Viking's Prize (41 page)

Elienor’s heart skipped its normal beat. Looking
up into his dark, smoldering eyes, she could only think how glad she was to be
within his arms again—how glad she was to see him alive. She wanted him
to hold her this way always...

“Shhhh... don’t cry,” Alarik soothed, his voice
husky. “Nei, Elienor...” He placed his forehead to hers, and swore, “I shall
make everything aright—everything!” And with that, he withdrew the
leather neckband from about his neck and pressed her uncle’s ring into her
palm. “‘Tis yours,” he revealed grimly. “I...” He swallowed. “I took it from
Olav,” he said without censure. The time for petty jealousies was past. Naught
mattered now but Elienor’s happiness—not even the accursed reason for
which she’d gifted Olav the ring to begin with. He couldn’t care any longer.

Unclasping her palm, Elienor stared in
bewilderment at the ring, recalling the moment she’d given it to Olav, and then
in succession... Olav’s face as he’d released the serpent prow and descended
into the water. “I...” Her voice faltered. “He was to have returned it to my
uncle,” she revealed somberly. Her violet eyes lifted to his. “H... he promised
he would speak to you... that you might send me back to Francia... to my
unde...” She shook her head and averted her gaze suddenly. Alarik released her,
freeing her from his embrace.

Elienor felt the separation acutely.

He lifted her chin with a finger, the shadows in
his eyes deepening. His silver eyes pierced her. “And is that still your
desire?” he whispered hoarsely. His fingers went to the scar at her temple,
tracing the fine line. Though it was long healed now, it was a raw reminder of
the suffering she’d endured at his hands.

Elienor said nothing, could not speak, for her
heart lodged in her throat. Tears welled in her eyes.

And in her silence, Alarik heard what he most
feared. The lump in his throat thickened. “Then...

I shall grant you your freedom,” he told her
grimly, bending to kiss her scar. He’d sworn to do so, he reminded himself, and
he would comply—no matter what it cost him!

Tears coursed down Elienor’s cheeks. Life was so
unfair! Now, when at last she wished to remain with him, could surrender
herself with an open heart and soul, he would discard her so easily? “And will
you also restore to me my heart?” she asked him, unable to stifle the note of
bitter hysteria that invaded her soul.

Alarik shook his head, unwilling to mistake her words,
unwilling to hope, only to lose her all over again. “Your heart?” he asked
softly, his heart hammering. His gaze never wavered, afeared to miss even the
slightest shift in her expression.

“Aye!” Elienor cried in outrage, “My heart! for as
surely as you stole me away from Francia, so, too, did you seize it away!”

A muscle ticked in Alarik’s jaw as he drew her
back into his arms. “God—Elienor!” Afeared that he was somehow dreaming,
he merely held her, unable to end the moment, unable to speak again for fear
that he’d misunderstood. More than aught else he wanted her happy, but he
wanted her more than life itself! He would give everything he held to see her
look at him with adoration in her beautiful violet eyes.

“I... I love you!” she cried out, and then
stiffened within his embrace, revealing to Alarik that she’d not intended to
voice the endearment. Giddy relief unlike any he’d ever known jolted through
him at her declaration. How he loved her impetuous tongue! A gratified smile
curved his lips, but he said nothing as he savored the truth of the feelings
she’d disclosed to him.

Regretting the foolish love words, Elienor cursed
herself a thousand times for a fool! When would she ever learn to master her
traitorous tongue? Did she think he would simply lay down his heart and vow his
love in return? How foolish she was to hope that he would. He was a Viking
leader—she nothing more than his French whore! He a noble
chieftain—she nothing but a measly—alas, but she could not even
claim the church for her own, for she no longer came to them a pure bride of
Christ, hi their eyes she was soiled! In an attempt to salvage her pride, she
told him, “I meant nothing...”

“Elienor,” he broke in, his voice gruff. “Do you
wish to know what I’ve prayed for?” He held her possessively, as though to
loosen his hold upon her was to lose her.

For the longest instant, Elienor could not find
her voice. As long as he held her thus, she could almost believe he wanted her
still. “What... what did you pray for?”

He answered her question with a question of his
own. “Is it not your custom to ask your God to bless a marriage ere its union?”

Elienor’s eyes misted. She shrugged at his
question, fighting tears. Losing the effort to contain them, she closed her
eyes. “You have decided to allow Bjorn and Nissa to wed?” she asked him in
puzzlement, her tone anguished.

“That,” he apprised her, swallowing the lump that
appeared in his throat, “is not my decision to make, at all. Bjorn and Nissa
will wed if ‘tis their wish... though I have determined they may indeed remain
at Gryting.” Taking Elienor’s free hand into his own, he charged, “Look at me,
Elienor!” He waited until her violet eyes opened to meet his once more, and
moved by the tears that flowed so freely down her ashen cheeks, he cupped her
face within his callused palms, cradling it there, his touch more gentle than a
tender babe’s. “Shush,” he hissed. “Don’t cry, love!” he pleaded. “If you wish
it, then I will send you back to Francia—if you wish it—but I beg
you do not cry!”

Elienor tried desperately to suppress her sobs,
but she could not. She buried her face into his warm, bare chest, unable to
face the possibility that he would make her go! She couldn’t bear it!

Alarik sank to his knees, seeing that her strength
wavered. Kneeling before her, he urged her down upon her knees before him, and
then bent to kiss her sorrow away. With every salty tear he kissed from her
soft face, he felt his own uncertainty ebb. “Elienor,” he whispered huskily, “I
have asked your God... my God,” he amended, testing the words, “our God... to
bless our union—not Bjorn and Nissa’s.” Holding her face between his
hands, he forced her to look into his eyes, and shook his head. ‘Tell me ‘tis
what you wish, as well! Tell me ‘tis so!” he commanded, coming as close to
pleading as he dared. It was not in his blood to beg. If she refused him...
then he would indeed release her. But he felt certain she’d not, for when she
lifted her tear-stained face to his, every emotion she held in her heart was
unveiled to him. It was the look he’d waited so long to see.

“Y... you wish... you wish t-to wed... with...
with me?”

Alarik nodded, smiling arrogantly now, knowing
that her answer would be aye. But his jaw dropped as she broke away, surging to
her feet and going to the altar. She fell to her knees before it.

“Elienor?”

Elienor heard the uncertainty in his voice and
turned to look at him with misty eyes, gifting him with her most serene smile.
“One more,” she whispered, her voice breaking with joy, “One more... so that I
too may ask the Lord to bless our union!” And she lowered her head to pray.

In mere seconds Alarik was on his feet. Filled
with exhilaration, he lifted Elienor into his arms as though she weighed no
more than a new born babe. He leaned eagerly to kiss her full upon the lips,
thinking that it had been too long since he’d tasted of his little Fransk. And
in his need to love her he went to lay her down upon the
kirken
floor, oblivious with the need to
hold her, to love her.

“Not here!” Elienor screeched in consternation,
laughing, sobbing. “Never here!” she told him.

Alarik grinned sheepishly and rose to his feet,
bearing her toward the door... eager to get her into his bed, even if they did
not more than sleep... his arms embracing her.

Elienor struggled to free herself. “Release me!”
she demanded, and her eyes grew sober. “Let there be no doubts between us this
time—allow me to go of my own will!”

Alarik halted abruptly, his expression suddenly
grave. He shuddered as he looked deep into her eyes, and Elienor flushed as he
allowed her to slide from his embrace. Her body melded against his, and she
nearly ceased to breathe at the wicked sensations it roused within her.

“Do you feel I’ve forced you?” he asked gravely,
as though suddenly unsure of himself.

The muted sunlight from the doorway bathed them
both, and in that instant it was as though they were transported through
time... and were again in the
kirken
in Francia. Only this time, it was he who could not see her
face, his expression that was revealed by the light. “Nay,” Elienor whispered,
her heart rending at his forlorn appearance. “I only meant that I would go
beside you—that all who see us will know I go willingly.” Her eyes
pleaded with him to understand.

Standing in the doorway, haloed by the sun,
Elienor looked like an angel to him, but she was neither angel nor Valkyr, he
knew. She was flesh and blood.

And she was his.

In that instant, Alarik’s heart filled near to
bursting. Thrusting a hand into her hair, he bent to brush his lips against her
flushed cheek. “I love you, Elienor,” he said, voicing the words for the first
time in his life, his voice hoarse.

Elienor’s heart soared, for it didn’t take a seer
to know he spoke true. He did love her, and she nearly cried out with the exhilarating
sense of completion that burst through her in that instant. God help her, but
for the first time in her life, she knew what it felt like to be cherished, for
she was too young at her mother’s death to recall her.

At long last. At long, long last. With a sigh, she
allowed the ring she’d once held so tightly to slip forgotten from her fingers
to the floor, not needing it any longer, for while it had once been her
comfort, her family, it was no more.

Held so tenderly within Alarik’s embrace, she had,
at long last... come home.

EPILOGUE

“Mama!
Mama! Tell us again of the vision—the one you first had of Papa!” a
child’s voice demanded. “Gunnar will not believe me!”

As
Elienor swept into the
skali
, a throng of children rushed to surround her, led by her
eldest daughter, Kirsten, who bore her mother’s blue eyes and father’s blond hair.
All eyed her hopefully, and her own eyes lit with merriment as she glanced up
to spy Nissa supervising the preparation of the tables for
nattver
. Upon Alva’s passing, Nissa had
quietly stepped into the task, taking her lessons from Alva. At Elienor’s look,
Nissa merely smiled, and shrugged, telling Elienor by that gesture that she’d
been unable to sway the children from asking yet again.

Jesu!
How many times would she be called upon to recount the tale? As it was, she
felt she’d told it near a thousand times. Ahh, well... Alva had warned her,
rest her soul. It was simply that because it had been so long now since she’d
had a single vision, she found herself e’er recounting the same tales. It was a
wonder no one ever seemed to tire of them. She sighed, capitulating.

“Very
well.” She smiled as she scanned the faces of her expectant audience, for among
the children were her own two daughters: Kirsten and Dahlia. Along with them,
Bjorn and Nissa’s five, four girls, and their ever recalcitrant son, Gunnar.
And the quiet lad who always lagged behind belonged to Sigurd and Clarisse.

Finding
a suitable spot, Elienor adjusted her skirts and sat. And no sooner had she
done so than her youngest daughter, Dahlia, scurried into her lap. After her came
Mischief, eager as always. Her daughter shrieked happily, hugging the dog, and
Elienor put her fingers to her lips, shushing her, for their infant son,
Krossbyr, was fast asleep in their bedchamber, with Alarik watching over him.
It never ceased to amaze Elienor how many hours he spent simply watching the
babe.

“You
didn’t truly spy Uncle Alarik first in a dream!” Gunnar exclaimed.

Elienor
merely smiled, for he said the same each time. Truthfully she was beginning to
wonder if it was his ploy to persuade her to recount the tale yet again.

“’Tis
the truth she did,” a deep voice resounded behind them. Elienor turned,
startled to hear Alarik’s voice so soon after putting the babe abed.

But she
wasn’t the only one startled by his unexpected appearance. Mischief bounded up,
darting toward Alarik’s boots. No longer a small pup, the big dog nearly
toppled Alarik.

Elienor
stifled a giggle.

The
children laughed hysterically.

“Oh,
Papa!” Kirsten exclaimed. “’Tis as though he abhors you!”