Viking's Prize (16 page)

Would anybody care?

“Nay,” Elienor whispered softly, achingly.

Nobody but Mother Heloise had truly ever cared for
her, she thought mournfully. Hugging herself, her gaze fell to the floor, her
eyes stinging. God help her, but she was unable to stifle the tears that
trickled past her guard. Yet she refused to cry aloud, refused to let them
witness her defeat!

Her gaze returned to the bed, and she vowed again
to fight him to the death if need be. Throwing herself upon it, she buried her
face into the mattress to stifle her tears.

She fell asleep worrying over what the Viking
would do if he found her in his bed.

Alarik understood now what it was that Brother
Vernay had been trying to tell him. It seemed that from the moment he had
walked out of his chamber, he’d been assaulted with a bevy of complaints,
requests, and accounts—nearly all concerning Nissa. He shook his head at
the thought of speaking with her, for of everyone, she was the one person he
never looked forward to seeing.

Ejnar’s daughter was a bother at the least, with
her ceaseless questions and meaningless banter, and a detriment at worst, for
Alarik knew very well the risk he took in permitting her to remain when he had
no intention of ever accepting her as his wife. But it seemed that every time
he’d attempted to inform her father of that fact, Ejnar the Dane found a way to
make him reconsider his eldest daughter. And reconsider Alarik had, more times
than he cared to count; yet no matter that he did, he still could not stomach
the thought of her in his bed—not that she wasn’t comely. In truth, she
was exceptionally fair to the eyes, but that alone did naught to recommend her,
for Nissa was also a terrible shrew who had no qualms over using the artifice
of tears when her tongue did not gain her what she wished.

Abruptly, a vision of Elienor as she’d appeared
within the chapel came to him. The little vixen had stood proudly while he’d
appraised her, with no trace of tears. In comparison, how many times had he
cursed Nissa for hers? More times than he could count. And how many tears had
he seen her shed over petty things?

Elienor had given him none of the expected.

Nei, but Nissa had used every artifice available
to her for far too long. His lips screwed with disgust. What age was the shrew
now? Twenty? Far too old to be holed up in his home, and yet he’d be damned if
he could find a single man to take her off his hands. He sighed wearily, raking
his hand through his hair as he entered his hall and made his way past the high
seat to his chamber.

He was grateful, at least, that until he found
someone willing to wed the shrew, she was able to earn her keep by caring for
his household. Though he’d be damned before he gave the woman control over his
house! He’d need to speak to her as soon as possible, for he wasn’t about to allow
her to continue ordering about free men and women. His people knew their duties
well enough, and he’d given her no leave to discipline them, nor to reassign
them.

He unlocked the door impatiently and entered his
chamber, noting at once that it was dim and growing cold. The fire had
evidently long since extinguished, and he frowned, for he’d not meant to leave
her alone so long. His eyes scanned the room and found her at once, nestled
within his bed, her tiny form enshrouded by the bulky furs.

Moving silently, so as not to disturb her, he went
to the hearth, stirring the embers, but the effort proved fruitless. The fire
was cold. From a pile of timber stacked in the corner he chose new wood,
placing it within the hearth, and having done so he left the bower momentarily
to retrieve a torch from one of the wall braces on the facing wall.

Using the torch to ignite the wood, Alarik waited
to be sure the orange-blue flames climbed and licked a path into the new wood.
Once he was satisfied the fire would thrive, he returned the torch to its brace
and then closed the door behind him as he entered, going to the bed. He stood
over her, watching her sleep. She seemed so serene, yet he could still see
evidence of her tears. His hand went to her cheek, cupping it delicately. She
stirred slightly and the gesture became a caress.

She moaned softly and his body responded with a
vengeance, yet he forbade himself even the thought of waking her.

He’d sworn to protect her, had vowed to take
naught she didn’t freely give...

However, he’d said absolutely nothing about lying
down beside her, and that he would not deny himself, for he determined that one
day soon, vow or no vow, she would welcome his
loathsome
Viking touch.

Again the dream.

Again the same; first Mother Heloise held her in the safety of her
arms, then Alarik, so tenderly, gazing down upon her with those steel-gray
eyes—confusing eyes, for the emotion nestled within their murky depths
was unknown—like no other her own eyes had e’er beheld.

Then abruptly, that unnamed emotion was fled, and so were the gray
eyes. Now they were as violet as her own, and sorrowful. There was no face to
frame the eyes, still Elienor recognized her mother in them.

“What?” she asked desperately, for the eyes seemed to be warning her.
But of what?

Again, she withdrew her hand from about Alarik and once again
discovered blood.

Betrayed.

The shield... she saw it again so clearly, the bright sun striking
against the majestic gilded hawk... and there was Alarik at the helm of his
longship, no longer at her side. Defiantly, he cried out and leapt into the
sea. Elienor watched in horror as his shield followed him beneath the surface.
With morbid fascination, she watched as the hawk’s wings spiraled beneath the
churning waves and disappeared completely. She glanced at her hand—the
blood remained.

All about her were shouts and threats and ships jarring together,
hundreds of them. Steel against steel.

Yet in that moment, all sound seemed to pass away, for suddenly Elienor
understood.

It was war they were at...

And Alarik would die.

CHAPTER
16

“By the hounds!”

Alarik bolted upright at the scream.

His mind sleep-fogged, it took him a befuddled
instant to realize it came from Elienor, and another to discern that she slept
still, her rest fitful, though unbroken.

His heart still hammering, he settled back down,
incredulous that she could slumber through such a shriek—regardless that
it was her own. Hella’s curse, it had been shrill enough to wake the bloody
dead!

Raking his fingers across his scalp, he wondered
with a weary sigh what demons tormented her so ruthlessly that she failed to
sleep peacefully even through one night. And in the quiet of the moment, as he
considered that question and listened to the sounds of her stirring beside him,
he became fiercely aware of his nudity... as never before.

Never had it given him such gratification.

Never had the bedsheets seemed so cool.

His skin so hot, despite the chill.

A vow so despised.

She whimpered and his arms reacted of their own
will, drawing her into his embrace, soothing her with a hand at her shoulder, the
small of her back, caressing her. It was a mistake he realized far too late,
for his hand was suddenly upon her thigh where her chemise had ridden up, her
skin silky smooth beneath his fingers. His pulse quickened as his fingers
caressed her ever so delicately, relishing the feel of her flesh.

Soft...

His heart felt as though it would erupt from his
chest it thrummed so savagely. Slowly, languorously, his hand slid upward,
between them, across her abdomen, his fingers sensuously spanning her belly
before moving down to skim over her woman’s mound.

Of their own will, his fingers gathered up her
gown, until he could feel at long last the soft curls of her womanhood beneath
his knuckles.

Was he mad?

Aye, he was—and lost as well! With no will,
at all. He was weak, and worse...

He was a liar.

He tried to convince himself he had to cease his
foraging, forcing himself to recall his vow to Elienor. Yet in utter defiance
that self-same hand slid to her luscious bottom. He groaned with pleasure at
the sensation of her filling his rugged palm. Groaning, he drove her hips
forward to crush against his groin, his eyes closing in pleasure, his head
thrust backward with carnal relish. Spurred onward by a heady, sleep-induced
drunkenness, he found himself undulating softly into the sweet warmth between
her thighs.

Elienor felt as though she were wavering between
darkness and light, alternately descending through the deep blackness, only to
ascend and grasp for the golden stream of light that teased her senses. She
tried to lift her heavy lids, failing miserably, and moaned with pleasure, her
mind engulfed by a velvety haze.

Somehow, Alarik had returned from the murky depths
of the ocean, somehow, he was holding her, cherishing her as she’d never been
cherished before...

But wasn’t it just a dream?

His mouth hovered above her own, ready to kiss her
as Count Phillipe had, only she’d felt nothing with Count Phillipe—not
like this.

Desperately, she concentrated on those movements
beside her that seemed so earthy and tangible and sighed in her sleep.

If this was a dream, she never wanted to waken.

Never had she known such pleasure!

She didn’t attempt to deny herself, for it wasn’t
real.

It was naught but a dream... a hazy... pleasant...
dream.

Alarik’s hands worked quickly to lift her gown,
revealing the dark tips of her breasts against luminous white flesh in the
flickering light of the chamber. Instinctively, his lips moved toward them,
seeking out their heat, desperate to suckle like a babe of her milky softness.

Feeling himself harden fully, he rolled her
backward, and followed, his knee settling between the softness of her legs as
his lips suckled her. There he hovered, fighting a fierce battle against his
will. Yet even as he vied for control, the hand that had grasped her bottom
moved upward to the small of her back, holding her still for his lip’s
devotion. Feeling the nipple harden upon the tip of his tongue, he groaned and
brought it fully within the heat of his mouth.

And in that moment he dared to imagine the woman in
his arms awake and aware, eager to let him spend his passion deep within her.

He dared to persuade himself it was so.

Almost feverishly, his lips moved to her neck,
nibbling the flesh there as he kneaded one breast with his free hand. He wanted
to devour her.

God—was he daft to be loving an insensate
woman?

Ah, but what a beautiful one she was.

For the briefest instant he thought he felt her
undulate along with him and it gave him the most incredible burst of euphoria.

He thought he would explode in that moment, yet
still he burned.

Intensely.

He eased himself down upon her, half-mad with
need, beads of perspiration dotting his brow as he worked himself into a gentle
but unstoppable rhythm.

Did he truly care that she was unaware of his
loving?

Did he care?

She felt so good, and he needed release so
badly—it had been too long... too long...

He muttered unwittingly in answer, for he knew
that in truth, it did matter. He could not continue in this without Elienor’s
awareness at least...

Else he was no better than Red-Hrolf.

That sobering realization discouraged him enough
that he shoved away from the woman beneath him and turned onto his back.

By damn, it did matter.

And he didn’t like it one whit!

What ailed him anyway?

Sensing that morning was near enough, he heaved
himself up from the bed, dressed in the dim light, and stalked from his
chamber, delivering himself from temptation once and for all!

Stretching beneath the blankets, Elienor wondered
dazedly of Clarisse. How did she fare? She wondered if she would have the
opportunity to speak with her today, and then suddenly... she recalled the
dream—all of it, and her face burned crimson with shame.

Sweet Jesu, she’d dreamt of him in the most
shameful manner! And now in the light of day she could not bear to recall it.
She glanced about the chamber suddenly and found it brightly lit, and then
spied the reason why and came fully awake, but too late to avoid it. Elienor
gasped as frigid water struck her full in the face, cutting off her breath.

“Lazy thrall!” Nissa hissed. “Here we cannot
afford to lie abed all day!”