Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (111 page)

Recalling Sister Heloise’s words, Elienor grimaced for the first bright rays of morning had come too early, with no regard for her body’s fatigue. Yet despite her weariness—or mayhap because of it—she felt restless.

She sat abruptly, glaring at the tent opening, hugging her knees, thinking that more than likely it was he that made her feel so cross. How dare he accuse her of wallowing in self-pity! Especially when she had every cause to do so!

She shivered suddenly, rubbing her arms beneath the blanket, remembering against her will the incredible warmth of his lips.

Don’t think of that,
she scolded herself.

How could she have felt sympathy for the beast? But amazingly, she had—for the babe he’d once been, and for his mother—and along with it, she’d experienced such an incredible urge to comfort—a ridiculous notion, for he’d seemed not at all affected by his past. His face had remained an impervious mask, and if anything he’d seemed vexed with her for questioning his murderous father.

Listening to the sounds of the crew rousing outside, she wished them all to perdition—their arrogant leader most especially.

She stood, shaking off the blanket in the heat of her ire, and began to pace the confines of the narrow tent, stopping to listen to the ghoulish groans of the mast. She pounded the wooden pillar soundly with her fist, wanting it to cease once and for all.

She couldn’t bear this much longer!

And she most certainly was not a witch!

What of the dream? a little voice asked.

Elienor snorted inelegantly. “What dream?” she countered stubbornly.

Ah, Elienor, you forget so easily—any one of many—last night while he held you...

“’Tis naught but coincidence,” Elienor said petulantly, refusing to acknowledge the other accusation—that she’d allowed him to hold her. It was merely a dream. Mother Heloise had said so.

And you believe it still? Can you be so blind? Open your eyes at last, bien-aimee.

A shiver passed down her spine. “Beloved?” Something about the way the endearment came to her, the way it sounded so clearly in her head, suddenly discomfited her. It brought back memories of her mother’s soft gentle voice. She swallowed, glancing about warily.

I have been with you always, bien-aimee. You must heed the warnings.

Elienor’s heart raced and a chill passed through her, sending gooseflesh racing down her arms.

“Mother!” she said, whirling suddenly, searching for the face that went with the imagined voice.

Heed them, Elienor.

Again she spun about, spying nothing still.

Jesu Christ! Surely it was only her imagination!

It was true she oft talked to herself—but never like this! “Dear God! I am mad!” she exclaimed a little hysterically. Eyeing the blanket she’d discarded upon the pallet, she felt acutely the crispness of the air. If she stayed in this tent another moment, the madness would be irrevocable. If she didn’t freeze to death first—and it was all his fault!

“Truly, I am mad!” she whispered again. Jesu, but it was cold! She started for the blanket suddenly, intending to wrap it about her shoulders. “Mad, mad, mad!”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

Elienor practically leapt out of her stockinged feet. She spun about to face the tent opening where Alarik, the demon, stood watching her, his arms crossed, his lips twisted with ill-concealed amusement. A grin suddenly overtook his features... those sensuous lips twisting devilishly. “Who can argue with truth?” he said, his eyes sparkling with rare humor. “Without question, you’re unusual, Elienor of Baume les Nonnes.”

Elienor shot him a look of contempt, forcing her gaze from his lips.

Unusual?
Precisely what was he implying? Unusual, indeed! She dared not ask, lest he accuse her of witchery again. “Beg pardon if I offend thee, my lord Viking!”

“Alarik.”

Elienor’s eyes narrowed belligerently. “Pardon again! Alarik, the demon,” she countered, daring to use her own epithet for him. And emboldened by his silence, she dared even further. “Mighty Norseman, slayer of innocents!”

He stiffened as though she’d physically struck him.

Her voice rose in renewed anger over Clarisse’s senseless death. “Alarik, the executioner!”

“Enough!” he snarled at last, his eyes warning her. “Lest you wish to join your friend?”

Elienor snorted to cover her instant of fear. “You would!” she continued carelessly. Let him do what he wished to her! She refused to forget her pride ever again.

A muscle ticked at his jaw. “Aye, wench, I would... never doubt it.” His eyes glittered dangerously.

Yet he did nothing of the sort, Elienor noticed. He simply stood glaring at her.

Tossing her head back, she eyed him with cold triumph, daring to challenge him with every fiber of her being. Only the longer he stood, the darker his look became, and the more ominous he seemed, and Elienor began to truly doubt her sanity.

What was wrong with her that she would goad him so?

He said absolutely nothing, merely stood there, his eyes glittering with barely restrained fury, and then he flung her dry kyrtle at her.

Elienor gasped as the garment cuffed her in the face. She fumbled for it, missed it, and then fumbled for it again as it fluttered to the planking. She stared down at it numbly, glancing up in astonishment.

He was gone.

That was it?

She’d pushed and pushed, yet that was all he would do in retaliation? She felt giddy with relief. For a befuddled instant, she stood there gazing down at her saltwater-stained garment, illuminated suddenly by a dazzling shaft of sunlight, and wondered in horror how she could have forgotten what she was wearing—or rather what she was not wearing! At once, she fell to her knees, seizing up her bliaut, her face burning crimson with shame, and then again glanced at the tent opening.

Sunlight shone onto her face, and she shielded her eyes, amazed at how much light he kept from the tarpaulin when he stood in the doorway. With his departure the shelter was again awash with light.

Which led her to wonder just how she’d not sensed him standing there.

Worse, how long had he stood there before making his presence known?

“The cur!” she said aloud, and promptly drew the ruined gown over her head, smoothing it over her undertunic.

The man was impossibly arrogant.

Still she couldn’t believe he’d done naught more than swat her with her gown.

Leaving her so she could dress, Alarik vowed to stay clear of her—vicious wench that she was. So much for attempting civility. Had he felt bad about the way he’d spoken to her last night?

No more!

From here on, Sigurd was perfectly capable of carrying her meals to her—otherwise she could spend her days in solitude, or content herself with her biting tongue for company.

But as the day wore on, Alarik couldn’t quite remove from his memory the caged look she’d had on her face as she’d paced the confines of the tent. Nor could he erase the image of her standing there in
dishabille
, ripe and luscious, and very likely untouched for all that she’d disclosed. And Loki take him if that possibility didn’t make him burn all the hotter.

It was unlikely Phillipe would have forced himself upon her with her pious upbringing and her connections—whatever they were—to Robert of Francia.

Yet another thing that bedeviled him.

Leaning back against the prow, he eyed the tent restlessly, shaking his head in disbelief. The stupid wench didn’t even have the good sense to stay covered beneath the blanket he’d given her. Anyone could have walked in and spied her standing as she was.

What galled him most, however, was that she still blamed him for Clarisse’s death. Mayhap it wouldn’t so much if, in truth, he’d tossed the baseborn wench overboard, but he hadn’t—though he damned well should have—and what provoked him most was that the Fransk she-wolf didn’t even realize the truth.

And he couldn’t tell her.

Nei, he amended, he wasn’t about to tell her.

Let the witch believe what she would of him.

“Have you told her yet that her friend lives?” Sigurd inquired from the helm, as though he’d read Alarik’s thoughts.

Alarik gave his old friend a scowl for his prying. His brow rose slightly, yet he made no reply beyond that gesture.

“You could send Clarisse in to keep her company,” Sigurd suggested cannily.

“Clarisse?” Alarik asked with lifted brows.

Sigurd ignored the taunt. “Mayhap if you told her... she wouldn’t feel so confined... and her tongue wouldn’t be so sharp.”

“You overstep your bounds, Sigurd!”

“Couldn’t help but overhear,” Sigurd said, defending himself. At Alarik’s black look, he shrugged in mock resignation, and returned his attention to the steering of the vessel.

The hush that followed mocked Alarik.

“She has two legs of her own!” Alarik barked at his friend. “If she ever bothers to come out, she’ll know. Otherwise she can assume whatever she pleases!”

Sigurd shrugged and Alarik’s attention was again drawn to the tarpaulin.

He couldn’t make out her silhouette at the moment. It was only at night, highlighted by the light within, that her lithe figure behind the canvas taunted him. And not solely him, he knew, for he’d not missed the looks his men cast in her direction.

Damn the wench, for within that tent, she had no notion what spell she’d cast over his crew.

He didn’t give a rat’s piss that she felt confined, he decided suddenly.

She was his prisoner.

In truth, he didn’t much care if she starved herself to death either—stubborn, venomous wench. It’d save him the trouble of strangling her.

S
tooping as he entered the tent, Alarik moved swiftly toward her, heedlessly tossing at her side the wooden platter he’d brought. It settled upon the planking with a hollow clatter. “I don’t give a whit if you’re not hungry,” he snarled at her. “You’ll eat regardless—and smile as you swallow!”

Elienor blinked at his ruthless tone, so at odds with his actions. He didn’t care... yet he brought her food?

Some of her outrage dissipated, leaving only confusion in its wake, along with a lingering dose of chagrin for the way that he’d found her this morn. Her eyes dropped to the platter. At the sight of it, her stomach grumbled.

“Don’t bother denying it, wench!” He sat back upon the enormous rounded block that supported the mast. “Even your body defies you.” He grinned suddenly. “Your belly rumbles louder than Thor’s hammer.”

To her dismay she could feel her cheeks heating. She glowered at him and averted her gaze, grateful that his smile faded, for the sight of it seemed to incite her heart to insurrection. Frowning, she glanced down at the platter, noting the assortment of cheeses and bread; she was grateful for the lack of pungent dried salmon he’d brought every other meal. To her chagrin, her mouth began to water at the sweet odors that wafted to her nostrils. She sat upright, trying to appear indifferent, yet failing miserably. Her stomach grumbled once more, and she cursed it, along with her pounding heart.

He slid down the block to sit upon the planking before her, and her heart turned over violently. Hardly able to understand what his presence aroused within her, Elienor tried her best to ignore him.

“Why is it that you don’t realize when you’re talking to yourself?” he asked with genuine interest.

Elienor looked at him, shrugging. “How should I know?”

“Has it always been so?”

“As long as I can remember,” she relented, trying to still the erratic beating of her heart. Again she cursed her tongue. How many times had she been reprimanded at the cloister? Too many to recount—and always at the hour of prayer.

After a moment, she offered, “Mother Heloise said it was because I have a restless mind.”

Feeling more agitated by the instant, she tried to discern the demon’s purpose in speaking so civilly to her, but could perceive no reason for it. Surely, there was something he wanted of her?

He nodded, apparently satisfied with her explanation, and reached for a slice of soft white cheese, surprising her by bringing it to her lips.

Elienor’s brows lifted. “You would feed me?” she asked, resisting the urge to snatch it whole into her mouth—and bite off his fingers in the process.

Alarik’s brow rose at her question. Retrieving the cheese, he tore off a modest bite for himself, popping it in his mouth. “Unless, of course, you’re not hungry?”

Elienor was, but she wasn’t about to beg for her supper. Let him eat it all if he would. She watched him chew, fascinated by the strength in his jaw... his lips... the way they appeared... so soft... and yet so hard. Her fingers went to her own lips, her brows drawing together, and then catching herself, she startled.

Forsooth, what did he want of her? That she would forget all that had passed between them in the space of an afternoon? Hardly possible.

Seeing her chin jut forward stubbornly, Alarik decided to cease with the jesting lest she starve over her stubbornness—he had not missed the confusion in her face when she’d watched him eat. The way she’d touched her own lips as she’d contemplated his sent talons of desire clawing through him. He held the cheese out once more. “A peace offering,” he suggested.