Viking's Prize (23 page)

Never could she have imagined when Phillipe was
kissing her that it might be so blissful. Would that she had known, yet she
sensed somehow that it wouldn’t have been the same at all. There was a dreamy
quality to the moment, and at once recollecting what came next, she followed
Phillipe’s example, sliding her tongue along Alarik’s firm, sensual lips. He
groaned, and emboldened, she offered her tongue into his mouth, pleased that
she had recalled correctly.

For the briefest instant, she thought she would
die from the titillating pleasure. It didn’t matter that they were enemies. She
found to her dismay that her traitorous body didn’t care at all!

It took Alarik a full instant to realize what
she’d done, so lost was he to the carnal pleasure—that the invasion of
his mouth was forged by none other than her eager little tongue—but the
instant he did, he growled, thrusting her away in startle. He spat, wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand, spitting again.

Elienor landed on her backside, splashing down
into the bath with a shriek of surprise, and then came up sputtering.

“Forsooth, wench!” he swore. “Spend one accursed
night with the little mongrel and you respond in kind!”

Elienor was so staggered by his unanticipated
response to her kiss that she said nothing, only stared, her eyes wide, her
lips burning where his had been.

Certainly with Phillipe it had never ended this
way.

To her dismay, he turned from her abruptly and
lifted himself up from the tub. As he did, water cascaded from his husky form,
falling in rushing streams all about him. Despite the horror of the moment,
Elienor allowed herself to look upon him fully; his backside was rosy from the
warmth of the water, his golden skin glistened with moisture.

Sweet Jesu! How could she have been so wanton? Her
face burned, yet try as she might, she could not avert her eyes. She still
didn’t comprehend what had happened, could not fathom what she’d done wrong.
Only belatedly did she realize she was ogling him, and averted her eyes,
instantly ashamed.

He seized a towel from the furs and briskly rubbed
it over his scalp, and then throwing the towel across his wide shoulders, he
tugged on his breeches and stalked out, not bothering to speak as he departed.

As the door slammed, Elienor’s fingers went to her
mouth where the heat and the taste of him lingered still. She licked her lips,
her face heating in shock at the memory of her own eager response to his touch.
By the heavens, she could not even claim he’d forced her, because he’d merely
asked to be washed.

It was she who had given so much more!

CHAPTER
22

Her face
burning fiercely, Elienor completed her bath, not bothering to remove her gown.
It was ruined already.

Aside
from that, she had no notion whether Alarik would return, and she’d reacted
shamefully enough as it was. She preferred not to be discovered exposed, as
well.

As she
finished soaping her hair, the door opened, and she glanced up to find Alva
clucking her disapproval.

“You’ve
ruined your gown—all for silly modesty!”

“I fell
in.” Elienor lied, refusing to admit what had so shamefully transpired within
the bath chamber only moments before.

“Well!”
Alva said, the cheer returning to her voice, “what is done, is done, and the
jarl has sent you another, and a fine one it is, I might add!”

Resisting
the urge to seize the gown in question and rip it to shreds, Elienor averted
her eyes and said instead, “I’ve no wish to don someone else’s garments, Alva.”
Her chin lifted as she met Alva’s twinkling eyes. “You may return it to your
demon master, and tell him I said...”

“But
the jarl is not my master,” Alva demurred, politely disregarding the epithet
Elienor had given him in anger.

Elienor’s
brows lifted, curiosity overcoming her anger. Still, she couldn’t quite keep
the contempt from her tone. “Nay?”

“Nei,”
Alva avowed. “He is my nephew. And this gown,” she added saucily, “well, it
belongs to no one, save yourself. ’Tis true,” she swore at Elienor’s skeptical
look. “He came to me yesterday and bade me fashion something of his good
Byzantine silk.”

“Silk?”
Elienor asked in startle. Her gaze returned to the blue cloth, scrutinizing it
for the first time. “He would clothe a mere slave in silk?”

Alva
chuckled. “It would seem so.” Her shrewd eyes crinkled with merriment.

In that
instant it wasn’t difficult for Elienor to see the kinship between them. That
irritating smile! “So Alarik is your nephew?”

Alva
nodded, setting the rich blue cloth down upon the stool. She then proceeded,
without being asked, to help Elienor rinse her hair. “His mother and Bjorn’s
perished of fever four years past,” she revealed. “But whilst she lived, there
could have been no finer son than Alarik. He was good to my sister Mathilde
unto her dying breath.”

Elienor
said nothing.

Was she
supposed to think of him differently with that revelation?

“Would
that Bjorn had cared so much,” Alva declared, sighing a little sadly. “I’m
afeared Bjorn was my sister’s greatest sorrow. She oft worried he did not
possess Alarik’s strength of character, and alas, ’tis true for while Alarik
has long overcome his birth circumstances and has gone on to forge his way to
become jarl over his people, Bjorn has never done aught but grumble over his
station in life. He bears such bitterness in his heart for what he lacks, and
resents both Olav and Alarik for it as well—Olav more so!”

“I
see,” Elienor replied softly, having gained more insight into the three than
she’d ever cared to own. Still, she couldn’t help but be curious. “Did all
three share the same mother?”

“Nei,”
Alva disclosed. “Mathilde was Trygvi Olavson’s slave—freed upon his death.
As you were, she and I were begot in Francia.”

Elienor’s
eyes widened at the revelation.

“’Tis
the only reason I know the tongue so well, of course,” Alva declared. “We were
both taken during a sacking there.”

“How
long now?” Elienor asked in horror. The testimony shouldn’t have surprised her,
she told herself, but it did.

‘Too
many years for this old memory to recount! They took Mathilde because she was
too fair and beautiful to resist... and I, alas, as dark as I am... well,
because Mathilde would not abandon me with our mother and father both slain.
Now, Astrid,” she continued, returning to the previous topic, “she was Olav’s
mother and Trygvi’s rightful wife—and Bjorn... well, he shares no kinship
at all with Olav, save through Alarik. He and Olav share neither the same
mother nor the same father, for while my sister was Bjorn’s birth mother, his
father was not Trygvi Olavson. ’Tis confusing, I know,” she said
apologetically.

Dazed by
the muddled history Alva had so quickly recounted, Elienor focused on the one
thing she’d heard clearly. “I did not realize it was a sin to be dark,” she
said crossly, offended not for herself but for Alva.

Alva
sighed a little sadly. “Ahh, well, for you ’tis not, my dear, for you are fair
enough in other ways. For me ’tis different. Nevertheless, grieve not for me,
my dear girl, for I have been content all these years.”

Elienor
was too stunned by all that Alva had disclosed to reply. It was inconceivable
that she could be so content when she’d been brought to the Northland under
such similar circumstances as had Elienor.

Wouldn’t
acceptance of her lot have been a betrayal of her mother and sire?

Elienor
pondered that a time, and once her hair was rinsed, Alva assisted her out of
the tub, wrapped a towel around her head, and then again, without being asked,
proceeded to strip her of her wet gown. “I can manage!” Elienor declared at
once.

“Nonsense!”
Alva rebuked. “I came to assist at the jarl’s request, and assist I will.
Besides, look at you. You’ve a fine figure,” she announced. Her brow furrowed
in reproach as she lifted the wet gown up and over Elienor’s head. Elienor
crossed her arms, unaccustomed to being tended so. “No need to conceal
yourself, my dear.” Alva rebuked. “Why,” she said with a chortle, “I can no
doubt see why the jarl hoards you for himself. You should be proud ’tis so. The
jarl is a fine specimen of a man!” she asserted, when Elienor’s brows collided.
‘That, and gentle besides, I’m told.”

“Gentle?”
Elienor was unwilling to grant him a single redeeming quality, nor was she
willing to consider what had very nearly transpired in this accursed bath
chamber—and her own shameful part in it! She shivered, uncertain whether
It was the cold, or the memory of the kiss she and the demon had shared... his
lips so soft...

“More
gentle than most,” Alva maintained, giving Elienor a curious look.

“Mayhap
so,” Elienor ceded ruefully, “but I cannot say as I’ve known his gentleness.”

Alva’s
brows furrowed.

“The
man took me per force, for the love of God! And upon his ship... he caged me
within his tent, ne’er to see the light of day! Moreover, he slew an innocent
boy before my own eyes—aye, he did—and then led me to believe that
he’d tossed the maid Clarisse into the ocean—alive! To be devoured by the
creatures of the sea! Not once did he bother to relate the fact that Clarisse
lived, even knowing full well that I loathed him for it.”

Alva
cocked her head curiously, staring up unabashedly into Elienor’s angry violet
eyes. “Nothing more?” she asked in surprise.

The
question struck Elienor as impudent. Her brows rose as she tilted her head in
challenge. “Should I require aught more to despise him?”

Alva
made some choked sound, her hand covering her mouth. “Could it be?”

Elienor’s
face flamed under the older woman’s scrutiny.

“You
mean to tell me that he’s taken no... that he’s not—well, ’tis no wonder
his mood is black!” she declared aghast.

It was
not that it had been such an unpleasant thing, this sparring of tongues, Alarik
mused.

Merely
unorthodox.

In
truth, he’d shoved Elienor away more in surprise than in disgust, for the lingering
taste of her teased his senses still.

As a
man, It was his place to lead, and she’d mentally unbalanced him. That she’d
made the initial gesture had been enticing in itself, but she’d somehow usurped
his self-control with her brazenness, and that was not so easily dealt with.

Moreover,
it led him to wonder where she’d learned such whore’s tricks, and It was that
which disturbed him most. Though he’d heard talk of such tongue play, it was
the first time he’d encountered it himself. That Elienor would know of it
burned at his gut.

He
needed time to think. And to that end, he’d saddled Sleipnir, as he was wont to
do when his mood was black, and had ridden half the morn in pursuit of peace.
Yet, returning now, he found that his mood was no lighter for the endeavor.

Nor had
he been able to discover anything about Ejnar’s whereabouts, and he was more
determined than ever to remove Nissa from his keep. Truthfully, he was
beginning to wonder if Ejnar had determined his intent and had resolved not to
be found, for he was well aware that Hrolf had found him easily enough when
he’d looked. He’d received word already this morn that the flame-haired Hrolf
had joined with Ejnar’s band—another reason for the darkness of his mood.