Heart of a Viking (20 page)

Eventually she allowed herself to soften, and then ease into his chest. She put a hand to the linen and became aware of the fierce beat of his heart. The heart of a warrior, a Viking, the enemy. But as it echoed her own painfully throbbing heart she understood that desire did not care about differences. While her head might fight her attraction to Alrek, her heart would not. And if she was not careful, her soul would follow and her ancestors would curse her for falling for a Viking.

As his breath stirred her hair and an ache gathered between her thighs, she lifted her gaze to the roof and prayed to her old goddess for strength. Strength to resist such a man but above all strength to say goodbye to him when the time came.

Ilisa blinked at the light streaming through the cracks in the uneven door. She yawned and blinked again. Was it past dawn? She jolted upright and scowled. It was! She never slept past dawn. There was always much to be done. She still needed firewood and the animals needed... Her gaze snapped to the empty bed beside her.

He was gone.

She skimmed a finger over the indent in the pillow. It didn’t even feel warm. He must have been gone for some time. But why? Alrek had never said anything about leaving. In fact, they’d never discussed his plans but where would he go? She’d assumed he’d stay until he could catch a boat back to his lands. Someone would come looking for him eventually, surely?

An ache splintered in her chest. He hadn’t even said farewell. And she had slept through it all. Ilisa rubbed her tingling nose and sniffed. Ungrateful Viking. But what else did she expect? Climbing out of bed, she ran her fingers through her hair and paused. Normally she woke up with such purpose but all her plans for the day were buried under a fog of annoyance and frustration. How dare he leave without saying farewell or even a thank you?

“Wretched Viking,” she muttered as she pulled on her gown with jerky movements.

She laced up the bodice until it pinched tight across her breasts, ignoring her chemise. It had dried but still needed washing and she needed to fetch water from the river to bathe and clean the grubby garment. Ilisa ran a comb through her hair and winced when it pulled. She should have tied it back last night but she’d been a little distracted.

“Wretched, wretched Viking.”

A thudding sound from outside made her pause halfway through tying her hair. She dropped the linen strip and let her hair go loose. Was it Galan? Or one of the village boys? Or… or an attacker? Curses, it would be just her luck.

She tiptoed to the door and put her eye to the gap. Her breath jammed in her throat. Alrek. A smile burst across her face and she almost ripped open the door to run out to him but when he straightened, his solemn expression stilled her. He stroked a hand across the plank of wood he held. A strip from his ship. Was he mourning his friends or being stuck here with her? He’d shown little emotion when it came to the ship wreck yesterday but what more did she expect from a warrior?

Smoothing both hands down her gown, she patted her hair and opened the door. The instant he spotted her, the sorrow vanished and a grin replaced it. Her insides swooped and whirled. A fresh breeze blew across the hills, stronger than yesterday. Further up the headland, grey clouds loomed over head. A storm was brewing, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside her. Lightning fired off in her mind, thunder rolled in her belly.

Alrek wore no shirt—just his own trews from the previous day. They were soaked, as was his chest. A pile of wood sat at his feet. The wind stirred his long fair hair and what little sun managed to escape the clouds glinted on his chest. Exotic and dangerous were the words that tumbled through her mind when she eyed him. With the small braids in his hair and the swirling knot patterns on his chest and arms, he made her mouth dry.

Their gazes locked, the world stilled. Even the crash of waves seemed dulled. Only the thud of her heart against her ribs could be heard.

“I… brought you some wood.”

His words split the air. Ilisa mentally shook herself and dragged her gaze to the pile of wood. Warmth filled her chest. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“I did not want you to be cold again and I know I stopped you from collecting wood yesterday.” He dropped his gaze and scuffed a foot over the patchy grass.

“I appreciate it, thank you, Alrek.” She gulped and puffed out a breath, determined to gain back some composure. Her eyes felt hot at his small gesture. “Some of this was from your ship?”

“Aye, it appears so.” His voice betrayed no sorrow but he lost some of the power to his stance, his shoulders rounded slightly.

“I am sorry.” Ilisa hesitated, tempted to step forward and take him into an embrace, but she wasn’t sure he’d appreciate it. “You must change now. You still look like a Viking and you are wet.”

Alrek scowled and peered at his trews, as if surprised by her observation. “I think I shall still look like a Viking in Pictish clothes.”

He did. He also looked beautiful and enchanting but she couldn’t admit to that. How exciting he seemed compared to the Pictish men. “Aye, well there is little we can do about that but should anyone see you from a distance they will not consider approaching.” She hoped. Harbouring a Viking threatened to put her and her farm in jeopardy.

Alrek tilted his head back and viewed her down his nose. “You fear what might happen,” he stated.

“You are a Viking, Alrek. The enemy.”

 “You will be in no danger with me at your side, Ilisa.”

In spite of herself, she allowed her gaze to sketch a path over the breadth of his shoulders and down his arms. She didn’t doubt it. But if any of her countrymen discovered him, they would have more than a few angry Picts to deal with and what about when he was gone?

“Alrek, pray just change,” she said on a sigh.

He eyed her and she prepared herself for an argument but he dipped his head in acquiescence. “As you bid.”

Ilisa didn’t watch him leave. Tension thread through her, coiling tight in her lower belly. The last thing she needed was to watch the ripple of his muscles as he sauntered back to her cottage with no clue as to the effect he had on her. And all the while her lips burned in remembrance. A siren, he’d called her. She had never considered herself a great beauty. Her bright hair made her stand out and feel at odds with the other villagers. Even her brother had been dark-haired.

But she had to admit to being flattered by his words. The Viking certainly charmed her in a way no other man had.

Observing the heavy clouds in the distance, Ilisa wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Something hung in the air—a great change. Perhaps brought about by the Viking. Had fate intended to deposit him in her lap? In which case, what was she meant to do with him? She pressed her lips together and considered the things she’d
like
to do. Foolish thoughts of touching him again, of kissing him deeper and harder this time. But their cultures divided them, as did the sins of his people. Whatever this voyage had meant to Alrek, she didn’t doubt he would wish to complete it.

The door thudded behind her and she swivelled. Alrek thrust out her mantle. Ilisa shook her head to herself. Even in Pictish clothes his effect on her didn’t diminish. How she had hoped having his chest covered would allow her to quash her heated thoughts. But the linen stretched across the width of his chest and followed every line of his muscles. Her husband had been smaller than Alrek so it shouldn’t have surprised her but to see that body covered, yet tantalisingly displayed made her heart flip. Ilisa itched to touch the golden skin at the neckline of his shirt and press small kisses to it. Her tongue practically burned at the idea of tasting his flesh.

He thrust her mantle at her again. “You will get cold.”

She started, shaking herself from her thoughts and snatched the cloak from him. “My thanks.” Glancing at the ominous clouds in the distance, Ilisa motioned toward the river that could be seen snaking through the hills. “I must fetch water before the weather turns. Then I shall prepare you some food.”

“I shall help. Where are your buckets?”

“Uh, there.” She pointed to the side of the cottage where a weaved wooden shelter housed the farm tools and buckets.

“And you store the wood there?”

“Aye.”

“Alrek, you need not—”

He gave her a pointed look, blue eyes blazing into hers. “I do not know what the men in your past were like—whether they were honourable or not—but I would not leave you to do all the work alone.”

Ilisa’s face grew warm. Her brother and husband had been hardworking men but it had been so long since she’d spent time with a man. She’d forgotten how to share the burden of trying to survive. She worked every day for long hours until her bones were aching and cold. What other choice did she have? But it never occurred to her when she fished Alrek out of the sea that this Viking would aid her with her chores.

Together they moved the wood under the shelter and fetched a bucket each. The river that snaked between the hills only took a few minutes to reach but Ilisa was grateful she’d only have to make a couple of trips instead of many with Alrek’s help. The animals needed their water and she still required a wash. Not to mention she hoped to prepare a warm meal this night. Though Alrek had shown no signs of illness since she rescued him, it seemed odd he had not succumbed to a fever of any sort. But then her people often thought of the Vikings as men of the sea. Perhaps he could better survive the cold temperature of the water.

“That will be enough,” she said on their fourth trip.

Alrek lifted his gaze to the clouds looming over them. They had yet to break, a blessing in Ilisa’s mind.

“Thor is angry.”

“Your god?”

“Aye.”

They stopped at the tub she kept at the side of the house. “We have seen many storms recently but I will not complain should we see rain. It will fill this” —she motioned to the wooden tub— “to the brim and then I shall not need to fetch water for several days.”

Alrek shook his head. “You should not be grateful that Thor is angry. He is not a god to be trifled with.”

“Aye, Alrek” —she glanced at him sideways— “but he would not be angry with me. I am not one of his people.”

His lips lifted in amusement. “Well that I can believe. Who could stay angry with you, little Pict.”

She shook her head at his words. Did he understand how close to extinction her people were? How the Vikings had broken them? Her culture was being eroded away by the Scots. Already the ancient language of her people had given way to Gaelic and few followed the old Pagan ways. The constant attacks from the Vikings and Scots had brought them to the brink. With enemies on all sides, how were they to survive?

“Come, I must take some water to the sheep.”

“I can do that,” Alrek offered.

“Nay, we shall do it together.” It would not do to become too dependent on the man.

They headed up to the flock in silence and filled the troughs as the sky darkened. Ilisa trembled and peered at the clouds, so grey she could almost believe a god commanded them. Shadows increased and the wind whirled. She lifted the hood of her mantle and snatched up the bucket as the first drops fell.

Alrek took the bucket from her, stacked it on top of his and enclosed her hand in his. The rain began to fall with enthusiasm, fat heavy drops threatening to soak them to the skin. Underfoot the ground grew slick and though the warmth of Alrek’s palm disconcerted her, he stopped her from slipping several times.

Muddy and wet, they dropped the buckets and stumbled into the cottage. She grimaced when she spied the drips of water seeping through the roof and puddling on the floor. With a sigh, she put a couple of bowls under the worst of them and turned to face Alrek. His shirt now practically see through, she saw every line of his muscle. He chuckled as he swiped away the water from his face.

“Well, Alrek the bold, you really must have angered your god.” She shook her head and pulled a linen towel from the coffer at the end of the bed before throwing it to him. She grabbed one for herself and dragged off her cloak to blot the ends of her hair and her face. Her cloak had kept her relatively dry but Alrek had not been so lucky.

“I have indeed.”

His keen gaze watched her movements and the air grew thick. She lowered her gaze. Warmth spread into her cheeks and chest. He sighed and tugged off his shirt and Ilisa bit back a groan. More time with a half-naked Viking… perhaps God was punishing her? Though she could not fathom why.

Alrek held out his shirt and glanced around uncertainly. “Where should I—?”

“Here.” She took it from him and hung it over the back of the chair. “I don’t have any more men’s clothing, I fear. I did not keep much.”

He lifted his shoulders. “It matters not. I shall have to get wet again to fetch the wood.”

“Oh no, let me.” She put a hand to his arm and the warmth of his skin surprised her. She snatched her hand back and held it to her chest.

“Stay,” he commanded. “I cannot get any wetter and you should stay dry.”

Ilisa sank onto the bed and waited as he fetched the wood. Hands twisted into the fabric of her skirt, her feet twitched with the need to do something to distract herself from the ache bubbling inside. She remained silent as he set about arranging the wood and the kindling. Water dripped down his back in little trails—trails she longed to trace. His skin sheened and once he got the fire lit, the amber glow enhanced the colour of his skin. He made her feel so pale and uninteresting. Why did he kiss her? Surely the Viking women were far more exciting than her. Mayhap it had been the bump to his head. He had shown little interest in her since after all.

Crouched by the fire, Alrek held out his palms to the flames and glanced sideways at her. “Do you have many visitors here?”

“Nay. A few boys from the village to help with the sheep but that is about all. Why?”

“If news of Vikings around the coast reaches the village, will they come to tell you?”