Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (100 page)

“My babe?” Zora broke in, beset by fear.

“The child still thrives within you, daughter,” came his reassuring reply. “I only regret that I’ll not be there at its birth, for you will be far away in Novgorod.”

Her eyes widening, Zora stared at him incredulously. But before she could say anything, he went on.

“I had much time to think during the night and knowing as I do now of everything that happened to you, I cannot in good conscience break apart a marriage that God has ordained. If Lord Rurik had not been at that trading camp, no matter that he had been sent to spy against me…” Again, Mstislav had to pause for the quaver in his voice and this time, it was Zora who clasped his hand.

“I love him, Father. More than I could ever say.”

He exhaled slowly, nodding. “I know this, Zora. Your courageous act last night could not have proved it more clearly. I loved once, too, but could not marry the woman who captured my heart. It is a pain I have never overcome, and I do not wish such suffering for you. You and Lord Rurik have my blessing.”

Swept with elation, Zora could only smile her thanks. Yet she sobered at the thought that suddenly came to her and she asked softly, “What of Hermione?”

Mstislav’s expression hardened, but it also held regret. “I’ve banished her to a convent in Tmutorokan until I decide what else is to be done with her. I cannot forgive her for her cruel treachery toward you, but she, too, has suffered. I never loved her mother, and though I tried to treat both of you equally, Hermione must have sensed that you were the joy of my heart. I’ve never heard such bitterness as she spewed at me last night. I fear Ivan’s death has driven her half mad.”

Neither of them spoke for several moments, their shared silence a pained one. Finally Mstislav gently stroked her cheek.

“Your sister’s troubles are not your fault, Zora, and I will not have you blame yourself. This is my cross to bear.” He gave her hand a last reassuring squeeze, then he rose and moved to the door. “I will tell your husband that you are awake—”

“I already know, my lord.” Rurik stepped into the room, not caring that his voice had gone hoarse. His gaze flew to Zora’s face. Just to see her conscious again, her beautiful eyes anxious and yet so full of hope, made his chest swell with gratitude. He was certain at that moment that the gods must be smiling. “I’ve been waiting outside until you finished…not an easy task.”

Becoming oblivious to all else but Zora, Rurik was scarcely aware that Prince Mstislav had left them, nor did he recall walking to the bed and kneeling beside it. It seemed that suddenly he was there. Reaching out his hand, Rurik touched her tawny hair with shaking fingers.

“I feared…” His voice caught. Swallowing hard, he began again, not caring that his eyes were blinded by tears. “I feared that I wasn’t going to have the chance to tell you that I love you, Princess. God forgive me for being such a fool, I love you!”

Zora’s heart was too full for her to speak, but she didn’t need words. Her own eyes brimming, she took his battle-scarred hand in hers and pressed her lips to his palm.

She knew it had been enough when he smiled, then bent his head and kissed her.

~
The End
~

Twin Passions

Captive Rose

Miriam Minger is the award-winning author of ten bestselling historical romances and a romantic suspense thriller, Ripped Apart. Writing as Miriam Aronson, she is the co-author of the popular Little Mike and Maddie series of children’s picture books about a lovable pair of dogs and their motorcycle escapades. Writing as M.C. Walker, she is the author of Blood Son, an inspirational romantic suspense thriller.

For more information:

Visit Miriam at
www.miriamminger.com
Friend Miriam at
Facebook
Follow Miriam on
Twitter

A
larik Trygvason knew full well the risk he took by navigating so far up the river Seine, but the French Count deserved this retribution. Never again would the spineless bastard plot against him—of that he would make certain.

He should have perceived the true reason Count Phillipe had sent his squat little balding man with his gift of French wine. But he’d been too hungry. Too mesmerized by the lush green beauty of French soil. Too enthralled by the prospect of holding a meager parcel of it. He should have recognized the ruse at once—native soil in exchange for peace between them? Loki take them all!

Like vipers they had slithered into his sleeping camp. And like vipers they had attacked. He’d lost full half his men before any of them could clear their heads of wine or sleep. Sotted as they’d been, they had been ill-prepared to fend off the strike, but thanks to the count’s little balding man, Alarik’s eyes were open wide; he knew precisely who to thank for the night’s unexpected call.

Phillipe of Brouillard.

His eyes narrowed vengefully.

The deceiving fool doubtless believed that if he rid himself of Alarik, he would deliver King Robert from the terms of their agreement. But Phillipe had chosen the wrong man with whom to match wits and might.

Tonight he would pay the price.

His gaze fixed upon the horizon, his expression hard as unyielding steel. His features were chiseled like that of his namesake’s, the hawk, and his pewter gray eyes had been likened to the silver of his sword, Dragvendil, for they could slice into the heart of a man with the ease of a fine gilt-edged blade.

The single turret appeared first, standing sentinel alone, its battlements a hungry mouth open to the heavens, jagged teeth exposed and ready to devour the concealing vapors.

Gracefully, with little more sound than the lifting and parting of skin-wrapped paddles from the black water, the
drakken
prows slid toward shore.

Like a mantle of misty white, the impenetrable fog cloaked his men from the fortress’ view, though Alarik spied the guard atop the stone tower at once, and a prickle raced down his spine as he waited for the man to sound the alarm.

He heard nothing—nothing but a tumble of thunder, an approval from the heavens.

His men took heart. “Thor! ’Tis Thor! He is with us!” his men declared.

Their victory was predestined.

Alarik, no longer cleaving to the old gods, allowed his men their enthusiasm, but did not share in their triumph. He acknowledged their belief with a deferential nod, but would not accept that a mere rumble of thunder would predetermine the outcome of this battle. Their superior warrior’s skill alone, hard earned by the sweat and blood of their bodies, would give them the victory they sought tonight. That and naught else.

The wind picked up, feathering the haze away, leaving them completely exposed to the watchman’s view...

Still nothing but silence.

With a calmness that belied the occasion, Alarik listened and waited, his face tilted skyward with no emotion evident in the intense silver of his stare. He eyed the sentry intently for some sign that the alarm had already been sounded... that he’d missed it somehow, but there was nothing. His eyes never left the turret.

All the while, the current brought them closer.

Closer…

With a flick of his hand he motioned for his men to cease their rowing. Their forward momentum alone would complete their glide to shore, and he needed the silence to better determine their position.

The oars were abandoned, but the night air remained undisturbed, the whispering wind the only sound to reach his ears. Incredibly, there were no shouts of ‘To arms! To arms!’ to be heard from within—despite the fact that Alarik was certain the guard had spied their approach. With an absent gesture, he stroked the hilt of his double-edged sword, considering the goal, assessing their options with narrowed eyes.

“A trap, jarl?”

By now, every man aboard the three warships had spied the lone figure atop the tower, but it was Sigurd Thorgoodson, Alarik’s most loyal, who came forward to voice the concern.

“Nei,” Alarik said, his gaze returning to the figure above. The silhouette grew slowly clearer as they neared. “They could not have known we would come.”

None of the count’s bumbling mercenaries had lived to carry the tale. He had no inkling why the witless guard did not alert the castle.

Brouillard’s thick masonry walls were a deterrent to most in this day when castles were built of timber, but Alarik knew this one’s damning secret and his lips twisted with ill-concealed contempt as he thought of the man whose blood he sought to spill this night.

Coward.

Only an incompetent, craven bastard would have such an escape portal. And there was only one thing Alarik despised more than a coward: a traitor.

Count Phillipe was both.

The latter had decreed the count’s fate, the former now sealed it.

Concealed by the dense trees and bush of the surrounding forest lay the means to breach the mist-enshrouded monstrosity—a hidden passage that backed deep into the sheltering woods. And he grinned at the thought of it, a slow, merciless smile that swept winter into the silver of his eyes. For that bit of knowledge he could also thank the little balding man, for by it Alarik would return the count’s favor tenfold this night.

His grip tightened about Dragvendil’s hilt as he thought of the portal, for it was fitting the hidden passage should be the count’s very downfall this eve.

He had no qualms whatsoever about catching the count unawares. As declared by Phillipe’s own Christian God, it was fitting to take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth... a life for a life. Just as the count had dealt with him, so would he be dealt with himself.

The chill wind rose, swirling the remaining fog in its wake, obscuring the figure upon the turret momentarily before being sucked into the turbulent heavens.

It was only then, in that instant, as the ship’s prow nudged its keel into the soft muck of the river embankment and ended its journey, that Alarik clearly beheld the figure standing above them.

To his absolute shock... it was a woman... her dark hair long and fluttering wildly in the breeze... her light colored kyrtle billowing furiously with the wind.

The sight of her made the hairs of his nape stand on end.

Elienor shook her head in denial, but the proof sailed before her eyes, appearing from mist and shadows like a grim specter from the dark.

She braced herself against the buckling of her knees for the dream that had awakened her and had sent her dashing to the tower to disprove it was, in truth, unfolding before her eyes. The rising wind buffeted her face, flinging her hair into wild disarray at her back, and sending icy prickles of fear down her spine.

Merely coincidences
, Mother Heloise had said. Always when she would dream, and the dream held true, the old abbess would assure her that she was not afflicted with her mother’s curse. And because her visions were few and her desperation great, Elienor had readily believed her. But the sight before her gave testimony to her fears.