Viking's Prize (11 page)

Elienor first became aware of the bitter chill seeping
through the blankets, and immediately thereafter of the briny scent of the sea.

Where was she?

Such strange, strange dreams. Ships and warriors.
A battle at sea—and that face—
his
face!

The floor beneath her swayed suddenly and she
winced against the sharp pang that surged through her head at the unexpected
motion. Struggling to sit upright, she brought her hand to her throbbing
temple. It was then she saw him. Everything came rushing back at once.

Her voice faltered. “What have you done with
Clarisse?”

He turned abruptly toward her, his brows rising,
but if she thought she spied relief in his expression she was sorely mistaken.
His lips twisted sardonically as his silver eyes narrowed and met her blue
ones. “Last I looked, you were in no position to command answers from me.”

Elienor said nothing, only glared at him.

“I take it you recall?”

“Would that I did not!” Elienor exclaimed.

A lethal chill entered his silver-flecked eyes.
“Nevertheless,” he countered, and the depth of his tone sent shivers down her
spine, “what is done, is done.” His eyes were alight with challenge and
mockery. “Were I you, I would worry now only with covering myself... lest it be
your aim to tempt the beast.”

Following his gaze to where the coverlet pooled at
her lap, Elienor gasped, seizing it to her bosom, her face burning scarlet.
“Where are my clothes?” She drew her arms defensively within the blanket.

“Wet,” he announced matter-of-factly. “I removed
them, lest you catch the ague.”

“And what of Clarisse?” Elienor persisted, her
chin lifting slightly.

When he didn’t reply, only lifted a brow at her,
she swallowed at the inevitable conclusion she drew. She closed her eyes
briefly, resisting bitter tears. When she opened them again, it was to meet his
penetrating gaze. God help her, but she had to know for certain.

“Tell me, my lord Viking,” she said trying to
sound conversational, but failing miserably. “Did you relish watching her take
her last watery breath?”

A muscle ticked at his jaw as he stooped to lift
up the skin of water at her side and uncapped it. He drank from it slowly, as
though he considered his answer, never taking his eyes from her.

Elienor bristled at his apathy.

Swiping the back of his hand across his lips, he
asked, his brow lifting in challenge, “You would have had me instead expose my
men to whatever malady she might have carried?”

Elienor’s heart twisted violently at the
affirmation. Her eyes squeezed shut as hot tears threatened to flow. “Jesu!”
she declared in an agonized whisper. “You are beasts!”

She heard him stir toward her and she averted her
face, crying out in fear that he might strike her for the insult she’d dared to
fling yet again. But he didn’t. There was only silence between them; a massive
silence in which the creak of the mast and the drone of voices from beyond the
tent opening screeched into her conscious. That and the sound of her heart
pounding against her ribs.

“Scorn not what you do not comprehend,” he replied
with deceptive calm. “’Tis the law of the sea, wench.”

Elienor dared open her eyes to look at him. But it
was her undoing, for the intensity of his gaze ensnared her.

“’Tis the law of the land, as well,” he disclosed
in the same mesmerizing tone.

“To murder the innocent?” He expected her to
simply accept such a thing? Not ever! “Not of my land!” Elienor returned
miserably.

He lifted a brow. “Nei?”

Elienor shook her head, her eyes averting to the
skin of water, and then returning.

“Mayhap,” he conceded, his dark eyes growing
darker, stealing her breath away.

Twas ludicrous—inconceivable, even—but
he would not release her gaze; It was as though he held it physically within
his grasp and refused to yield it.

“Then, again... I was not born of your land,” he
disclosed, glancing down at the skin of water in his hand. He took another
modest sip and then surprised Elienor by holding it out to her.

Elienor stared at the skin as though it were sin
itself he were offering, wetting her lips and cursing her weakness, for as
thirsty as she was, she could not even begin to refuse it.

He smiled suddenly, as though he’d read her mind,
and thrust it closer. “You don’t have to,” he said huskily, his dark eyes
sparkling with mirth at her expense.

Elienor blinked.

“Do you always speak your thoughts aloud?” he
asked her, his brows lifting.

Elienor’s color deepened—curse and rot her
mouth! “So I’ve been told,” she ceded grudgingly, removing the skin from his
hands—enormous hands with long, graceful fingers, she couldn’t help but
notice.

Tipping the flagon to her lips, she remembered the
warmth of his touch on her face and sighed. And then she stiffened abruptly,
catching his scent.

To her dismay, she found the scent of him lingered
on the skin—she could swear she tasted him as well—yet It was
absurd! Her brows drew together, and distressed by the discovery, she drew the
skin away from her lips, as though singed, only to find that he watched her
still, ruminating, something peculiar in his expression.

“The Northland is cruel to those not hale enough
to endure it,” he announced suddenly. ‘Those not up to the trial are best put
to rest.”

By his expression, Elienor thought he might be
trying to justify his decision to murder Clarisse. Let him try—naught
could justify it! she reflected bitterly.

As though to escape her accusing eyes, he rose
abruptly, moving to peer out of the tarpaulin. There was silence a long moment,
and then he countered, “Is it not more heartless to let the weak live... only
to see them die yet another day?”

“What say you?” Elienor glared at his back,
horrified to remember against her will the firmness of his flesh beneath her
palms as he’d carried her out from the
kirken
, and then again to the ship; the refined
strength in his every movement, the ease of his stride as he’d walked. She
swallowed convulsively.

“Only that I see it as an act of mercy, and not
cruelty, to free the weak from misery,” he said simply.

“Mercy?” Elienor repeated incredulously. “Mercy?”
She shook her head. “How can you think so? ’Tis murder and naught less!”

He glanced over his shoulder at her, as though
considering her reply. “Mayhap you think ’tis more merciful to let the sickly
live and thereby allow others to suffer for it? In the Northland food is
scarcely—oft times ’tis what drives men from their homes to seek
another...” Again he turned to peer out from the tarpaulin and there seemed a
note of self derision in his voice. “It is what also leads men blindly into
slaughter for the mere chance to hold a parcel of fertile land.”

“You are right,” Elienor said acerbically. “I
don’t understand! How can the one justify the other? If one endures hardship,
it would seem his compassion for others would be greater.”

“As surely as the healthy would be deprived of
food in meager times, did the sickly child live… had the girl carried the
pestilence, then all my crew would have suffered for it.” He peered over his
shoulder at her, asking pointedly, “Should I have allowed the many to perish
for a single wench who’d doubtless die on her own?”

It finally occurred to her what it was he was
trying to say. “Do you mean to tell me that you kill innocent babes? That a
mother would allow it?” Her own mother had gladly forfeited her own life to
save a child not of her blood!

He didn’t bother to turn toward her. “As I said...
scorn not what you cannot possibly comprehend.”

She couldn’t believe what he was telling her so
dispassionately. No one could be so cruel! “Surely, only God has the right to
decide such things!” Elienor exclaimed. When he didn’t respond to her charge,
her gaze swept the length of him, taking in his massive size once more. “How
facile for one so fit to pass judgment on those less fortunate!” she said with
anger and contempt. “I’m certain that you, my lord Viking, would have had
naught to fear!”

He turned toward her suddenly, his lips curving,
as though her proclamation amused him somehow, and in that moment, Elienor felt
a great rush of contempt for him.

His eyes were dark and insolent. “You think not?”

Elienor averted her gaze, flushing clear to her
toes.

“From here forth you will cease to refer to me as
my lord Viking,” he told her. “My given name is Alarik... and it would please
me greatly should you use it in future.”

Please him? She’d rather think of him as the demon
he was! “I’d as soon join Clarisse!” she said bitterly.

“That too can be arranged.”

Elienor’s gaze flew to his, dizzying her with the
quickness of the motion. He’d not dare!

His eyes gleaming, he chuckled deeply as he turned
and moved toward her.

Jesu—he would. Her heart leapt.

He seemed to read her thoughts, for he halted
abruptly at the terrorized look in her eyes.

“The truth is, wench,” he told her, perturbed, “my
own father thought to put me out as a babe.”

As shocked as Elienor was by the revelation, she
tried not to show it. Her lips parted to speak, but nothing came.

“’Tis true,” he assured her, his dark eyes
sparkling.

Forsooth, and that should amuse him? Anger surged
through her, but it was directed more at herself. Why should she have expected
more from mere barbarians? Pain flared through her head and she cried out, her
hand going to her temple.

He was beside her in mere seconds, stooping before
her, his warm palm splayed across her own hand. She recoiled from him, but he
held her fast, drawing her hand away in his own to peer beneath, and his voice
was wrathful, yet oddly tender when he spoke again. “Hrolf Kaetilson will be
punished for his savagery,” he assured her.

Elienor peered up at him, trying to shake his hold
from her hand. “You...” Her voice, skeptical, suddenly faltered. “You would
condemn your own man for harming me?”

His silver eyes hardened, his long powerful
fingers refused to relinquish their hold. “As I would any for defying me,” he
told her pointedly, squeezing her fingers lightly. Quivers swept down her spine
at the gesture.

For defying him? Why else? Elienor asked herself
scornfully, wrenching her hand free. “I see.”

She was suddenly aware of his hands upon her arms,
sliding up and pressing her backward upon the pallet. “Rest now,” he commanded.
“You must regain your strength.” He pulled the coverlet high about her throat,
and his fingers slid the length of her jaw, sending gooseflesh racing down her
arms. “I shall bring you nourishment directly.”

“I’m not hungry!”

“Nevertheless,” he countered, his voice as deep
and unfathomable as the sea, “you’ll eat what I bring.”

Rising abruptly, he stood over her for an
uncomfortable moment, peering down at her with... not concern; but it couldn’t
be! And then he turned to leave. Yet he halted before ducking from the tent,
glancing backward, as though suddenly reluctant to go. His eyes narrowed. “The
boy... he called you Elienor?”

Reminded of Stefan, Elienor once again fought the
salty burn of tears in her eyes.

“Is that how you are known?”

Curse him, Elienor thought, for he had not even
the decency to show compunction when speaking of poor Stefan! “Aye,” she
relented, a lump forming in her throat. A single tear slid down her cheek, but
she swiped it away, vowing to shed no more. “I am Elienor,” she told him,
suddenly feeling so very fatigued, so defeated.

“Elienor,” he whispered, as though savoring the
sound of her name. His eyes bore into her own. “It suits you,” he told her.
“From whence do you hail, Elienor?”

Her eyes narrowed with anguish. Another tear
slipped silently past her lashes. She blinked it away. “As though you did not
know.”

Something strange flickered in the gleaming silver
depths of his eyes—regret? She didn’t want his tenderness, nor his
concern. She wanted only to loathe him!

“I mean before. Who was your sire.”

Realizing what he wished to know, Elienor sought
to deter him, uncertain how it would bode her if she revealed her relation to
Robert of France. “Baume-les-Nonnes,” she supplied.

One brow shot up in surprise. “Nonnes? You came
from a holy house?”

Elienor nodded, her eyes stinging with tears she
refused to shed.

His eyes were sharp, assessing. “I thought you
were to be wed to Count Phillipe?”

“I was. Until you came.”

“Then you’re not his bride?”

Elienor shook her head in answer, and then shivered,
for as she watched, the tiniest smile twisted his lips, spreading deep into his
bladelike eyes. She vowed to say no more, not wanting to please him.

As though sensing her withdrawal, he nodded,
evidently appeased for the time being, and ducked beneath the tent flap,
disappearing into his own world.

She wanted no part of that world!

Her heart heavy with grief, she watched as the
flap swung to and fro an instant, and then tugged the coverlet over her head to
hide the tears she could no longer keep.

CHAPTER
11