Viking's Prize (19 page)

Outside,
snow fell as dry and Light as whispers.

Against
the stark white landscape, the shapes and colors of the approaching forces grew
in clarity. After a long moment, Alarik was able to identify his brother’s
sorrel from the immense party that accompanied him.

The
animal, with its pure white mane and tail, had a regal prance all of its own,
and Alarik would know it anywhere. He’d long admired the beast. With Olav’s
consent, he’d bred the horse with one of his own two years past. As of yet,
there was only another puny mare for the effort—exquisite in form, yet
much too diminutive to be of much service to Alarik. Like as not, he’d fall
flat on his back if he so much as attempted to mount the beast.

Contemplating
the animal, he was unable to prevent his thoughts from straying to Elienor.
Proportionately, she was just right for the mare. He found himself envisioning
her upon the sorrel—her long chestnut hair fluttering in the breeze, the sun
in her face... perhaps in the spring he would present the animal to her as a
gift. Aye, that’s what he would do... when came the spring... perhaps by then
she would have grown accustomed to his home.

To him.

A shuddering
coursed through him at the thought.

He was
completely unaware of the long minutes that elapsed until Olav and his men had
entered the compound and dismounted before him, bringing him out of his
reverie.

Olav’s
arms flew out at once to embrace Alarik. “Mine bror!” he bellowed cheerfully.

Alarik
grunted, returning the embrace.

Olav
punctuated the greeting with a number of whacks upon Alarik’s back.

Not to
be outdone, Alarik whacked him back, none too gently, then embraced him more
heartily, conceding with a grumble that he was glad to see his
brother—even if Olav’s timing was ever poor.

“Come,
old man, let us go in ere we die of exposure,” he suggested.

“Old
man?” Olav exclaimed. “You’ve more years on that body of yours than I can
claim.”

As they
walked together, Alarik awarded Olav a disgruntled glance. “Only tell me, Olav,
how is it you always seem know when I’m newly arrived? And why is it,” he
wondered aloud, giving vent to his frustration, “that you always show up in
time to usurp mine bed?”

Olav
placed a hand upon Alarik’s shoulder, grinning. “I couldn’t wait to see you, of
course,” he exclaimed with a hearty chuckle.

Alarik
offered him a dubious glance, his eyes sharp and assessing. “That so?”

Olav
chuckled and ceded, “The truth is that while I never miss the opportunity to
see mine faithful bror, I was, indeed, looking for your ships to arrive.” He
cleared his throat. “I rather hoped you would join me in a small voyage. Tyri
wishes—”

Alarik
snorted. “And how is your lovely wife?” His eyes glinted with sarcasm.

Olav
scowled at him for the quip and then conceded. “I’m afraid time finds her more
bitter than ever,” he grumbled. He heaved a hearty sigh. “She would have her lands
in the Dane’s mark returned to her and has pressed me to retrieve them. I
should say... she’s immensely displeased not to have holdings in the Northland
as befits a queen of her station, and I find myself wondering if, mayhap, she
might be right.” He lifted his brows in question, and Alarik knew full well he
sought agreement.

Alarik
refused to give it.

His own
brows knit in disbelief. “As your wife, Olav, Tyri wants for naught and still
she whines for more.” He shook his head and cautioned, “You know where I stand
where she’s concerned—let us not find reason to quarrel this night. I
take it,” he said, shifting the topic, “that this voyage you wish me to
consider is significant enough to you that I should consider leaving the
comfort of mine steading mere days after arriving?”

Olav
sighed. “It is,” he assured, looking weary.

Alarik
shook his head, thinking that Tyri once again led his brother on a merry chase.
Yet better Olav than him. He shuddered to think how close he’d come to binding
himself to the harridan himself. “Then I shall consider it,” he yielded.
“However... until I decide, I’ll not be giving up mine bed to you!” In truth,
he’d been able to think of naught other than the sweet torture he’d experienced
the night before. Why he should seek to subject himself to it again, he
couldn’t fathom, yet in time, he determined, she would learn to accept him...

Aye,
he’d sworn not to force her—and he’d keep that vow. Still... there were
ways...

“You
won’t?”

Alarik
glanced at Olav, his brows lifting. “Won’t what?”

Olav
cocked his head curiously, wondering what had Alarik so preoccupied. “Give up
your bed?”

“Nei,”
he asserted, once and for all shaking his mind free of the little vixen
awaiting him in his chamber. “Not this time. You’ll need find yourself another
bed to snore in, for I’ll not be giving up mine.”

“Though
I did not ask you to!” Olav protested. “Not for your kin—nor your king!”
he added plaintively. “Even if I did gift the accursed thing to you!”

Alarik’s
lips twisted wryly. “As of yet, you’ve not asked,” he asserted, giving Olav a
narrow-eyed glance. “And in truth, the only reason you gave me that accursed
bed was that your precious Tyri would not take her rest where you’d bedded your
mistresses.”

Olav
placed a hand to his heart, yet he grinned shrewdly. “Ever you wound me, mine
bror! I tell you I was not going to ask that you give up your bed. Tyri is not
with me, as you can see, and so I shan’t be imposing.”

Alarik’s
eyes sparkled with mischief. “I didn’t notice the virago missing,” he said lightly.

Olav’s
brow furrowed. “She’d not like to hear you say such things. As it is, she
believes you’ll never forgive her.”

“Tis
likely she’s right,” he allowed.

Olav’s
face contorted suspiciously. “But you no longer care for her?”

“Nei,”
Alarik answered without hesitation.

“Yet
still you won’t forgive her?” Olav asked, beginning to take offense. “I’m not
certain I relish hearing what I think I’m hearing from your lips,” he said
tightly.

Alarik
heaved a weary sigh and offered his brother a frown. “Nei, Olav, ’tis not what
you think. I believe you know very well that I care little that Tyri chose your
miserable hide over mine. In truth, I thank Odin at every opportunity!”

Olav
winced at Alarik’s choice of deities. “Aye, well! Thank the God of Abraham
instead.”

“Whomever.
What I do care about is that she gave not a thought about coming betwixt
brothers.”

“I
see,” Olav said, and then teased, “so then you will always dislike Tyri because
you cherish me so much?” His brows rose.

Alarik
chuckled. “Cherish?” He shook his head. “’Tis your word, old dog, not mine!”
Yet he was forced to concede to himself that he valued both his brothers more
highly than he did any other living soul. It was simply not his way to
acknowledge such things aloud.

Olav
chuckled heartily, his sense of humor returning. “Well... ’tis more likely Tyri
did not feel a mere half-brother worthy. You know mine bride—only the
finest!” He stole a look at Alarik. “In fact I’ve oft wondered how she even
considered you at all?”

Alarik
lifted his brows, grinning, thinking that it was more likely the other way
around.

“At any
rate, ’tis the truth she did not expect we would be so close,” Olav revealed.
“I do not believe she meant to come between us. She simply did not realize, is
all.”

Alarik
gave him a dubious glance. His own opinion of Tyri was not so benevolent. Like
Nissa, while she wasn’t malicious outright, she had no qualms over using
whatever means necessary to gain her purpose.

Olav placed
an arm about his shoulders as they entered the enlivened hall. “At any rate,
mine bror... I’ve heard a rumor... won’t you tell me about this wench you’ve
brought with you from Francia...”

CHAPTER
19

Elienor had been eager enough to comply. Why she’d
felt a momentary qualm over leaving Alarik’s side she had no notion, but she
was grateful now that he’d ordered her to his chamber. She had no wish to
witness their barbarous contest. Still the temptation to listen at the door had
been much too great.

What if he lost? What would become of her then?

She shuddered to think of herself at Flame Hair’s
mercy, and couldn’t help but say a fervent prayer that Alarik would win. It was
appalling that she should be reduced to praying for such a thing, yet here she
was, nonetheless! She told herself firmly that it was only for her own protection
that she cared who won, or that she’d hesitated to leave him to begin with, for
otherwise, he could take himself off to Viking purgatory for all it concerned
her!

Unaware that she held her breath, until the sound
of the scuffle was over and her vision blackened at the edges, she slumped
against the door, sighing in relief, hardly able to explain what had just
happened.

Jesu Christ—her head ached!

Had he truly banished his man?

For her?

Surely not.

After an interval, she sat upon the bed to wait, pondering
his motives. Yet half an hour later, he still had not appeared, and Elienor’s
nerves were fraying fast; she had expected to see his scowling face come
bursting into the chamber at any moment.

A female servant arrived to stir the fire and
serve supper, and then she left without a word, and still there was no sign of
him. Lying back upon the bed, Elienor dared to hope that she would be spared
his appearance... and thus his fury, for she still could not discern what had
angered him so.

Eventually he would need to come to his bed,
though, and It was that she dreaded most.

But she refused to think about it just now.

At once, she envisioned his lips hovering above
hers, so close, daring her to yield, and again she could not help but compare Count
Phillipe’s sloppy kisses. In deference to her uncle, Count Phillipe had never
done more than simply kiss her, but sweet Jesu, deny it all she may, never with
him had she felt such... such... anticipation?

Even now she felt a strange fluttering deep down
at the merest thought—and Alarik had yet to even touch her in any manner
at all—much less an intimate kiss! In truth, he’d not so much as looked
at her as though he would kiss her. And still she could not expunge the vision
of his lips from her mind.

Forsooth! Did she require further evidence of her
insanity?

“I shall make it right,” Bjorn crooned, thrusting
his fingers into Nissa’s disheveled hair. Leaning against the storage building,
he drew her gently into his embrace.

“But mine father!” she cried, resisting him. “Oh,
Bjorn, I’m ashamed! I have failed him!” She shook her head woefully, her eyes
swollen with tears, the crown of her head covered with icy flakes. “He’ll be so
displeased with me!”

Stroking her quaking back with his fingers, Bjorn
compelled her to lay her cold cheek against his pounding chest. Reaching up to
brush the snow from her hair, he closed his eyes in pleasure and laid his own
head back against the rough timber, allowing the fresh snow to sprinkle down
upon his face. He couldn’t be more exhilarated by the turn of
events—despite the fact that the woman he loved was weeping in fear and
pain. He truly believed Nissa loved him too—had always loved him, as he
had her. It was only her driving need to satisfy her unpleasable father that
made her think otherwise.