Viking's Prize (14 page)

He offered the cheese again and she eyed the
morsel malevolently.

“You feed all your captives this way?” she asked.

“All?” His gaze dropped from her eyes to her
shoulders, to the cheese... or at least Elienor assumed it was the cheese.
Something about the hunger in his eyes seemed more than just a bit carnal.
“No.”

She crossed her arms, rubbing them as though to
erase the gooseflesh that prickled her, and sensing that her stomach was about
to betray her again, she indignantly swiped the cheese from his fingers and
fought the urge to shove the tiny bite into her mouth.

“The truth is, Elienor, I usually keep no
thralls.”

“Thralls?” Involuntarily her eyes returned to his
lips. As she stared something fluttered deep within the pit of her belly.

His eyes glittered with amusement. “In your
tongue… slaves.”

“I see,” Elienor said stiffly, her gaze affixed to
his face as she nibbled from the cheese in her hand. “So then, what, pray tell,
am I?”

Alarik’s half-grin faded, for he found himself
suddenly at a loss.

What was she, indeed?

In truth, he rarely took prisoners. Every last one
of the steading’s servants were freed men, hired for pay. And while slavery was
indeed the way for many Norsemen, Alarik had chosen not to employ it. Mayhap it
was the circumstances of his birth that kept him from it, for he wanted no
bastard children born under him. He had no taste for begetting children who
felt less than whole... and fancied they had something to prove to the world.

So, then, what the devil was the wench to be, if
not his slave? His brow rose as he considered her question...and then he
happened to recall the ring, and his gaze fell to the creamy expanse of her
neck.

“I believe a more poignant question remains to be
asked. What were you to Count Phillipe? Better yet, what were you to Robert of
Francia… wench?”

He wanted her know with certainty that whatever
her title was up to now... it was no more.

Elienor nearly choked on the cheese.

Her eyes widened, her hand flew to her breast. She
flashed Alarik a look of alarm and his eyes bore into her with silent
expectation.

She said nothing, merely stared at him with a look
of panic.

Provoked by her silence, he gripped her suddenly
by the wrist, jerking her toward him, though his other hand went to her temple,
to her wound, caressing it without touching at all.

She tried to look away, but he yanked her toward
him once more, annoyed by the way she studiously avoided his gaze. “Am I so
repulsive to you, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes, that you would fly from my
touch? Does my Viking face repulse you even now, after I’ve cared for you? Fed
you? Protected you? Can you not cease to judge me for who you think I
am—the heartless barbarian Norseman—and see me differently? In
truth, I am not so gentle as some, but neither am I cruel, I think. Forsooth! I
am but a man,” he finished angrily. “I’d not have you look at me as though I
were a fire-breathing serpent.”

Elienor managed to shake her head.

Nay, if the truth be known, she was not repulsed
by him just now, but by herself, and her body’s odd response to his
touch—to his very presence. But she thought she might die if he didn’t
release her at once.

“I’ll not harm you, wench,” he swore. “You need
not shun my touch again.”

“Nay?”

The blue flecks in his eyes deepened and his voice
was softer, huskier when he next spoke. “I grant you my word that I shall take
naught from you that is not freely given.”

Her chin lifted, remembering his earlier threat.
“Which is it, my lord… that you shall deeply enjoy the taking? or that you will
take naught unless given freely?”

For the longest instant, he was stunned enough to
say nothing. “My word!” he declared. “But take care you do not offend me further,”
he warned, his eyes narrowing. “You’d do well to remember that it is I alone
who stand betwixt you and my men! Understand my meaning?”

He squeezed her wrist lightly, though not enough
to cause pain, his brows lifting in question. When Elienor nodded, he released
her at last.

Yet he held her eyes fast.

Ensnared by his gaze, Elienor rubbed her wrist
absently.

From beyond the tent came a sudden roar of
merriment, diverting his attention.

Suddenly his look was full of satisfaction. The
ire completely melted from his gaze and the grey in his eyes turned a lucid
silver.

“At last … the Gareinger Fjord,” he said. When
Elienor did not understand, he added, “Home.”

CHAPTER
14

Her
face was full of dread, but Alarik had no desire to reassure her just
now—not with the havoc her beautiful face played upon his mind—not
when she looked upon him as though he were some mad beast from the wilds.

Never
mind that she had a right to fear him.

She
seemed to realize suddenly that even after he’d released her, she’d remained
within a hair’s breadth of him, for her eyes widened, and she gasped, thrusting
herself backward. Her reaction to him clenched his gut.

Avoiding
her gaze as he stood, Alarik left without another word. He stepped outside into
the bright sunlight, wondering what it was about her bewitching eyes that made
him lose all sense and reason.

Had he
proposed peace betwixt them? When she obviously preferred his head on a platter
instead? What ailed him, indeed!

As the
Goldenhawk glided over the sun-lit waters, light as a gull, the crew shouted
hoarse cheers to the two smaller drakken sailing in its wake.

Not a
single man aboard the sister ships could suppress their exhilaration over the
sight before them. Alarik’s mood lightened considerably.

Their
home soil rose white and proud on either side of the ice-scattered fjord,
reaching magnificently into the clouded blue heavens.

The
drizzle was heavier now, the crisp air smelling of freshly fallen snow. With
much pleasure, Alarik took the fresh, cold air into his lungs until they stung
from the chill. The scene before him never ceased to overwhelm him, to fill him
with satisfaction. There were times the Northland’s harsh winters left him
aching for the sun and sea, but inasmuch as this was so, it was also true that
an interval at sea filled his heart with a fierce longing for the rugged fjord
that harbored his home.

His
home.

His.

All his
life he’d endeavored to prove himself—first to his father, then to his
people, and finally to himself. He’d sweat blood, pure and bright, for his
right to hold this land. It was his now—all of it—stark as it was
in winter, meager as it was in spring—as far as the eye could behold.
He’d earned every last grain of soil.

Like a
mother that snuggles a hungry babe to her bosom, so did the twin knolls on the
horizon give refuge to his steading. He watched, the end of a snow-peppered
dock appear, and as the Goldenhawk rounded the bend in the fjord, the wooden
structure grew in clarity before his eyes, as though stretching in welcome.
With a father’s pride, Alarik stood, relishing the sight.

No
doubt, the red diamond sails of the Goldenhawk had been spied the moment they’d
entered the mouth of the fjord. Long before the first drakken glided into dock,
the pier was teeming with gleeful kinsmen.

Feeling
much as she imagined a caged animal would feel, Elienor paced the confines of
the tent, wondering how long it would be before he came for her.

And
though she couldn’t possibly have waited longer than fifteen minutes, when Alarik
appeared in the doorway, darkening the tent interior with his presence, she was
so anxious that she shrieked in startle.

“Gather
your belongings. We’ve arrived.”

Elienor
bristled at his choice of words. “Pray, do you mean
all
my many coffers, my lord Viking?”
she asked with a slight smile of defiance.

Alarik
frowned at her.

“But
there are so many!” she continued flippantly, lifting her chin, meeting his icy
gaze straight on. “It would take hours to pack them all!”

Without
warning, Alarik sauntered forward, seizing her by the hand and hauling her out
of the tent after him.

Dread
shot through her at the reality of this new world she was entering, so
different from her own.

The
drastic change in weather, the uncanny chill of the air alone was staggering.
Nevertheless, she concealed her fear valiantly behind bold words. “Alas, shall
I go with the dress on my back?” she asked sarcastically, wincing at the
brightness of the sunlight. “Will we send for the coffers later?”

He said
naught, merely tugged at her arm, and she glared at his back.

Jesu,
but it was cold!

All
about her there were people, embracing, laughing, joking. How could they?
Elienor bristled. Certainly there was nothing joyous about this day!

Alarik
stopped and turned, and Elienor gasped as she collided with his leather-clad
chest. He’d been about to speak out, but halted abruptly at her cry of pain.
And again, that look as he gazed down at her. She couldn’t bear to suffer his
scrutiny, or his concern!

His
hand went to her healing scar. “I am fine!” she said, shrinking away from his
touch.

His
hand froze between them, and at once his look darkened. He jerked his gaze
away, and without a word to her, immediately began to bellow out orders to his
men for the unloading of the vessels. And then, hauling her after him once
more, he led her off the ship, up a narrow pathway that led up the cliff side.

Beneath
Elienor’s leather shoes, the snow was tamped down, evidence of the rush of feet
that had trod up and down the pathway to the docks this morn. Obviously someone
loved these men well, though she couldn’t imagine who, or why. That they would
have families who cared for them seemed inconceivable.

Halfway
up the cliff side, her heart full of misery, Elienor cast a glance over her
shoulder at the despised dragon ships that had brought her to this godforsaken
place. And to her shock, she spied Clarisse being led onto the dock by the Nude
one.

“You
lied to me!” she said to Alarik’s back. When he didn’t respond to her
accusation, she tugged wrathfully upon his arm. “Clarisse lives!”

“Aye,
so she does,” he replied dispassionately.

Again
Elienor tugged at his arm, this time with more force. “But you said...”

“I said
naught,” he snapped, glancing backward at her, his eyes dark and smoldering. He
tugged her forward. “It was you who said, wench. I simply didn’t bother to
correct you!” He kept walking, virtually dragging her after him.

“How
could you deliberately mislead me?” Elienor stumbled over her feet, unable to
keep pace with his greater stride. “Stop! Stop! Let me speak to her, for the
love of God!”

He
stopped abruptly, and once again Elienor collided with him. Only this time, she
dared not cry out, for the malevolence in his expression when she looked up at
him was startling in its intensity.

“Mislead
you?” he asked, his voice low and silky. He shook his head slowly. “Nei,
Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes, for you were bound and determined to believe the
worst of me. I simply chose not to disappoint.”

Elienor
blinked, uncertain of what to say in her defense, for in this he spoke truth.
She had suspected the worst of him. Yet how could she not?

He
turned sharply and continued up the path, again hauling her after him.

“My
lord, a word please!”

Startled
by the male voice so near, Elienor gasped and turned to face the bearer of
it—and found herself reeling yet again at the sight that encountered her
disbelieving eyes. Struggling not to trip over her blundering feet, she watched
in shock as the man passed her by.

A monk?
Here? But nay, it could not be!

Shaking
her head in mute disbelief, she once again took in everything, from his frock,
tied with braided rope, to his tonsured head.

Elienor’s
mouth opened to speak, though she was unable to find her voice. And still
Alarik would not stop. Curse him! Instead, he seemed to walk all the faster,
jerking her after him, as though he did not wish her to acknowledge the monk at
all.