Viking's Prize (29 page)

Elienor’s gaze dropped to the parchments.
“Still... if you would somehow give that ring to mine uncle,” she entreated, “I
would be so grateful.” She glanced up at him suddenly, her eyes pleading. “By
it, my lord, he would know that I live... that I am well. I beg of you.”

Olav nodded, moved by the melancholy in her tone.
“Very well,” he relented. “So it shall be done. I shall speak to him soon.”

Vernay cleared his throat suddenly. “Er... my
lord?”

“Mmmhhh?”

“The day escapes us. Shall we continue now?”

“Hmmm? Oh! Aye!” Olav gave Vernay an apologetic
glance. He stepped away from Elienor just as the door burst open, whisking in a
swirl of snowflakes. The cold blast scattered pages before Elienor, yet she
could not move to retrieve them. Mischief bounded up from his comfortable spot
on the floor at her feet, and upon seeing Alarik, began to snarl.

Brother Vernay sighed in defeat. “My lord?” he
said, somewhat less than enthusiastically. “Have you come to watch, too? I
assure you all is in hand. The demoiselle copies very well, if we but had
time...”

Alarik didn’t bother to reply. He glanced briefly
at Olav, his brows colliding with displeasure at finding him present, and then
his wintry eyes sought Elienor’s violet-blue ones, holding them fast.

Elienor’s breath caught in her throat as she
waited for him to speak, though she prayed he would leave before doing so.

Did he not know what his presence did to her? That
she hated herself for what her body wanted of him? He’d not touched her since
that night, and she never wanted him to touch her again. She had no wish to
feel this way for her captor.

She wanted peace. Her mind and body simply would
not give it with him so near.

Nor even with him far, she acknowledged.

It was wrong to submit to his loving, wrong to
crave it, yet she could think only of that as she gazed into his stormy dark
eyes. She tried to cast the memory of his touch from her mind, but could not.
Lowering her gaze to the bureau, she wished she could vanish from the face of
the earth.

Truly, she was shameless.

How many years were wasted in the cloister?

None wasted, bien aimee.

Elienor’s gaze flew up at the words spoken so
clearly in her mind, meeting Alarik’s piercing silver eyes. Was she mad? Was
she truly mad now?

How could she allow herself to love her enemy? A
man possibly fated to die if her dreams held true.

If she allowed herself to yield to it, would she
be compelled to tell him aught?

And would she die for it?

For the longest moment, there was silence.

Alarik flung his mantle behind him in an agitated
gesture, telling himself he cared not a whit for the woman whose stark violet
eyes slashed into his soul.

It was merely lust.

Lust that tore at his gut.

Lust that made her face haunt his thoughts.

Lust that made him want her in every moment of his
life.

Lust. And no more.

She was a woman, he reminded himself, and he
refused to lose his mind and command over any female—Bjorn being a
perfect example of the former for his brother seemed unable to think clearly
for love of Nissa, and Olav of the latter, for Tyri seemed to rule his every
decision.

The hard glint in his eyes held a shred of caution
as he turned to Vernay, ignoring Olav. “Your work is concluded for the day,” he
informed the monk curtly.

“Not precis—”

“It is concluded,” he maintained, his eyes
gleaming.

Vernay glanced at Olav and finding no help from
that quarter relented. “Yes, my lord. Very well... if ’tis your wish.”

Appeased, Alarik turned toward Elienor, his
expression veiled. He refused to concede that he needed to be with her. Refused
to concede anything at all. He straightened to his full height and took a step
toward the woman who bedeviled his every waking thought. Yet before he could
speak his intent, Mischief bounded upon his boot, growling insanely, nipping as
though possessed. “Hel’s hounds!” Alarik exploded in surprise, rocking backward
upon his heels. “Demon dog!”

Olav hooted with laughter.

Elienor gasped, springing from her chair to
restrain the dog.

“’Tis as though he abhors you, my lord!” Vernay
exclaimed, stifling a chuckle.

Elienor went to her knees at Alarik’s feet, prying
Mischief away from his boots. “Nay! Mischief!” she reproached when he twisted
loose and charged at Alarik’s boots once more. It never ceased to amaze her,
the vehemence with which Mischief raged at him, particularly since Alarik did
nothing but curse at the dog—ever. Never had he laid a finger upon it in
malice—not ever! Nevertheless, she believed Mischief sensed Alarik’s
aversion toward him, and responded accordingly. Nor did he seem to appreciate
Alarik’s boots!

With no small measure of envy, Alarik observed the
way Elienor soothed the animal. Would that she would touch him so sweetly... of
her own accord... instead of with such disaffection. He wondered how it would
feel if just once she would look upon him in pleasure—not in fear, or
bitterness... or defiance. “It does seem so,” he conceded to Vernay.

“You would think the cur would bear him some small
measure of affection,” Olav declared, chuckling heartily. “Its mother was the
man’s favorite hound, after all.”

With the pup secure in her arms, Elienor peered up
at Alarik. “Was?” she whispered, her expression anxious.

Intuitively, Alarik understood what she asked of
him. “Is,” he assured, giving Olav an admonishing look. His gaze returned to
Elienor. “She
is
mine favorite hound, Elienor.”

Elienor’s brows drew together. “Where is she? Why
does she spurn him? ’Tis my guess that the poor mite is scarcely past the age
of suckling.”

Alarik’s brow lifted. “Poor mite?” he debated. His
jaw tightened in remembrance of their discourse over his own birth
circumstances. “I’ve told you, Elienor, the Northland is ruthless. Only the
strong survive. The pup’s mother lives only because she knows this, and she
fends for herself.”

Brother Vernay came forward to deliver the unruly
dog from Elienor’s arms. “’Tis the truth the jarl tells you, my sister. This
land is harsh to those not hale enough to endure it.” He nodded when she
glanced at him. Olav nodded as well.

Nevertheless, Elienor took exception to those
words flung at her once again. She glared at Vernay, letting him know that she
considered his siding with Alarik a betrayal of sorts—regardless that she
likely had no right to feel so. Vernay might be her own countryman, and a
brother in Christ, but like aught else in this forlorn place—including
herself—he belonged to Alarik. Her eyes narrowed as they returned to
Alarik. “Mayhap instead of casting each other off, as though life were no more
precious than offal from a refuse pit,” she suggested, meeting Alarik’s gaze
boldly, “the strong might be wiser to aid the weak. You, my lord, above all
men, should realize that ofttimes the weak become the strong... and the strong
become the weak.”

Alarik’s jaw tightened as he gazed down into
Elienor’s eyes. He was quickly coming to regret telling her aught about his
life, yet despite her renewed vehemence against him, the sight of her kneeling
before him ignited him, heated his blood until white-hot desire ripped through
his veins. He glanced at the pup, safely ensconced within Vernay’s
arms—it yelped at him, curse its mangy hide!—and then back to
Elienor, uncertain of what to say to restore the frail bond that had only begun
to form between them. “You named him...,” he fought the urge to blaspheme the
ungracious mutt, “Mischief?”

“Aye,” Elienor replied tonelessly.

He cleared his throat, but the hoarseness lingered
in his voice. “The name suits him.”

“Aye,” Elienor answered once more, though this
time somewhat warily.

She held his gaze.

In that moment, as they stared at each other,
Alarik forgot where he stood, forgot Vernay, forgot everything and everyone but
the intensity of his own hunger and the woman kneeling at his feet.

Did she realize she brought such turmoil to his
senses?

He quivered, disturbed that a mere look of hers
could make him lose so much composure.

It was as though she bewitched him with those
magnificent violet eyes.

A rush of feeling overtook him suddenly, a wanting
like he’d never experienced in all his days, and along with it panic and
fear—he who’d never felt such weakness—fear that Elienor held him
in a grip from which he could never escape. He fell to one knee, his hand going
to her arm in an attempt to regain his edge, his reason. His fingers closed
about the soft silk of her gown. As he stared into her stark, violet-blue eyes,
his own eyes darkened.

Elienor averted her gaze, her heart skipping a
beat at the intensity of his stare. She could not let it happen again. Sweet
Jesu, she could not live with herself if it did! Yet she shook her head at her
own foolishness, for it was his bent, how could she deny him, when her own
Judas body cried out that he lift her up and sweep her away?

That he take the decision from her hands.

“Tell me, Elienor,” Alarik said softly, gruffly,
his gaze unrelenting, “does Mischief’s lady abhor me, as well?” She lowered her
face. He forced her chin up with a finger, but her lashes remained stubbornly
upon her cheeks. “Does she?” he demanded.

Elienor’s lashes flew up, her eyes misting. Her
heart cried out in agony for shameless as it was, she’d given herself freely
and of her own accord. To her enemy. She shook her head miserably, resenting
the truth with all her heart, yet unable to deny him the answer he sought.

At her reply, the harsh lines softened in his
face. A shuddering took him. “You please me,” he told her gruffly. He rose
abruptly, drawing her up with him.

Elienor cried out as he drew her against the hard
strength of his body.

His face lowered to hers. “What can I do, Elienor
of Baume-les-Nonnes,” he murmured silkily, “to please you in return?”

Vernay cleared his throat discreetly, afeared that
the situation would advance in an unseemly manner. “My lord?” he objected
softly, his eyes remaining downcast.

Mortified, Elienor’s gaze flew to the
monk—the pate of his head shone back at her—and then to Olav.

Olav looked pensive, saying nothing.

She spun back to Alarik, her spine stiffening in
humiliation to have been spied in such a shameless embrace—by a man of
the cloth, no less! Olav, she could bear, for he and Alarik were two of the
same, but Brother Vernay—It was miserable!

“You could take me home,” she appealed brokenly,
her eyes stinging with tears. “Take me back to Francia.”

Before I lose my soul, she appended silently.

Alarik shook his head, his eyes narrowing in
displeasure at her suggestion, for it made him consider himself without
her—empty, less than whole. And damn him, for he could less bear the
thought of being without her than he could the debilitating fact that he should
need her at all. “Nei, Elienor!” he said. His fingers gripped her arm in
frustration. He shook her. “Ask of me something I can give! I wish to please
you!”

“I want naught else!” Elienor declared fervently.
“Please, let me go!”

“My lord?” Vernay interjected, rubbing his own arm
as he observed the possessive way Alarik held her.

Still Olav said nothing, only watched the scene
unfold, tucking everything away for later.

Alarik glared at Vernay, then at his brother, who
sat silently across the room, his expression strange.

He straightened suddenly, as though checking
himself, and his expression was guarded as he released Elienor’s arm. “You say
your work is complete for this day?” he asked Vernay without meeting the monk’s
gaze, nor Elienor’s, but still looking directly at Olav, warning his brother
without words to stay away from the kirken... from Elienor.

“If ’tis your wish, my lord.”

“It is,” Alarik asserted. The fine line of his
control redrawn, his gaze returned to Elienor, his eyes shadowed with a hunger
no amount of self-control could dispel. “Fetch your mantle, my lovely little
nun... I find I’m in sore need of a bath,” he told her bluntly.

Olav roared with laughter.

Vernay choked.

Alarik’s gaze returned to the monk, disregarding his
brother completely. From the corner of his eye he noted with satisfaction that
Elienor hurried to recover her cape as he bid of her. “You have objections?” he
asked Vernay.

Vernay’s brows clashed, but he shook his head
quickly. “Nay, my lord! ’Tis but that..

“Good!” Alarik declared, cutting him off. When
Elienor returned, he snatched the cape from her hands impatiently, placing it
about her shoulders. That done, he opened the door and ushered her out,
assuring Vernay that she would return at her appointed hour on the morrow.

He said nothing to Olav.

“Mischief!” Elienor exclaimed, remembering the pup
as Alarik drew the door closed behind them.

“Vernay will see that he makes it safely to the
manor. He won’t be able to keep up.”

Elienor made no more objection as he led her to
his horse, lifting her upon its back. And then, in one fluid motion, he mounted
behind her, driving his heel into Sleipnir’s flank.

In a little time they reined in before the bath
house, and all Elienor could think was that Mischief truly wouldn’t have been
able to keep pace. Alarik had ridden as though demons cleaved at his heels.

The realization swept over her suddenly that she
wasn’t going to be able to stop this.

She wasn’t even certain she wanted to!

Dismounting hastily, Alarik drew her down to her
feet. Elienor’s knees faltered, but he steadied her, and then opening the door
to the bath house, he ushered her into the shadowy interior. He’d not even
taken the time to have Alva restore the fire, and the dying embers glowed
eerily.