Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (127 page)

“Elienor,” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes closing. He shuddered with pleasure at the feel of her bare skin against him. “Do you know what you do to me, my little nun?”

“Do you know what you do to me?” she said quietly, as though he weren’t meant to hear.

He chuckled, pleased, and his arms encircled her waist. He embraced her a moment, and then his hands drifted upward to seize the prize he’d exposed, his fingers lightly skimming her ribs.

“Please,” Elienor moaned. “I... I...”

Alarik tensed in anticipation of her protest. Although after her whispered declaration, he knew it would take little to sway her—she seemed to have little, or no control over her wayward tongue—at times, this time, it played to his advantage. He bent to place a long lingering kiss upon the delicate swell that crested her shoulder. She said nothing, only whimpered softly in the back of her throat, and he inhaled deeply in satisfaction.

The sweet, heady fragrance of her hair accosted him, lingering in the air, enshrouding him. He found it near as potent a potion as the sound of his name on her lips. With an oblivious groan, he buried his lips within the softness of her hair, and hearing her faint exhale only heated his senses more.

“Elienor,” he moaned. “Elienor... Elienor... Elienor…”

Elienor ceased to breathe at the intensity with which he spoke her name. She dared not turn to face him—lest he see the hunger in her own eyes—dared not speak, lest her words and voice betray her.

She fought a fierce battle with her conscience as he held and caressed her body. It felt so right, so right, yet she knew it to be wrong!

As his hands slid beneath her breasts, cupping them with hard but sensitive palms, her body exposed her for the wanton she was. She shivered expectantly as rugged hands fondled her and inflamed her senses, made her burn. She swallowed, her heart leaping into her throat as his lips touched her bare shoulder once more. “I... I thought... I thought you wanted me to aid you with your bath?”

Alarik smiled at the uncertainty in her voice. “I do wish you to aid me,” he told her provocatively, bending to whisper into her ear. “But I fear the bath will have to wait, my exquisite little Fransk.”

Elienor gasped as she became aware of the hardness of him pressing her back. Her heart pounded violently as she fought a battle with her will. Gently, he swept the length of her hair aside, placing a kiss upon her other shoulder.

She trembled, feeling herself losing, losing—not just the battle, but the war itself.

Her resolution to deny herself the pleasure he could give ebbed with every expert touch of his masterful hands and lips. As his fingers gently kneaded her bosom, her head fell backward helplessly, allowing him his will. As though pleased with her response, his breath hissed over the curve of her neck, and she felt her knees go instantly weak.

Alarik’s body quickened when she went limp in his arms. He steadied her. “You are sweet,” he whispered. “So very... very... sweet.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath as he nipped her neck, tasting the sheen of desire upon her flesh.

The coppery firelight caressed her creamy white flesh. As though compelled, his hands stroked her wherever the light revealed her, and perceiving that she was at last his for the taking, he groaned deep in the back of his throat, a sound of victory. Impatiently, he tore at the laces of his breeches, undoing them swiftly and with ease. He shuddered with exhilaration as he freed himself. Then, holding her steady, he stepped away to discard the restrictive clothing.

Trembling where she stood, Elienor closed her eyes, listening to the telltale sounds behind her—the rustling of garments as they melted from Alarik’s body. With every part of her, she willed herself to cry out and flee.

And then he was behind her once more, the naked heat of his flesh searing her clear unto her soul. Her heart pounded within her breast, drowning out everything but its wild beating, yet arrested completely as Alarik enfolded her within the warmth of his arms once more.

And then her blood swept into her head and her heart began to pound violently once more as he rocked her, unabashedly, from behind. Lord have mercy upon her soul. She thought she would die!

Gently, he brought his right hand down and splayed it across her abdomen, holding her steady while he rocked her.

Alarik’s arms dropped to her waist as he went to his knees, compelling her downward with him. His heart hammered and his breath came labored as he anticipated how he would take her this time—with all the fury of the Northland. Once she was firmly upon her knees on the soft furs, he molded his body over hers until he was able to settle himself between her legs, shuddering over the exhilarating sensation. In that instant, he knew an incredible desire to please her. He brought his hand around to stroke her, all the while kissing her back, breathing deeply of the scent of her hair. His eyes closed as he guided himself into her, groaning.

Elienor gasped, her head arching backward.

With his chin, Alarik nudged her hair from her back and tasted her warm, velvety skin with his lips. He savored her with his tongue, committing the taste and feel of her to his mind, all the while disregarding his own body’s demands; he stroked her until she cried out beneath him, and then he lifted himself, and holding her hips steady for his pleasure, he gave himself up to his own dark passions.

Elienor whimpered in ecstasy at his every thrust, crying out when heat exploded within her once more, wracking her body with delicious spasms. She was helpless to arrest the cry of his name that came to her lips.

The whispered name exploded within his head.

With an incredible rush of pleasure, Alarik gripped her hips tighter, and with one last powerful thrust, poured his life and soul into her.

He remained pressed into her until he was certain his seed was buried so deeply within her womb that she would surely conceive his babe.

He quivered almost violently then, separating from her, and collapsing to the furs. Rolling to his back, he took her with him, and holding her close, stroked the length of her hair until he could feel the smooth even rhythm of her slumbering breath. He stroked her until his own breathing settled and his heartbeat tempered.

And still he caressed her, for she felt so right beneath his fingers.

The last thing he thought before closing his eyes was that he was tired of fighting what he felt for her.

He could no longer deny it.

Whatever the bond, it was too powerful. If it was his destiny to love her, then so be it—to hell with the part of him that warned him not to succumb!

The pull was irresistible.

Yet, he would, in fact, resist.

As he’d long ago discovered, the heart was a powerful weapon. He could not so freely give his.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

A
larik came to fetch Elienor earlier and earlier each afternoon, and so it came as no surprise when, a week later, the door to the kirken burst open a mere hour after she’d left the manor house.

Brother Vernay cleared his throat, lifting his brows. “Er... you’ll be needing a bath, my lord?”

Alarik gave the monk a frown. “Among other things,” he ceded. His lips curved into a satisfied smile as Elienor straightaway rose to retrieve her cape, displacing the demon dog from her lap in the process. His mood was so high that he felt it no hardship to ignore the yapping pup and the fiendish way that it once again attacked his boots. He gave it no more than a mildly disgruntled glance, shaking it off.

Vernay’s cheeks reddened as he came forward to lift up the seething animal, embarrassed by the jarl’s frankness, nevertheless pleased at what he sensed between them. “I fear we shall never finish at this rate,” he said disapprovingly, though with little insistence.

Alarik grinned. “Mayhap not,” he relented, smiling at Elienor as she returned to him. The monk was forgotten completely when she returned his smile, though tentatively.

Yet it was a beginning.

Impatiently, he drew her outside, leading her at once to where Sleipnir stood tethered. He lifted her up onto Sleipnir’s back, then untied the horse, bounding up behind her. Only this time, instead of directing the animal toward the manor, he led it away.

“Where are we going?” Elienor asked in surprise.

“For a ride,” Alarik replied. And without further warning, he turned her about to face him, cursing himself even as he did so, for he couldn’t even wait until he had her alone. “I burn for you Elienor,” he told her huskily, unlacing his breeches as she watched.

Elienor’s eyes widened. “We can’t!”

“You’re like ambrosia,” he whispered, ignoring her protest. “The more I savor...the more I crave.”

His desire reared itself like a fire-breathing serpent in his veins. He was overtaken with the need to impale her so deeply that she could never leave. The need to brand her, to hear her whisper his name in rapture once more, was inexorable.

He felt her shiver and smiled knowingly.

Elienor’s heart skipped its normal beat, for he watched her with that covetous, heavy lidded gaze that stoked the embers of that treacherous fire within her. “Not here!” she protested.

“I need you, Elienor,” he murmured, grinning. Drawing up her gown, he left no doubt as to his meaning. And with the gown out of the way, he lifted her suddenly, seating her upon his lap. Elienor gasped as he eased into her right there in the broad light of day, under the gray-blue heavens, and atop his steed, for God and all the world to see.

She clung to him.

Alarik groaned, closing his eyes at the incredible feel of her, his arousal grown violent in its intensity. “Wrap your legs about mine waist,” he demanded. She did, at once placing them behind him as he’d asked, and he hooked his feet about hers, anchoring her, then bent his head to murmur his plea into her ear, “Now love me, my little nun.”

Elienor closed her eyes, his bold words setting her body awash with color and fire. Yet some small part of her clung to a shred of reason.

The tiniest shred.

“Alarik,” she protested.

“Shhhhhh... as I live and breathe I have never desired anything or anyone more!”

Elienor stifled the tears that threatened to flow.

She sagged against him in defeat, bracing her hands upon his chest. “Not here,” she pleaded again, brokenly, her heart screaming something else entirely: Desire? Desire? “Why?” she whispered. “Why? Why?”

“Because I need you!” Alarik murmured.

He wrapped his mantle about them both, forming a warm cocoon around the two of them.

Elienor’s fingers dug into his flesh. Regardless that she so desperately wished to, she could not control her body’s treacherous response to him. Yet at the moment she didn’t care. She gave in to the impulse and slid her arms around his chest, reveling in its size and sinew, as though to unite them together forever. She felt him quiver at her gesture, and his response emboldened her. She buried her lips into his neck, tasting the salt of his flesh, her heart crying her love, even as her lips refused to give it voice.

Instead, she whispered his name.

“Like this,” he urged, guiding her hips slowly with his hands.

Elienor undulated as Alarik commanded, and his head thrust backward in response, the cords of his neck taut. He moaned, and she soon found her hips moving of their own accord in the same deliciously slow rhythm he’d created. His arms embraced her firmly, searing her skin even through her gown, making her burn, until the very slowness of their rhythm was a torment. Once again his name erupted from her lips.

It drove Alarik to the edge.

He held her possessively as the landscape momentarily blurred. Were it not for the death grip his legs held about Sleipnir’s flanks, they would both have spiraled to the ground. Within an instant, she muffled her own cries into his shoulder, and then, sighing blissfully, she closed her eyes and surrendered against him. At once, Alarik turned her about and gathered his mantle about her.

Physically spent from their loving, Elienor allowed herself to drowse in his arms.

Snuggled securely within his embrace as she was, she didn’t see the way that he gazed down at her; he stared, as though by the intensity of that gesture he could see into her soul, searching, probing, questioning, for while their loving, as always, satiated his body’s hunger, he was left still wanting.

Placing his lips to the crown of her head, he tangled his fingers into her hair and rode on. And for the briefest instant, as he held her, it seemed as though she accepted him, at last. He found himself wishing he’d never be forced to turn back.

Nevertheless, even as he thought it, he redirected Sleipnir, and it wasn’t long before he discerned that they’d somehow ridden past the grove that was his original destination. His lips curved ruefully at the realization. So much for privacy. Although they hadn’t needed it, he acknowledged with a smug grin. His little sleepy nun had forgotten everything in the heat of her passion.

So had he.

Despite that fact, as they made their way back to the steading he continued to brood, for while he’d indisputably won Elienor’s surrender...