Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (108 page)

No matter, those were his choices; to sail himself and let the woman die, or minister to her and possibly kill them all in the process.

In that instant the Goldenhawk pitched to one side. With a muttered curse, Alarik braced himself, but he was too late. He was flung down upon her.

So small.

She was so small beneath him.

He couldn’t let her die.

His hands tangled in her bloody hair. Nay, he would not let her die!

As long as he might live he’d never comprehend the pull she seemed to have over him, but he made his insane vow nonetheless—to save her life at all cost, even at the risk of his own, and those of his men. Why he would make such a treacherous pact with himself was beyond comprehension. He only knew that something beyond his power of reasoning compelled him unto it.

As the
drakken
turned its prow into the whitecaps once more, he peeled his body from the girl, his gaze slicing through the sea-spray and mist to see that the man at the helm was struggling at best.

Sigurd would simply have to attempt it. His decision made, not even Thor himself could have swayed him from it. Not understanding his own motives, Alarik turned to Sigurd. “Replace Ivar at the helm! Quickly!”

Sigurd’s jaw dropped with disbelief, his eyes widening. “But jarl—”

“Go!” Alarik roared. “Now!”

Shaking his head, Sigurd went.

Laying the woman’s head upon the planking, gently, so as not to cause her further injury, Alarik watched him go, his hand reaching for his bone-handled dagger as he came to his feet. The wind battered his tunic as he held the hem within his fist, ready to slash it. He glared at Red-Hrolf as he rent a wide strip of his garment, baring his chest to the biting wind.

Red-Hrolf stood, shaking his head as well, torn between his fear of a watery grave and Alarik’s wrath. “You’ll kill us all!” he accused.

Probably hoping Alarik would change his mind, Sigurd halted abruptly, turning to hear Alarik’s reply.

In the meantime Bjorn dared to speak his mind. As Alarik’s brother, he maintained certain privileges others were deprived of—at least that much was granted him. “Alarik, mine brother, you are the only one who can guide us through this storm!”

Alarik stood silent, his legs braced apart, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

Bjorn’s face screwed with disbelief. “You would kill us all over a worthless Fransk bitch?” Almost at once, he regretted his boldness. Noting the ire that danced like fiery daggers in Alarik’s dark eyes, he shuddered, never having seen his brother so furious.

Clasping his dagger firmly, Alarik slashed another strip of material from his blood-smeared tunic, oblivious now to the numbing chill. He fixed a warning glare upon Sigurd. “Take that helm,” he said coldly. While his warning seemed directed at Sigurd, it was in fact meant for his young brother, and he issued the last of it as he turned to Bjorn. “Or ’tis you I’ll toss overboard, not the wench.”

He turned again to Red-Hrolf and added pointedly, his eyes burning with fury, “I’ll not have my commands questioned—ever! Do y’ heed?”

Knowing Alarik’s words were not mere threats, Sigurd immediately took to the helm.

“And you, Bjorn,” Alarik warned. “I shall take little more insolence from you—brother or nei. Go now and lower the accursed sails!”

At once, Bjorn leapt to do Alarik’s bidding, knowing there was too little time to waste. In this Hel wind it would take very little to devastate the sail cloth.

“Leave the mast raised!” Alarik called after him. He would need it later to raise a shelter. Then too, as soon as the wind abated he would again hoist the sail and use the drift anchor. Best to make use of it while they were able.

Once more, the Goldenhawk tilted violently. With hoarse shouts and curses, the men braced themselves against the tempest, lest they tumble into the frothy sea. Alarik stood his ground like an effigy from hell, not wholly real, but paralyzing in his towering might and intensity.

Satisfied that he would have no more resistance from his men, he gave his complete attention to the woman at his feet.

“S
he’ll bring unrest,” Red-Hrolf said at Bjorn’s back.

Bjorn didn’t bother turning.

“She’s a Christian,” Red-Hrolf persisted.

A prickling crept down Bjorn’s spine at Red-Hrolf’s proclamation. He paused at his task, turning.

Red Hrolf’s expression was filled with scorn. “What else would a Frenchwoman be?”

Shuddering over the notion, Bjorn frowned, returning to the task of lowering the sails. He tugged violently at the lines. “Why should that concern me? You heard as well as I... she is mine brother’s problem! Speak to him if you would!”

Red-Hrolf’s eyes narrowed balefully. “Are you so blind, Bjorn? I say she is a threat to all of us!”

“She’s naught but a puny wench.”

“You underestimate her!”

“I think not.”

“Like a coiled adder is a woman’s bed talk. If you allow it, she’ll work her accursed faith upon you both! Destroy your alliance with the old gods! Mark my words, friend—else you will fall to its force... as has Olav... as has Alarik.”

Bjorn’s face contorted with disgust, and he dismissed Red-Hrolf once and for all. “You lie!” he charged. “My brother has not claimed the White Christ! I would know. No matter what else lies betwixt us, there has always been truth.”

Hrolf’s face contorted. “Do you not see how he risks us to save her? Nei, Bjorn, we all see what value he places upon our lives—your life.”

At once, Bjorn’s gaze was drawn to where Alarik knelt over the Frenchwoman. He stood watching a moment, doubts creeping in even against his will.

Red-Hrolf said darkly, “Watch them closely,” he warned, and with that spun away, leaving Bjorn to mull over his counsel.

As the storm abated, frosty white flakes fluttered down from the northern skies, sweeping their way into the icy blue sea.

Despite the fact that the gale had been brief it was fierce and Alarik estimated that it had borne them at least a full day closer to their destination. He’d been concerned for a time because the third and smallest
drakken
had vanished from view, but only moments ago it had been sighted ahead of them, its sails slightly tattered from the winds, though otherwise intact.

A cool flake lit upon the bridge of his nose, dissipating almost at once. Considering the fact that the temperature had already dropped considerably, he made his way to where the small canvas shelter had been erected utilizing the mast, cursing himself for doing so yet again.

Nor could he discern why he’d spared the other wench’s life when it was possible his men could have been right. She might, in truth, have carried the pestilence—something he could not have risked at sea. Yet he had. All because the little Fransk had protected her so fiercely. But why should he be so affected by that accusing glare of hers?

And why, by the thunder of Thor, should he care what she thought of him?

It was only meager consolation that the other wench was so much improved, for he had, in truth, risked more than he ought to have in letting her live. Alarik had no idea what malady had possessed her earlier, but she appeared to be recovering now, and Sigurd seemed to have taken to her, as well. The old warrior managed to play nursemaid to her when not otherwise occupied, and Alarik could well see why, for she was a comely little thing.

Reaching for the tent flap, he hesitated before lifting it, torn between his loyalty to his men and that which he had sworn to the woman within. He should be aiding with the navigation, he knew, but he also knew he could not attend to his command without first seeing to the wench, and his scowl deepened.

Surely he’d been bewitched.

With a disgusted shake of his head, he shoved aside the flap and stooped to enter the small cloth-enclosed chamber. Once within he straightened to his full height and moved silently toward the figure slumbering so peacefully upon the pallet. At her side, he dropped to his knees, noting that the wet rag he’d left upon her forehead had fallen to the side of her face. Lifting it, he contemplated the paleness of her skin.

In the dim light her features were ethereal, the fine bones of her face set in the most perfect arrangement he’d ever beheld on a woman. And her skin... as pure and unblemished as freshly fallen winter snow. Nevertheless, it was her eyes that drew him most, held him inexplicably spellbound. They were a work of artistry, with the delicate line of her brows arching over bewitching violet irises. Though closed now, Alarik could still see their vivid violet color, startling in its clarity.

To him, she was more beautiful even than the imagined Valkyrs of his youth, though he was well aware that few others would share his opinion, for she was darker than the maids of his land.

Retrieving the skin of fresh water that lay discarded atop the coverlets, he uncapped it, dousing the rag once more. He’d watched her do the same for the other maid and had surmised she’d done so to cool the fever. He was well aware that fever induced madness, and thought that it might have incited the other maid’s fits. Recapping the skin, he tossed it carelessly aside, then refolded the dampened cloth, considering the woman lying before him.

She’d slept without waking in the hours since her injury, causing him to wonder. With his own eyes he’d witnessed such a state where the injured fell into the deepest slumber and remained therein for days, weeks, months even, ere waking. Some were said never to revive at all. But such was not the case with this one, he assured himself, his mouth curving into an unconscious smile, for the little wench babbled as much in her sleep as she did while awake.

Indeed, for the better part of her slumber it seemed she’d dwelled in a world of vivid fantasies.

On impulse he moved the coverlet down to view her body beneath.

In removing her wet kyrtle, an undertunic of fine embroidered linen had been revealed, affirming the fact that she was a woman of substance. Discarding the rag, he placed his hand at her ribs, ascertaining whether the garment had dried, and despite himself his body quickened at the feel of her warm, soft flesh beneath the filmy gown. Unable to recall when he’d been so affected by a wench, he shook his head in self-disgust.

His eyes were drawn upward, and he stared, transfixed at the canvas, his heart hammering like mighty hoof-beats against his ribs. With all his might, he resisted the urge to slide his hand up to cup one luscious breast, squeeze it gently… he craved it madly.

Was he no better than Red-Hrolf?

Cursing himself, his hand drifted downward, away from that which tempted him so sorely, only to encounter something hard and round beneath her gown. Curious as to what it might be, he slipped his hand quickly within her neckline, his eyes closing with self-restraint as his fingers moved between her bare breasts, skimming her warm flesh. Surely the Gods taunted him.

He drew from her undertunic a long leather string, and his brows lifted in surprise, for suspended from it was a gleaming silver ring, generously embedded with tiny jewels.

For the longest instant, Alarik merely stared, transfixed, studying the ring thoughtfully. If his memory served him—and it did—the design within the raised border was the same worn by the Frankish King.

Who, then, was this woman to be wearing such a ring as this? A thousand possibilities crossed his mind, none of them acceptable.

“By the jaws of Fenri!” he whispered. He removed the ring from about her neck and weighed it speculatively within the palm of his hand. “Who are you, wench?”

He caught it suddenly, closing his fist over its hardness, and then with a muttered curse drew it over his own head, dropping the ring beneath his tunic. Taking hold of the discarded rag once more, he raised the cloth to the woman’s forehead, smoothing it over her brow. And despite the grim turn of his thoughts, the ache in his groin intensified as he slid the moist rag down her lovely throat... so white and soft.

Was she mistress, or daughter?

He refused to consider that she might have been Phillipe’s bride. She had claimed he was not her count as yet. Mayhap then, she was his betrothed?