Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (112 page)

“Peace?” Elienor retorted. “Betwixt us?” Just to make certain there was no confusion as to whom she meant, she gestured between the two of them, her expression clearly disbelieving.

“Aye. I would say it was in your best interest,” he apprised.

“Mine? Since when do you trouble yourself with my best interest, my lord?”

My lord.

Not my lord Viking?

Alarik grinned, feeling a small victory at the concession.

His pewter-gray eyes assessed her and a quiver swept down Elienor’s spine, though she managed an indifferent shrug. Yet she was anything but unaffected. He had a way of looking at her that disconcerted at best. He offered the cheese again and she eyed the morsel malevolently.

“You feed all your captives this way?”

“All?” His gaze dropped from her eyes to her shoulders, to the cheese... or at least Elienor assumed it was the cheese. Something about the hunger in his eyes seemed more than just a bit carnal. “No.”

She crossed her arms, rubbing them as though to erase the gooseflesh that prickled her, and sensing that her stomach was about to betray her again, she indignantly swiped the cheese from his fingers and fought the urge to shove the tiny bite into her mouth.

“The truth is, Elienor, I keep no thralls.”

“Thralls?” Involuntarily her eyes returned to his lips. As she stared something fluttered deep within the pit of her belly.

His eyes glittered with amusement. “In your tongue… slaves.”

“I see,” Elienor said stiffly, her gaze affixed to his face as she nibbled from the cheese in her hand. “So then, what, pray tell, am I?”

Alarik’s half-grin faded, for he found himself suddenly at a loss.

What was she, indeed?

In truth, he rarely took prisoners. Every last one of the steading’s servants were freed men, hired for pay. And while slavery was indeed the way for many Norsemen, Alarik had chosen not to employ it. Mayhap it was the circumstances of his birth that kept him from it, for he wanted no bastard children born under him. He had no taste for begetting children who felt less than whole... and fancied they had something to prove to the world.

So, then, what the devil was the wench to be, if not his slave? His brow rose as he considered her question...and then he happened to recall the ring, and his gaze fell to the creamy expanse of her neck.

“I believe a more poignant question remains to be asked. What were you to Count Phillipe? Better yet, what were you to Robert of Francia… wench?”

He wanted her know with certainty that whatever her title was up to now... it was no more.

Elienor nearly choked on the cheese.

Her eyes widened, her hand flew to her breast. She flashed Alarik a look of alarm and his eyes bore into her with silent expectation.

She said nothing, merely stared at him with a look of panic.

Provoked by her silence, he gripped her suddenly by the wrist, jerking her toward him, though his other hand went to her temple, to her wound, caressing it without touching at all.

She tried to look away, but he yanked her toward him once more, annoyed by the way she studiously avoided his gaze. “Am I so repulsive to you, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes, that you would fly from my touch? Does my Viking face repulse you, even now, after I’ve cared for you? Fed you? Protected you? Can you not cease to judge me for who you think I am—the heartless barbarian Norseman—and see me differently? In truth, I am not so gentle as some, but neither am I cruel. Forsooth! I am but a man,” he finished angrily. “I’d not have you look at me as though I were a fire-breathing serpent.”

Elienor managed to shake her head.

Nay, if the truth be known, she was not repulsed by him just now, but by herself, and her body’s odd response to his touch—to his very presence. But she thought she might die if he didn’t release her at once.

“I’ll not harm you, wench,” he swore. “You need not shun my touch again.”

“Nay?”

The blue flecks in his eyes deepened and his voice was softer, huskier when he next spoke. “I grant you my word that I shall take naught from you that is not freely given.”

Her chin lifted, remembering his earlier threat. “Which is it, my lord… that you shall deeply enjoy the taking? or that you will take naught unless given freely?”

For the longest instant, he was stunned enough to say nothing. “My word!” he declared. “But take care you do not offend me further,” he warned, his eyes narrowing. “You’d do well to remember that it is I alone who stand betwixt you and my men. Understand my meaning?”

He squeezed her wrist lightly, though not enough to cause pain, his brows lifting in question. When Elienor nodded, he released her at last.

Yet he held her eyes fast.

Ensnared by his gaze, Elienor rubbed her wrist absently.

From beyond the tent came a sudden roar of merriment, diverting his attention.

Suddenly his look was full of satisfaction. The ire completely melted from his gaze and the grey in his eyes turned a lucid silver.

“At last… the Gareinger Fjord,” he said. When Elienor did not understand, he added, “Home.”

H
er face was full of dread, but Alarik had no desire to reassure her just now—not with the havoc her beautiful face played upon his mind—not when she looked upon him as though he were some mad beast from the wilds.

Never mind that she had a right to fear him.

She seemed to realize suddenly that even after he’d released her, she’d remained within a hair’s breadth of him, for her eyes widened, and she gasped, thrusting herself backward. Her reaction to him clenched his gut.

Avoiding her gaze as he stood, Alarik left without another word. He stepped outside into the bright sunlight, wondering what it was about her bewitching eyes that made him lose all reason.

Had he truly proposed peace betwixt them? When she obviously preferred his head on a platter instead? What ailed him, indeed!

As the Goldenhawk glided over the sun-lit waters, light as a gull, the crew shouted hoarse cheers to the two smaller
drakken
sailing in its wake.

Not a single man aboard the sister ships could suppress their exhilaration over the sight before them. Alarik’s mood lightened considerably.

Their home soil rose white and proud on either side of the ice-scattered fjord, reaching magnificently into the clouded blue heavens.

The drizzle was heavier now, the crisp air smelling of freshly fallen snow. With much pleasure, Alarik took the fresh, cold air into his lungs until they stung from the chill. The scene before him never ceased to overwhelm him, to fill him with satisfaction. There were times the Northland’s harsh winters left him aching for the sun and sea, but inasmuch as this was so, it was also true that an interval at sea filled his heart with a fierce longing for the rugged fjord that harbored his home.

His home.

His.

All his life he’d endeavored to prove himself—first to his father, then to his people, and finally to himself. He’d sweat blood, pure and bright, for his right to hold this land. It was his now—all of it—stark as it was in winter, meager as it was in spring—as far as the eye beheld. He’d earned every last grain of soil.

Like a mother that snuggles a hungry babe to her bosom, so did the twin knolls on the horizon give refuge to his steading. He watched, the end of a snow-peppered dock appear, and as the Goldenhawk rounded the bend in the fjord, the wooden structure grew in clarity before his eyes, as though stretching in welcome. With a father’s pride, Alarik stood, relishing the sight.

No doubt, the red diamond sails of the Goldenhawk had been spied the moment they’d entered the mouth of the fjord. Long before the first
drakken
glided into dock, the pier was teeming with gleeful kinsmen.

Feeling much as she imagined a caged animal would feel, Elienor paced the confines of the tent, wondering how long it would be before he came for her.

And though she couldn’t possibly have waited longer than fifteen minutes, when Alarik appeared in the doorway, darkening the tent interior with his presence, she was so anxious that she shrieked in startle.

“Gather your belongings. We’ve arrived.”

Elienor bristled at his choice of words. “Pray, do you mean
all
my many coffers, my lord Viking?” she asked with a slight smile of defiance.

Alarik frowned at her.

“But there are so many!” she continued flippantly, lifting her chin, meeting his icy gaze straight on. “It would take hours to pack them all!”

Without warning, Alarik sauntered forward, seizing her by the hand and hauling her out of the tent after him.

Dread shot through her at the reality of this new world she was entering, so different from her own.

The drastic change in weather, the uncanny chill of the air alone was staggering. Nevertheless, she concealed her fear valiantly behind bold words. “Alas, shall I go with the dress on my back?” she asked sarcastically, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight. “Will we send for the coffers later?”

He said naught, merely tugged at her arm, and she glared at his back.

Jesu, but it was cold!

All about her there were people, embracing, laughing, joking. How could they? Elienor bristled. Certainly there was nothing joyous about this day!

Alarik stopped and turned, and Elienor gasped as she collided with his leather-clad chest. He’d been about to speak out, but halted abruptly at her cry of pain. And again, that look as he gazed down at her. She couldn’t bear to suffer his scrutiny, or his concern!

His hand went to her healing scar. “I am fine!” she said, shrinking away from his touch.

His hand froze between them, and at once his look darkened. He jerked his gaze away, and without a word to her, immediately began to bellow out orders to his men for the unloading of the vessels. And then, hauling her after him once more, he led her off the ship, up a narrow pathway that led up the cliff side.

Beneath Elienor’s leather shoes, the snow was tamped down, evidence of the rush of feet that had trod up and down the pathway to the docks this morn. Obviously someone loved these men well, though she couldn’t imagine who, or why. That they would have families who cared for them seemed inconceivable.

Halfway up the cliff side, her heart full of misery, Elienor cast a glance over her shoulder at the despised dragon ships that had brought her to this godforsaken place. And to her shock, she spied Clarisse being led onto the dock by the Nude One.

“You lied to me!” she said to Alarik’s back. When he didn’t respond to her accusation, she tugged wrathfully upon his arm. “Clarisse lives!”

“So she does,” he replied dispassionately.

Again Elienor tugged at his arm, this time with more force. “But you said—”

“I said naught,” he snapped, glancing backward at her, his eyes dark and smoldering. He tugged her forward. “It was
you
who said, wench. I simply didn’t bother to correct you!” He kept walking, virtually dragging her after him.

“How could you deliberately mislead me?” Elienor stumbled over her feet, unable to keep pace with his greater stride. “Stop! Stop! Let me speak to her, for the love of God!”

He stopped abruptly, and once again Elienor collided with him. Only this time, she dared not cry out, for the malevolence in his expression when she looked up at him was startling in its intensity.

“Mislead you?” he asked, his voice low and silky. He shook his head slowly. “Nei, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes, for you were bound and determined to believe the worst of me. I simply chose not to disappoint.”

Elienor blinked, uncertain of what to say in her defense, for in this he spoke truth. She had suspected the worst of him. Yet how could she not?

He turned sharply and continued up the path, again hauling her after him.

“My lord, a word please!”

Startled by the male voice so near, Elienor gasped and turned to face the bearer of it—and found herself reeling yet again at the sight she encountered. Struggling not to trip over her blundering feet, she watched in shock as the man passed her by.

A monk? Here? But nay, it could not be!

Shaking her head in mute disbelief, she once again took in everything, from his frock, tied with braided rope, to his tonsured head.

Elienor’s mouth opened to speak, though she was unable to find her voice. And still Alarik would not stop. Curse him! Instead, he seemed to walk all the faster, jerking her after him, as though he did not wish her to acknowledge the monk at all.

For his part, the monk seemed as surprised by the sight of Elienor as she was by him, for he stared in return as he attempted to catch up with Alarik.

He gave up abruptly, falling back to walk beside Elienor, his chest heaving with exertion.

“Jesu!” Elienor exclaimed at last, trying desperately to keep pace and failing miserably. “You
are
a monk!”

“Aye!” Alarik exploded, jerking to a halt. “Loki take you both, for the man is as much a thorn in my side as you are, wench!” Alarik turned and eyed the monk furiously. “What is it, Vernay?”

Vernay prudently ignored Alarik’s outburst. Bowing his head slightly to Elienor, he added, “I am Brother Vernay, my la—”