Viking's Prize (30 page)

“My lord!” she protested, in panic. “’Tis day yet!
There are people about!”

He kicked the door closed, his lips curving
diabolically. “We’ll not be disturbed,” he told her with certainty. Taking her
by the arm, he swung her about sharply, until her back was to him, and then
proceeded to undo the brooch at her right shoulder, not needing to see it to
undo it, his fingers deft at their work.

Her gown slid down on the right side. Crying out,
Elienor clutched the silk to her breast, halting its descent. “’Tis cold!” she
protested.

“Not for long,” Alarik promised at her nape, his
breath warm as it hissed across her flesh. The determination in his voice sent
a quiver down her spine. He unfastened the twin brooch at her left shoulder,
and with a gentleness that belied his strength, drew the gown down.

Elienor whimpered, her eyes squeezing shut as the
silk was pulled out of her grasp. But he wasn’t satisfied, for no sooner was
the silk overgown discarded than he began to undo the laces of the matching
undergown. That done, he drew it up over her head and tossed it aside, baring
her wholly to his hungry gaze.

It settled with a whisper upon the furs.

With a sigh of intense pleasure, Alarik traced a
finger down her spine, content for the moment merely to gaze at her perfect
form. The flush of her skin was perceptible even in the shadows of the dying
firelight. She gave a startled whimper and stumbled back against him, and his
heart somersaulted like that of an unseasoned youth with the unexpected
contact.

“Elienor,” he said through clenched teeth, his
eyes closing. He shuddered with pleasure at the feel of her bare skin against
him. “Do you know what you do to me, my little nun?”

Do you know what you do to me?
she thought to herself.

He chuckled suddenly, as though pleased, and his
arms encircled her waist. He embraced her a moment, and then his hands drifted
upward to seize the prize he’d exposed, his fingers lightly skimming her ribs.

“Please,” Elienor moaned. “I... I...”

Alarik tensed in anticipation of her protest. Although
after her whispered declaration, he knew it would take little to sway
her—she seemed to have little, or no control of her wayward
tongue—at times, this time, it played to his advantage. He bent to place
a long lingering kiss upon the delicate swell that crested her shoulder. She
said nothing, only whimpered softly in the back of her throat, and he inhaled
deeply in satisfaction.

The sweet, heady fragrance of her hair accosted
him, lingering in the air, enshrouding him. He found it near as potent a potion
as the sound of his name on her lips. With an oblivious groan, he buried his
lips within the softness of her hair, and hearing her faint exhale only heated
his senses more.

“Elienor,” he moaned. “Elienor... Elienor...
Elienor…”

Elienor ceased to breathe at the intensity with
which he spoke her name. She dared not turn to face him—lest he see the
hunger in her own eyes—dared not speak, lest her words and voice betray
her.

She fought a fierce battle with her conscience as he
held and caressed her body. It felt so right, so right, yet she knew it to be
wrong!

As his hands slid beneath her breasts, cupping
them with hard but sensitive palms, her body exposed her for the wanton she
was. She shivered expectantly as rugged hands fondled her and inflamed her
senses, made her burn. She swallowed, her heart leaping into her throat as his
lips touched her bare shoulder once more. “I... I thought... I thought you
wanted me to aid you with your bath?”

Alarik smiled at the uncertainty in her voice. “I
do wish you to aid me,” he told her provocatively, bending to whisper into her
ear. “But I fear the bath will have to wait, my exquisite little Fransk.”

Elienor gasped as she became aware of the hardness
of him pressing her back. Her heart pounded violently as she fought a battle
with her will. Gently, he swept the length of her hair aside, placing a kiss
upon her other shoulder.

She trembled, feeling herself losing,
losing—not just the battle, but the war itself.

Her resolution to deny herself the pleasure he
could give ebbed with every expert touch of his masterful hands and lips. As
his fingers gently kneaded her bosom, her head fell backward helplessly,
allowing him his will. As though pleased with her response, his breath hissed
over the curve of her neck, and she felt her knees go instantly weak.

Alarik’s body quickened when she went limp in his
arms. He steadied her. “Art sweet,” he whispered. “So very... very... sweet.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath as he nipped
her neck, tasting the sheen of desire upon her flesh.

The coppery firelight caressed her creamy white
flesh. As though compelled, his hands stroked her wherever the light revealed
her, and perceiving that she was at last his for the taking, he groaned deep in
the back of his throat, a sound of victory. Impatiently, he tore at the laces
of his breeches, undoing them swiftly and with ease. He shuddered with
exhilaration as he freed himself. Then, holding her steady, he stepped away to
discard the restrictive clothing.

Trembling where she stood, Elienor closed her
eyes, listening to the telltale sounds behind her—the rustling of
garments as they melted from Alarik’s body.

With every part of her, she willed herself to cry
out and flee.

And then he was behind her once more, the naked
heat of his flesh searing her clear unto her soul. Her heart pounded within her
breast, drowning out everything but its wild beating, yet arrested completely
as Alarik enfolded her within the warmth of his arms once more.

And then her blood swept into her head and her
heart began to pound violently once more as he rocked her, unabashedly, from
behind.

Lord have mercy upon her soul. She would die!

Gently, he brought his right hand down and splayed
it across her abdomen, holding her steady while he rocked her.

Alarik’s arms dropped to her waist as he went to
his knees, compelling her downward with him. His heart hammered and his breath
became labored as he anticipated how he would take her this time—with all
the primitive fury of the Northland! Once she was firmly upon her knees on the
soft furs, he molded his body over hers until he was able to settle himself
between her legs, shuddering over the exhilarating sensation. In that instant,
he knew an incredible desire to please her, as well. He brought his hand around
to stroke her, all the while kissing her back, breathing deeply of the scent of
her hair.

His eyes closed as he guided himself into her,
groaning unconsciously.

Elienor gasped, her head arching backward.

With his chin, Alarik nudged her hair from her
back and tasted her warm, velvety skin with his lips. He savored her with his
tongue, committing the taste and feel of her to his mind, all the while
disregarding his own body’s demands; he stroked her until she cried out beneath
him, and then he lifted himself, and holding her hips steady for his pleasure,
he gave himself up to his own dark passions.

Elienor whimpered in ecstasy at his every thrust,
crying out when heat exploded within her once more, wracking her body with
delicious spasms. She was helpless to arrest the cry of his name that came to
her lips.

The whispered name exploded within his head.

With an incredible rush of pleasure, Alarik
gripped her hips tighter, and with one last powerful thrust, poured his life
and soul into her.

He remained pressed into her until he was certain
his seed was buried so deeply within her womb that she would surely conceive
his babe.

He quivered almost violently then, separating from
her, and collapsing to the furs. Rolling to his back, he took her with him, and
holding her close, stroked the length of her hair until he could feel the
smooth even rhythm of her slumbering breath. He stroked her until his own
breathing settled and his heartbeat tempered.

And still he caressed her, for she felt so right
beneath his fingers.

The last thing he thought before dosing his eyes
was that he was tired of fighting what he felt for her.

He could no longer deny it.

Whatever the bond, it was too powerful. If it was
his destiny to love her, then so be it—to hell with the part of him that
warned him not to succumb!

The pull was irresistible. Yet, he would, in fad,
resist.

As he’d long ago discovered, the heart was a
powerful weapon. He could not so freely give his.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

CHAPTER
26

Alarik
came to fetch Elienor earlier and earlier each afternoon, and so it came as no
shock when, a week later, the door to the kirken burst open a mere hour after
she’d left the manor house.

Brother
Vernay cleared his throat, lifting his brows. “Er... you’ll be needing a bath,
my lord?”

Alarik
gave the monk a frown. “Among other things,” he ceded. His lips curved into a
satisfied smile as Elienor straightaway rose to retrieve her cape, displacing
the demon dog from her lap in the process. His mood was so high that he felt it
no hardship to ignore the yapping pup and the fiendish way that it once again
attacked his boots. He gave it no more than a mildly disgruntled glance,
shaking it off.

Vernay’s
cheeks reddened as he came forward to lift up the seething animal, embarrassed
by the jarl’s frankness, nevertheless pleased at what he sensed between them. “I
fear we shall never finish at this rate,” he said disapprovingly, though with
little insistence.

Alarik
grinned. “Mayhap not,” he relented, smiling at Elienor as she returned to him.
The monk was forgotten completely when she returned his smile, though tentatively.

Yet it
was a beginning.

Impatiently,
he drew her outside, leading her at once to where Sleipnir stood tethered. He
lifted her up onto Sleipnir’s back, then untied the horse, bounding up behind
her. Only this time, instead of directing the animal toward the manor, he led
it away.

“Where
are we going?” Elienor asked in surprise.

“For a
ride,” Alarik replied. And without further warning, he turned her about to face
him, cursing himself even as he did so, for he couldn’t even wait until he had
her alone. “I burn for you Elienor,” he told her huskily, unlacing his breeches
as she watched.

Elienor’s
eyes widened. A shiver burst through her, both from the cold and the sheer
determination in Alarik’s gaze.

“We
can’t!”

“You’re
like ambrosia,” he whispered, ignoring her protest. “The more I savor...the
more I crave.”

His
desire reared itself like a fire-breathing serpent in his veins. He was
overtaken with the need to impale her so deeply that she could never leave. The
need to brand her, to hear her whisper his name in rapture once more, was
inexorable.

He felt
her shiver and smiled knowingly.

“We
can’t simply...” Her voice broke.

Elienor’s
heart skipped its normal beat, for he watched her with that covetous, heavy
lidded gaze that stoked the embers of that treacherous fire within her. “Not
here!”

“I need
you, Elienor,” he murmured, grinning. Drawing up her gown, he left no doubt as
to his meaning. And with the gown out of the way, he lifted her suddenly,
seating her upon his lap. Elienor gasped as he eased into her right there in
the broad light of day, under the gray-blue heavens, and atop his steed, for
God and all the world to see.

She
clung to him.

Alarik
groaned, dosing his eyes at the incredible feel of her, his arousal grown
violent in its intensity. “Wrap your legs about mine waist,” he demanded. She
did, at once placing them behind him as he’d asked, and he hooked his feet
about hers, anchoring her, then bent his head to murmur his plea into her ear,
“Now love me, my little nun.”

Elienor
closed her eyes, his bold words setting her body awash with color and fire. Yet
some small part of her dung to a shred of reason.

The
tiniest shred.

“Alarik,”
she protested.

“Shhhhhh...
let me please you. Odin’s eye!” he swore. “As I live and breathe, wench, I have
never desired anything or anyone more!”

Elienor
stifled the tears that threatened to flow.

She
sagged against him in defeat, bracing her hands upon his chest. “Not here,” she
pleaded again, brokenly, her heart screaming something else entirely: Desire?
Desire? “Why?” she whispered. “Why? Why?”