Viking's Prize (13 page)

I have been with
you always, bien-aimee. You must heed the warnings.

Elienor’s
heart raced and a chill passed through her, sending gooseflesh racing down her
arms.

“Mother!”
she said, whirling suddenly, searching for the face that went with the imagined
voice, and shook her head.

Heed them,
Elienor.

Again
she spun about, spying nothing still.

Sweet
Jesu! Surely it was only her imagination.

It was
true she oft talked to herself—but never like this! “Dear God! I am mad!”
she exclaimed a little hysterically. Eyeing the blanket she’d discarded upon
the pallet, she felt acutely the crispness of the air. If she stayed in this
tent another moment, the madness would be irrevocable. If she didn’t freeze to
death first—and It was all his fault!

“Truly,
I am mad!” she whispered again. Jesu, but it was cold! She started for the
blanket suddenly, intending to wrap it about her shoulders. “Mad, mad, mad!”

“I’m
inclined to agree.”

Elienor
practically leapt out of her stockinged feet. She spun about to face the tent
opening where Alarik, the demon, stood watching her, his arms crossed, his lips
twisted with ill-concealed amusement. A grin suddenly overtook his features...
those sensuous lips twisting devilishly. “Who can argue with truth?” he said,
his eyes sparkling with rare humor. “Without question, you’re unusual, Elienor
of Baume-les-Nonnes.”

Elienor
shot him a look of contempt, forcing her gaze from his lips.

Unusual?
Precisely what was he implying? Unusual, indeed! She dared not ask, lest he
accuse her of witchery again. “Beg pardon if I offend thee, my lord Viking!”

“Alarik.”

Elienor’s
eyes narrowed belligerently. “Pardon again! Alarik, the demon,” she countered,
daring to use her own epithet for him. And emboldened by his silence, she dared
even further. “Mighty Norseman, slayer of innocents!”

He
stiffened as though she’d physically struck him.

Her
voice rose in renewed anger over Clarisse’s senseless death. “Alarik, the
executioner!”

“Enough!”
He snarled at last, his eyes warning her. “Lest you wish to join your friend.”

Elienor
snorted to cover her instant of fear. “You would!” she continued carelessly.
Let him do what he wished to her! She refused to forget her pride ever again.

A
muscle ticked at his jaw. “Aye, wench, I would... never doubt it!” His eyes
glittered dangerously.

Yet he
did nothing of the sort, Elienor noticed. He simply stood glaring at her.

Tossing
her head back, she eyed him with cold triumph, daring to challenge him with
every fiber of her being. Only the longer he stood, the darker his look became,
and the more ominous he seemed, and Elienor began to truly doubt her sanity.

What
was wrong with her that she would goad him so?

He said
absolutely nothing, merely stood there, his eyes glittering with barely
restrained fury, and then he flung her dry kyrtle at her.

Elienor
gasped as the garment cuffed her in the face. She fumbled for it, missed it,
and then fumbled for it again as it fluttered to the planking. She stared down
at it numbly, glancing up in astonishment.

He was
gone.

That
was it?

She’d
pushed and pushed, yet that was all he would do in retaliation? She felt giddy
with relief. For a befuddled instant, she stood there gazing down at her
saltwater-stained garment, illuminated suddenly by a dazzling shaft of
sunlight, and wondered in horror how she could have forgotten what she was
wearing—or rather what she was not wearing! At once, she fell to her
knees, seizing up her bliaut, her face burning crimson with shame, and then
again glanced at the tent opening.

Sunlight
shone onto her face, and she shielded her eyes, amazed at how much light he
kept from the tarpaulin when he stood in the doorway. With his departure the
shelter was again awash with light.

Which
led her to wonder just how she’d not sensed him standing there.

Worse,
how long had he stood there before making his presence known?

“The
cur!” she said, and promptly drew the ruined gown over her head, smoothing it
over her undertunic.

The man
was impossibly arrogant!

Still
she couldn’t believe he’d done naught more than swat her with her gown.

Leaving
her so she could dress, Alarik vowed to stay clear of her—vicious wench
that she was! So much for attempting civility. Had he felt bad about the way
he’d spoken to her last night?

No
more!

From
here on, Sigurd was perfectly capable of carrying her meals to her—otherwise
she could spend her days in solitude, or content herself with her biting tongue
for company!

Nevertheless,
as the day wore on, Alarik couldn’t quite remove from his memory the caged look
she’d had on her face as she’d paced the confines of the tent. Nor could he
erase the image of her standing there in dishabille, ripe and luscious, and
very likely untouched for all that she’d disclosed. And Loki take him if that
possibility didn’t make him burn all the hotter.

It was
unlikely Phillipe would have forced himself upon her with her pious upbringing
and her connections—whatever they were—to Robert of Francia.

Yet
another thing that bedeviled him.

Leaning
back against the prow, he eyed the tent restlessly, shaking his head in
disbelief. The stupid wench didn’t even have the good sense to stay covered
beneath the blanket he’d given her. Anyone could have walked in and spied her
standing as she was.

What
galled him most, however, was that she still blamed him for Clarisse’s death.
Mayhap it wouldn’t so much if, in truth, he’d tossed the baseborn wench
overboard, but he hadn’t—though he damned well should have!—and
what provoked him most was that the Fransk she wolf didn’t even realize the
truth.

And he
couldn’t tell her.

Nei, he
amended, he wasn’t about to tell her.

Let the
witch believe what she would of him!

“Have
you told her yet that her friend lives?” Sigurd inquired from the helm, as
though he’d read Alarik’s thoughts.

Alarik
gave his old friend a scowl for his prying. His brow rose slightly, yet he made
no reply beyond that gesture.

“You
could send Clarisse in to keep her company,” Sigurd suggested cannily.

“Clarisse?”
Alarik asked with lifted brows.

Sigurd
ignored the taunt. “Mayhap if you told her... she wouldn’t feel so confined... and
her tongue wouldn’t be quite so sharp.”

“You
overstep your bounds, Sigurd!”

“Couldn’t
help but overhear,” Sigurd said, defending himself. At Alarik’s black look, he
shrugged in mock resignation, and returned his attention to the steering of the
vessel.

The
hush that followed mocked him.

“She
has two legs of her own!” Alarik barked. “If she ever bothers to come out,
she’ll know. Otherwise she can assume whatever she pleases!”

His
attention was again drawn to the tarpaulin.

He
couldn’t make out her silhouette at the moment. It was only at night,
highlighted by the light within, that her lithe figure behind the canvas
taunted him. And not solely him, he knew, for he’d not missed the looks his men
cast her way.

Damn
the wench, for within the tent, she had no notion what spell she’d cast over
them all.

He
didn’t give a rat’s piss that she felt confined. She was his prisoner, after
all. In truth, he didn’t much care if she starved herself to death
either—stubborn, venomous wench! Truthfully, it’d save him the trouble of
strangling her.

CHAPTER
13

Stooping as he entered the tent, Alarik moved swiftly
toward her, heedlessly tossing at her side the wooden platter he’d brought. It
settled upon the planking with a hollow clatter. “I don’t give a whit if you’re
not hungry,” he snarled at her. “You’ll eat regardless—and smile as you
swallow!”

Elienor blinked at his ruthless tone, so at odds
with his actions. He didn’t care... yet he brought her food? Some of her
outrage dissipated, leaving only confusion in its wake, along with a lingering
dose of chagrin for the way that he’d found her this morn. Her eyes dropped to
the platter. At the sight of it, her stomach grumbled.

“Don’t bother denying it, wench!” He sat back upon
the enormous rounded block that supported the mast. “Even your body defies
you!” He grinned suddenly. “Your belly rumbles louder than Thor’s hammer.”

To her dismay she could feel her cheeks heating.
She glowered at him and averted her gaze, grateful that his smile faded, for
the sight of it seemed to incite her heart to insurrection. Frowning, she
glanced down at the platter, noting the assortment of cheeses and bread; she
was grateful for the lack of pungent dried salmon he’d brought every other
meal. To her chagrin, her mouth began to water at the sweet odors that wafted
to her nostrils. She sat upright, trying to appear indifferent, yet failing
miserably. Her stomach grumbled once more, and she cursed it, along with her
pounding heart.

He slid down the block to sit upon the planking
before her, and her heart turned over violently. Hardly able to understand what
his presence aroused within her, Elienor tried her best to ignore him.

“Why is it that you don’t realize when you’re
talking to yourself?” he asked with genuine interest.

Elienor looked at him, shrugging. “How should I
know?”

“Has it always been so?”

“As long as I can remember,” she relented, trying
to still the erratic beating of her heart. Again she cursed her tongue. How
many times had she been reprimanded at the cloister? Too many to
recount—and always at the hour of prayer. “Mother Heloise said that it
was because I have a restless mind.” Feeling more agitated by the instant, she
tried to discern the demon’s purpose in speaking so civilly to her, but could
perceive no reason for it. Surely, there was something he wanted of her?

He nodded, apparently satisfied with her
explanation, and reached for a slice of soft white cheese, surprising her by
bringing it to her bps.

Elienor’s brows lifted. “You would feed me?” she
asked, resisting the urge to snatch it whole into her mouth—and bite off
his fingers in the process!

Alarik’s brow rose at her question. Retrieving the
cheese, he tore off a modest bite for himself, popping it in his mouth.
“Unless, of course, you’re not hungry?”

Elienor was, but she wasn’t about to beg for her
supper! Let him eat it all if he would. She watched him chew, fascinated by the
strength in his jaw... his lips... the way they appeared... so soft... and yet
so hard. Her fingers went to her own lips, her brows drawing together, and then
catching herself, she startled.

Forsooth, what did he want of her? That she would
forget all that had passed between them in the space of an afternoon? Hardly
possible.

Seeing her chin jut forward stubbornly, Alarik
decided to cease with the jesting lest she starve over her
stubbornness—he had not missed the confusion in her face when she’d
watched him eat. The way she’d touched her own lips as she’d contemplated his
sent talons of desire clawing through him. He held the cheese out once more. “A
peace offering,” he suggested.

“Peace?” Elienor retorted. “Betwixt us?” Just to
make certain there was no confusion as to whom she meant, she gestured between
the two of them, her expression clearly disbelieving.

“Aye. I would say It was in your best interest,”
he apprised.

“Mine? Since when do you trouble yourself with my
best interest, my lord?”

My lord.

Not my lord Viking?

Alarik grinned, feeling a small victory at the
concession.

His pewter-gray eyes assessed her and a quiver
swept down Elienor’s spine, though she managed an indifferent shrug. Yet she
was anything but unaffected. He had a way of looking at her that disconcerted
at best.