very businesslike fashion, and Selia gasped as she took a step back.

"What are you doing—" she started to ask, but Alrik shushed her.

"Hold still." He grasped her arm to keep her from backing away. "Gudrun is going to make you a new gown."

Selia flushed as the woman touched her familiarly, measuring her with her hands at bosom and waist. Olaf had his broad back to her to block the women from the inquisitive eyes of the tavern patrons, but the serving girls were still walking in and out of the kitchen. They tittered as they saw Selia with Gudrun.

Gudrun wrapped her fingers around Selia's upper arm to judge its circumference. She tisked with displeasure in Alrik’s direction, and he smirked back at her. Selia studied the redhead. Just what was this woman's connection with her husband?

Gudrun's hands moved down to Selia's hips. She patted them mockingly, making a show as if finding nothing there. "I hope you didn't pay too great a bride price for her," Gudrun remarked. "Because this girl will not be able to birth any child of yours, Alrik Ragnarson. You threw your silver away."

Selia had had enough. "
Stop
." She took a step back. "Alrik, I do not want her to make my gown. I will make it."

Alrik ignored her and spoke to Gudrun. "Can you have it ready by tomorrow evening? We sail the morning after next." He squeezed Gudrun's hand, smiling at her. "And have the girl bring some food to our room, and water for washing."

Selia followed him through the tavern. "I do not like her, Alrik." She glared over her shoulder at Gudrun, who was still watching them.

He frowned as he led her into a back room. "You don't have to like her, little one. Gudrun is the best seamstress in Bjorgvin. I won't bring you home dressed in that." He motioned dismissively to her gown.

He was ashamed of her. She turned away, feeling her lip begin to quiver, but he caught her wrist. "Stay here and get some rest—I'll be back soon." He chucked her under the chin as though she were a child. "Olaf will be outside the door if you need anything."

Olaf's charge was more likely to keep her from running away, but Selia kept silent as she watched Alrik shut the door behind him. She looked around at the small, dim room, furnished with nothing but a table and a narrow bed. There was one tiny window, set very high in the wall. She could just reach up to open it but was unable to see out. The fresh air helped though.

The bed was nothing more than a wooden bench topped with a straw mattress and several blankets of indeterminate cleanliness, but to Selia it looked heavenly. It had been a long time since she had slept on anything other than the hard ground or the deck of the ship, and the idea of a nap was very tempting.

She was removing her shoes when she heard a knock at the door. Without waiting for a reply, the serving girl entered carrying a covered dish. Another girl followed behind her with a bucket of water and a basin. They looked her over with brazen curiosity, whispering to each other. One of them pealed with laughter as they walked out.

Stupid girls
. Selia glared at the door for a moment but was too hungry to sulk for long. She lifted the lid of the platter to find a sizeable bowl of stew and a chunk of fresh bread, which she tore into immediately.

With her belly full, she sniffed at the cake of soap inside the basin. Underneath the strong scent of lye there was something else—an essence of herbs and flowers that reminded her of the scent of Alrik's hair. Her own hair was in need of a wash. She was still picking out chunks of dried blood from her scalp.

She stripped off her gown and shift to wash her hair, soaping carefully around the wound on her head. It was still very tender, and she would get a blinding flash of pain behind her eyes occasionally. But all in all, it was healing well. If Ainnileas were here he would surely have a joke or two about the hardness of her head.

She shivered as she washed her body in the cold water, but could not bring herself to put her shift back on. It was filthy from traveling. She scrubbed it with the soap, wringing it out as best she could, then draped it over the window shutter in hopes it would dry by morning.

There, that was enough. When was the last time she had been this tired? Selia finally crawled naked into the narrow bed, wrapped the coarse wool blanket around her, and fell almost immediately asleep.

She awoke later to the faint sounds of water dripping. The room was dark, lit only by a flickering candle, and Alrik was washing himself at the table.

He ran the soapy rag across his broad chest and shoulders. Her body grew warm as she watched him. She felt brazen for staring, but couldn't force herself to avert her eyes. Droplets of water trickled down from his wet hair onto his chest. A glistening drop dribbled over the tattoo, clinging momentarily to his erect nipple before making its way down his body.

The memories of Skagi's beating were fading, and so were those of the merchant ship and Father Coinneach. And Selia simply refused to think about Alrik killing children. The shadow inside her husband was like a hole-deep and treacherous, yes, but ultimately avoidable if one remained alert. Now that Selia had fallen into it, she could learn to step around it. There were days the hole seemed like a cavern, and those where it was more of a dimple. To look at him now, it didn't seem possible he could harbor such darkness inside of him.

"You are beautiful, Alrik," she whispered.

He paused, meeting her gaze. "'Beautiful' is for women, little one."

"What is for men?"

"Handsome, I suppose."

"Handsome." Selia smiled at him. "You are very handsome."

Alrik chuckled as he toweled the last drops of water from his hair, moving slowly as though he knew how the sight of him affected her. She drew her breath in as she watched him. He pulled out a comb, and Selia rose from the bed, wrapping the blanket around herself against the chill. Alrik had not closed the window.

"Sit," she said, and he did, on the edge of the narrow bed. She began to comb through his hair. As she moved around to the front of him, she ran her fingers over the curious markings on his chest, just above his heart. Even up close, the tattoo appeared to be nothing more than faded lines and squiggles. And misshapen, as if it had been put on long ago when he had been considerably smaller.

"What does this mean?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It's nothing. It's for battle." He grasped her waist to pull her close, her face now on a level with his, and buried his nose in her hair, breathing deeply. "Mmm . . . you smell delicious."

"What is delicious?"

"Good enough to eat."

Delicious
. He smelled delicious himself. Alrik the Delicious—she liked that much better than Alrik Blood Axe. But she didn’t dare tell him of the nickname after the scolding she had received about Mani. Alrik's good moods were too rare to waste.

She pushed aside his damp hair to kiss his neck, nicking him with her teeth in the way he liked. Alrik shivered. Selia ran her lips over his flesh as her hand slid along his torso, the tautness of his chest, and belly. Her hand went lower, and she looked him in the eye and smiled.

Eithne had always warned her never to smile at a man, since it would give him the wrong idea about what kind of woman she was. But the maid hadn't explained how powerful a smile was when provoking the desire of one’s husband. If Selia did it just right, she found it could make Alrik stop speaking in the middle of a sentence.

He stared at her, his mouth slightly open and his breath shallow. She leaned in again to press her lips against the base of his throat, then worked her way down his body with slow, soft kisses.

He hadn't touched her last night, even though she had wanted him to. She found his restraint confusing at first, but then realized he was afraid he would hurt her so soon after her injury. She
had
nearly died, after all. But the familiar abyss of exhaustion had pulled her under before she could let him know his self-control was unnecessary, and she had awoken this morning alone in her tent.

She was his wife. She belonged to him. Whether Selia cared to be thought of as a possession or not made no difference. Alrik could have chosen to take her last night, regardless of her injury. He could have forced himself upon her when she was lying helpless and half dead. But he had not. Surely that meant something. It
must
mean something.

He did care for her. Perhaps almost losing her had made him realize how much. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought, and she was glad Alrik couldn't see her face.

"You . . . you are feeling better?" His voice was tight with restraint.

"Yes." Selia whispered. "Much better. I miss you, Alrik."

She stood, letting the blanket fall to the floor. She saw the glint of desire in his eyes as he leaned in to kiss her. But his kiss was gentle, and his hands remained fisted at his sides. He was holding back, as though afraid he would hurt her. Selia gripped his face and kissed him hard.

Alrik eyed her warily. She laughed as she climbed into his lap, moving close to kiss him again. His hands slipped up her thighs to the swell of her hips, gripping harder as Selia gently sank her teeth into his bottom lip.

He made a noise that sounded like a growl as he laid her on the bed. His mouth and hands seemed to be everywhere at once, but still so gentle. Selia cried out when he finally parted her thighs and entered her. He moved carefully, but Selia arched up to meet his every thrust.

The familiar buildup began deep in her core, driving her mad with need, refusing to let go. “Please, Alrik,” she whispered, digging her fingernails into his back.

He groaned and began the relentless rhythm she was accustomed to. Selia nearly sobbed in relief as her body shattered with pleasure.

As he finished she lay still, replete but exhausted.

Alrik shifted his body to look down at her. “Are you all right?”

The concern in his voice made her heart stop for a moment.

“Yes,” she whispered, hiding her face in his shoulder.