Viking's Prize (25 page)

Hours
later, as Elienor paced the length of Alarik’s chamber, she still could not
compose herself.

Sweet
Jesu, but the likeness between them amazed her! And now she was more confounded
than ever—the dream; who, then, would die? Mayhap It was not Alarik,
after all. Mayhap It was Olav instead? And then mayhap neither?

She
fumbled for her ring at once, holding it desperately within her fist, grateful
that Alarik had thought to return it. “Mother.” She whispered miserably. “How
did you bear it?”

As
though in response to her question, a mournful whine came from the vicinity of
her toes.

Elienor
glanced down to spy the pup sniffing bashfully at her feet. No sooner had she
stooped to stroke it behind its ears then the door clicked opened. Alva entered.
Startled, Elienor sprang to her feet, leaving the pup to paw at her soft
leather shoes in protest.

“I’ve
brought you another garment along with your own clean ones,” the older woman
announced, coming forward to offer the neat stack of finery into Elienor’s
arms. “The silk is splendid, to be certain, but ’twill hardly keep you warm
enough in this clime.”

Sighing,
Elienor accepted them, her reply no more than a cheerless nod.

“I
understand you met Olav today?”

“Aye,”
Elienor replied. “The likeness between them is remarkable indeed.”

“’Tis
true,” Alva agreed. “’Tis said that it is why Olav could not deny Alarik as his
blood kin the first time they met, yet there are many differences betwixt them
if you’ll but see them,” she suggested. “Oooh, what a vexing mongrel!” she
declared, spotting the stubborn pup at Elienor’s feet. “Always into everything.
Away!” She shooed it, waving her hands indignantly. “I’ve not an inkling what
possessed the jarl to bring the mongrel into his bedchamber!”

Elienor
had wondered the same, yet she had been pleased he had, for she felt a bond
with the poor beast.

As
though discerning that he was the cause of Alva’s tirade, the pup scrambled
away, ensconcing himself beneath the bed.

As Elienor
watched its ears droop unhappily, she felt more than a touch of kinship with
the animal—not that Alva was unkind. Elienor had found her anything but,
yet this was not her home, and she did not feel especially welcome. Save for
Alva and Brother Vernay—and Clarisse, of course—no one was overly
welcoming. And Clarisse, she understood, would be leaving the steading before
long, for Alarik had given her to Sigurd. Still, Elienor sensed that the time
had come for her to forget the past and make the most of the situation at hand.

Like it
or nay, this was her future.

“I
suggest you change for bed,” advised Alva. “I heard the jarl saying that he and
Olav were to leave early in the morn—something about gathering men for
Olav’s voyage. If ’tis so, he’ll be in directly, I think, for he’ll be wanting
his sleep.”

Having
revealed this, Alva took her leave, though not before imparting one last bit of
advice. “Best you hie to it lest he comes and you be forced to undress before
him.”

She
stifled a giggle as she closed the door, for Elienor immediately thrust the
bundle from her arms to the bed.

Having
been forewarned, she quickly divested herself of the loathsome silk over and
undertunic. And then, after snatching her own garments from the pile upon the
bed, she donned them hastily, leaving herself concealed only by the frail linen
undertunic. Before she could scurry into the sanctuary of the furs, however,
the door clicked opened once more.

“Do
mine eyes deceive me?” a husky voice remarked. “Or are you truly so eager to
share mine bed this night?”

Elienor
froze, her heart beating frantically as she turned to face him. She crossed her
arms as Alarik closed the door, concealing herself. Her face flamed under his
scrutiny. He took a step forward and she instinctively took one backward,
reassuring herself with the simple fact that he’d yet to force himself upon
her.

It was
unlikely he would begin now, she told herself.

And in
truth, after this morn, she wasn’t certain he wasn’t as repulsed of her as she
claimed to be of him.

Her
brows knit suddenly.

Claimed?

Nay,
she amended silently,
was
!

She was repulsed
of him!

So why
did she feel so strangely excited by the possibility that he might desire her?
Averting her eyes to the floor, she stammered, “A-Alva advised me—sh-she
said you planned to seek your bed. I-I only thought to...”

“Conceal
yourself before I arrived?” Alarik asked dryly, his gaze riveted, despite her
lack of dress, upon her lips.

Elienor
swallowed, her heart turning violently at his question. His eyes, like shards
of molten silver, impaled her as he took a step forward.

To his
annoyance he’d been able to think of nothing else all day, even in the face of
Olav’s political concerns. Hella’s curse, even now he remained in a state of
painful arousal with the merest thought of those warm, sweet lips upon his own.

Her
gaze returned to him, and the deep violet pools lured him closer. He took
another step forward, diminishing the distance between them, fearing he’d
finally reached the point of madness, for his reason had all but fled now that
he was in her presence once more. “Have I given you so much cause to fear me?”
he asked huskily.

Elienor
managed to shake her head in response.

“Have I
taken the slightest liberties with you?”

Again
Elienor shook her head, for in truth, he’d not.

She had
been the one to take them, for he’d asked only to be washed this morn. Naught
more.

Elienor’s
breath quickened, for his eyes impaled her still, burning with something wholly
carnal as he came even closer.

“In
certainty, who forced whom this morn?” he challenged, as though he’d read her
thoughts.

Or had
she spoken them aloud?

She
couldn’t discern.

“’Tis
you who forced me!” Elienor replied a little hysterically, retreating until the
back of her legs encountered the bed. The look of purpose in his wintry eyes
alarmed her. “I... I did not ask to bathe you,” she asserted. “Nor did I...”

He
stopped before her, reaching out casually to lift her thick plait into his
palm, and Elienor gave a little shriek.

He slid
his hand up the length of it and back, admiring the healthful shine, holding
her gaze. “Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes,” he murmured silkily, a quiver snaking
through him as his eyes finally acknowledged the rest of her. “I vow, you’ve
bewitched me,” he said softly.

His
fingers slid to the end of her plait, and at once commenced to unraveling it.

Elienor
shivered at the charge, closing her eyes to steady herself, suddenly feeling so
light-headed and weak-kneed that she feared she might swoon before his eyes.

It was
said that her mother had bewitched her father...

She
refused to tread in her mother’s shoes—refused, for she could not abide
the repercussions!

“Tell
me who taught you to use your tongue so,” Alarik demanded, his whisper faint
but warm upon her face.

Her
heart racing, Elienor opened her eyes to find him staring intently at her lips.

Sweet
Jesu, did he wish to kiss her now? After spurning her this morn? Surely not?

“Answer
me.”

Elienor
swallowed, trying desperately to think what it was he was asking. “I... I...”

She
could not compose her thoughts, yet she sensed it had something to do with the
kiss by the way he stared so intently at her mouth. “I... I did not mean to!”
she cried suddenly, shaking her head. “I...” Her voice faltered. “I swear,
I...” Her mouth snapped shut, for his face was suddenly so close to her own
that she feared even to breathe lest they vie for the same breath.

“Who
taught you to use your lips so?” he demanded once more.

“Ph...
Phillipe,” Elienor replied honestly, her chin lifting. “I... in my country ’tis
the custom for lovers to...”

His
fingers gripped her plait and he rocked backward upon his heels, as though
buffeted. “Lovers?” His eyes slitted. “Were you lovers, Elienor?”

His
look unnerved her, yet Elienor could not wrench her own gaze away to save her
life.

Nor
could she calm her raging heartbeat.

Or the
sudden heat that flared within her at the memory of his powerful body beneath
her fingertips. The fact that he was fully dressed now did little to banish the
sultry image of his smooth chest, glistening bronze with sweat and steam from
the bath chamber.

A
muscle twitched in his jaw as he anticipated her response. “Were you lovers?”
he demanded once more, his tone soft but ruthless, nonetheless. Elienor glanced
at his hand uneasily, her heart quickening, for with her plait unraveled, he
stroked a lock of her hair between his fingers. If she angered him, what would
prevent him from using it to subdue her?

She
shook her head in answer.

A look
of fierce satisfaction came over his harsh features. He brought the lock he was
caressing to his nose, breathing deeply of its scent. “That pleases me,” he
told her, his gaze softening considerably. His fingers moved to tangle deep
into her hair, and a quiver swept Elienor’s spine as she felt them curl about
her nape. Had she wanted to flee him, she couldn’t have, for he held her firm
now. His other hand lit upon her hip, and she started with a gasp of surprise.
He smiled, squeezing gently before sliding his arm about her waist. She cried
out as in the next moment she found herself hauled forward and crushed against
the incredible heat of his body.

“I’ve
known kisses afore,” Alarik said bluntly, his eyes glittering strangely.
“Kisses of homage betwixt men...”

He
touched his warm lips to each side of her face, lingering as though to savor
the scent and taste of her skin. Elienor’s blood rushed into her head at the
delicious sensation. Instinctively she knew that never were those kisses he
spoke of so lingering and spine tingling as this one had been.

“Kisses
of promise,” he continued gruffly, “those meted behind the backs of fathers...
or between lovers,” he added pointedly, pecking her lips softly.

When
their lips parted an eternity later, Elienor felt a heart pang over his
disclosure. Yet why should she object that he’d shared such kisses with others,
she asked herself scornfully.

He was
her enemy, she reminded herself.

His
smile deepened. “Never,” he revealed fervently, his molten silver eyes penetrating
her defenses, “have I thought to taste so deeply.”

Elienor
looked up at him questioningly, and he shook his head slowly, his provocative
mouth stirring closer, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. Elienor whimpered
softly at the soft caress, and his grip firmed upon the back of her neck as
though to keep her from escaping him. “Never have I considered it, even,” he
told her, “for ’tis not our way. Yet I find the flavor of you lingers, Elienor
of Baume-les-Nonnes. Lingers,” he whispered, “like exquisite Fransk
wine—strange to the palate… intoxicating nonetheless.”

Mesmerized
by the heady sensation of his lips so close to her mouth, Elienor’s limbs
weakened, yet as his lips pressed into her own, her sanity returned enough that
she shoved at his leather-garbed chest in confusion.

Alarik
merely grinned. “I’ve had babes give more of an effort,” he told her bluntly.
“Mayhap you are undecided?” His silver eyes mocked her.

A
quiver raced down Elienor’s spine, yet she managed to lift her chin as best she
could. “Unhand me!” she cried softly.

“Elienor,”
he whispered, relishing the sound of her name on his lips. His brows flickered
a little, his eyes growing openly amused. He chuckled deeply, and the sound
made Elienor’s senses scatter. “Ever you amaze me, my little nun. Men tremble
before me, yet you seem not to fear me at all.” He crushed her to him once
more, a demonic smile curving his lips. “Still, you cannot think to entice me,”
he advised, a glint of wonder in his eyes, “only to deny me later.”

Elienor
felt a flush rise to her face. She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing
came. Suddenly, and without warning, he swooped to take her mouth as though he
were famished for the taste of her.

Alarik
groaned in satisfaction as Elienor allowed his tongue to sweep across the soft
fullness of her lips.

Resistance
came only when he attempted to enter the silky warmth of her mouth. She
whimpered and pressed her lips together to deny him entrance—a last dire
effort, he knew, but he refused to be denied.

His
body quickening with the feel of her in his arms, he reveled in the taste of
her sweet lips, nipped them, lapped them, feasted upon them, coaxed her to open
unto him. When that failed, he lifted her abruptly to the level of his face.
Too long he’d waited, and now there was no more patience, no more reason. “Open
for me, Elienor!” he demanded harshly, his breath ragged. By the blood of his
father, he’d sworn to take naught she did not freely give, but he couldn’t be
certain what he would do if she refused to yield!