Viking's Prize (4 page)

Stilling
his own breath, he strained to catch some nuance of life, but no sound was
immediately discernable.

“Pathetic
French!” he snarled in Norsk. “May your carcasses rot where you lay!” He pushed
the uppermost figure with his boot.

It was
then he noticed the thick mane of dark hair that cascaded beneath his boots,
and his brows drew together. In his curiosity, he stepped away and stooped to
fondle the pool of lustrous strands.

Soft.
So soft.

Squatting
with one arm resting across his thighs, he lifted the length of hair from the
chapel floor. At once a recollection of the long-haired woman upon the stone
turret, her hair fluttering in the breeze, materialized in his head, and
another prickle snaked down his spine.

He’d
somehow managed to forget her during the fray.

Overwhelmed
with curiosity, he slowly wound the silken strands around his fist, and without
a trace of gentility, jerked up the lifeless head.

He fell
backward onto his heels, unable to stifle the sudden catch to his breath at
what was revealed to him in the silvery light: Dark hair framed a face more
lovely than was conceivable. Skin that was almost translucent in the light of
the moon beckoned to his fingers that they would revel in the softness of her
creamy flesh. Eyes that were so blue they were almost ethereal met his own
without fail, and he nigh toppled from his haunched position to see them
focused upon him so intently.

The
scowl that touched his squarely jawed face was violent, for his body’s lustful
response was immediate and unappreciated under the circumstances.

Those
eyes were a maelstrom, a stormy violet blue that glowed in the darkness with
the intensity of blue heat from a torrid flame. He’d thought her dead, but it
was more than obvious to him now that she was not, not by any stretch of the
imagination, for her eyes were vibrant. His fingers moved to the fragile
softness of her cheeks, examining the cool satin flesh.

Elienor
swallowed with difficulty at the feather-light touch, though in truth she
wasn’t certain whether it was from fear or something else entirely. Her eyes
closed as a quiver sped through her.

No one
had ever touched her so tenderly.

By the
blessed virgin, was it supposed to feel so good to be caressed by one’s enemy?

Or was
she simply faithless?

Her
eyes flew open once more, and it was then she saw him—truly saw him. That
face! Sweet Jesu—that face! She recalled it from her dream and shuddered,
though what it was exactly that made her tremble she did not know, for she
recalled only the face. Her cry of terror was stifled only by the fierce
constriction of her throat, for the tales she’d so oft heard of his kind truly
did the man little justice. He was every exaggeration ever
told—multiplied a hundredfold!

What
had she dreamt of him?

She
couldn’t think.

Too
acutely was she aware of every stroke of his thumb. Jesu! When would he cease
to touch her so? She tried to find her voice—to plead with him to
stop—but could not speak for the terrible lump in her throat. God help
her, but she didn’t think she could bear it much longer!

What
kind of man was this?—that he could slay her with his gaze, yet touch her
as gently as one would a tender babe? In the darkness his eyes were sinister
pits that seemed to bore into her very soul. They had to be black as pitch in
color, for they were, indeed, blacker than the night that engulfed them. Yet if
his eyes appeared overly dark, then the opposite was true of his lion’s mane of
hair. In the heathery moonlight it appeared ethereal and silvery.

She
forced herself to look below his shadowed face and shining hair, and swallowed
with difficulty as her gaze took in the rest of him. His shoulders were
massive, wider than any man’s she’d ever beheld! Her scrutiny fell to the laces
of his boots, where she found herself staring desperately at the ties that
criss-crossed upward toward his leather-protected knee. But if she’d thought it
would help to look away from his face in order to regain her self-control, she
was mistaken. Jesu Christ—his legs were enormous too! They reminded her
of oak stumps. She commanded herself not to look, but she couldn’t keep herself
from it. In panic, her gaze skidded upward—to his arms! No doubt he was
capable of swatting her dead with the palm of his hand as effortlessly as the
tanner would a fly!

God
have mercy on their souls!

He
chuckled, and her gaze flew to his in alarm.

“We shall
see if your God aids you, little Fransk,” he said smugly.

Elienor’s
blood curdled within her veins to hear his husky voice and his words of
flawless French. How had he known what she was thinking? She’d not spoken it
aloud!

Or had
she?

Sweet
Jesu—did he have the sight, as well?

Nay,
but nay—get hold of yourself, Elienor!

She
tossed her head back, a defiant gesture that the nuns—admonishing
her—said was worldly and proud—not virtues suited to one promised
to the cloth. Then again, she’d never felt the calling in her soul—had
always fought against her disobedient self in order to be what the nuns had
wished of her.

She
appraised the Viking contemptuously. “What know you of my God?”

Again
he chuckled. The sound reverberated within the chapel, unnerving her. “Enough
to know he’ll not intervene for you this night,” he said evenly. “As of now,
little Fransk…” One finger swept down her cheek, beneath her chin, forcing her
gaze up to meet his shadowed eyes. “Whether you like it or nei,” he informed
her, “you are mine to do with as I will. And there is no one here who would
gainsay me—not you, not your spineless count...” He chuckled again, the
sound wholly sinister. “Not even your God!”

His
laugh mocked her.

Elienor’s
eyes closed with loathing as she shook the Viking’s offending fingers from her
chin. But his hold only tightened in her hair. Her scalp screamed under the
torture, yet Elienor dared not break.

“He was
not
my
count as yet!” she informed him. Again his fingers tightened. Elienor winced,
but would not be so easily cowed. Her chin tilted. “Nor was he craven!” she
added. “Count Phillipe was good and kind and true!”

It had
to be so, for surely her uncle would never have given her to one not worthy.
Despite her resolve not to give in to hysteria, her heartbeat quickened, though
she hid her fear.

He’s
but a man, she reasoned wildly. Aye! her mind argued, a man! But a
blood-thirsty Viking as well!

With
fingers so warm and gentle they sent quivers down her spine. Her eyes welled
with tears. Nay! she scolded herself. You will not go to pieces in the face of
this! If she feared, it was only for Stefan—at least that was what she
told herself as she felt the trembling work its way through her unsteady limbs.

The
Viking’s brow arched. “In fact, your precious count is as spineless as they
come,” he countered, his voice full of derision.

Elienor
shivered at the malice in his tone. “Is?” she returned contemptuously. “What is
he now but dead? And by your hands! You murdering sav—” She felt his
fingers tighten against her scalp and she cried out in pain.

“I
would have a care with that blade of a tongue were I you,” he advised softly.
“If I say he is, ’tis because the bastard lives. He fled the castle, I’ll
warrant.” Her eyes narrowed in disbelief and his brows arched. “Did you not
realize, he’d left you to die at our hands? You have been forsaken by your
count and your God.”

As
stunned as Elienor was by his disclosure, she could do naught but glare at him.

Beneath
her, Stefan moaned and her eyes flew to him fearfully. She prayed fervently
that he’d not wake. If he would die... best he not know it! Best he not feel
the cold blade of the barbarian’s blade meet with his tender flesh!

The
Viking glanced down meaningfully at Stefan’s twisting form. His eyes glinted
dangerously. “Mayhap ’tis him you shield even now?” he suggested.

“Nay!”
Elienor cried, her heart pummeling madly. “I swear ‘tis not! Leave him be!”

The
Viking’s gaze never wavered, and Elienor found her own eyes locked steadfastly
with his. Sweet Jesu!

Mercy! she
pleaded silently. Mercy!

Alarik
contemplated the wench’s reaction to the boy. It was evident there was some
bond between them. What it was, he wasn’t certain, but his curiosity was piqued
now.

Tightening
his hold upon the woman’s hair, he rose from his stooped position, hauling her
up against him as he came to his feet, and the feel of her soft body hardened
his more fully. He noted briefly there were no grunts or moans against the pain
he knew he inflicted; and he could only admire her mettle. “Who is he, then?”
he asked, his tone as menacing as the gleaming blade of his axe, “if not your
precious count?”

The
woman wet her lips. “He... Stefan is but a boy... please... please—leave
him be!”

His lips
broke into a slow grin as he pressed closer, savoring the feel of her high,
round breasts against his chest. Bending to whisper in her ear, his lips
brushed her lobe. “Leave him be? You wish me to leave him be?”

She
nodded frantically.

“And
what prithee will you pledge me if I do?”

She
closed her eyes, yet he would not be swayed. The feel of her against him so
warm and soft and firm in all the right places drove him to shift his pelvis
for comfort. Stirring into her, he stifled a groan of pleasure.

“What
do you pledge me?”

CHAPTER
5

Elienor
swallowed convulsively, for the look in the Viking’s eyes left no doubt as to
what he wanted of her. Mother Heloise, in preparing her for Count Phillipe, had
enlightened her to the needs of men, and it was that need she sensed the Viking
sought to quench just now. But that he would barter for it seemed out of sorts
with these men who were so willing to take without mercy.

“I... I...”

Stefan
stirred slightly, moaning as he lifted his head. Elienor’s gaze flew to him at
once.

Scowling
suddenly, the Viking turned to observe him, as well.

Forgetting
that her hair was raveled so tightly about the giant’s fist, she hurled herself
at Stefan, as though to shield him with her body, and with a wounded gasp
halted her dive to the floor, turning again to look into the Viking’s
smoldering silver eyes.

Tears
brimmed as once again she locked gazes with the Viking. Hysteria welled within
her. For the first time in her life she was well and truly at a loss for words.
For what could she say?
Barbarian, sir, could you be so kind as to release my hair so that I
may warn this kind boy against you?
Hah! Likely he’d laugh in her face
before plunging his sword into Stefan’s heart... and then mayhap into her own!
Yet, whatever he would do to her, she could not allow him to harm Stefan. At
any cost she would save the boy.

Her
eyes closed. She swallowed. “I... I have naught of value,” she said bitterly.
“Please...”

The
Viking grinned, his teeth flashing white in the shadows, and then he laughed
outright.

Elienor
shivered at the wicked sound of it. “Naught save myself,” she told him
honestly. Her eyes misted traitorously, but she held herself rigid and proud.

Alarik’s
brow lifted as her eyes filled with telltale tears. His lips twisted
sardonically.

So, she knew how
to cry after all?

Again
he pondered what bond she and the boy shared that she would protect him so
fiercely—even so far as to offer him her body in payment to save him. Did
she always offer so freely? The possibility rankled, though he knew not why it
should.

He said
more sharply than he’d intended, “What makes you think ’tis your body to barter
with, wench? As of now ’tis mine already. Why would I bother to haggle for that
which I already possess?”