Viking's Prize (31 page)

“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, for she feared she loved him.

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 him to the edge.

Alarik
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 the instant, she muffled her own cries into his shoulder,
and then, sighing blissfully, she closed her eyes and lay against him. At once,
Alarik turned her about and gathered his mantle about her.

Physically
spent from their loving—that and the fact that she’d slept little the
night before—she 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.

Yet
they hadn’t needed it, he acknowledged with a smug grin. His little sleepy nun
had forgotten everything in the heat of her passion.

As 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...

He
couldn’t help but feel something lacking still.

“I come
with news you’ll not relish,” Hrolf said with a smirk, leaping down from his
mount. He tossed the reins over its withers and then leaned his back against
the nearest tree to catch his breath.

Bjorn
clenched his teeth, crossing his arms. Hrolf had sent a man to his bed well
before daybreak with a message that Bjorn wanted to meet him in the grove this
afternoon, and Bjorn had come out of curiosity. Impatiently, he waited for
Hrolf to explain himself now.

Hrolf
merely grinned, bracing his foot against the tree. He unsheathed the dagger
from his boot and then swiped at the sweat upon his upper lip with his sleeve.
“I suppose you wonder why I’ve called you?”

Bjorn
tilted his head irritably.

Hrolf’s
brows lifted. “It seems Ejnar has decided you are not worthy of his daughter,”
he said at last. Satisfied with the look he’d gleaned from Bjorn, he picked his
teeth with the tip of his blade. Again his brow lifted as he eagerly awaited
Bjorn’s reaction to his revelation.

Bjorn’s
chin jutted forward. “You summon me in broad daylight? I risk myself to
come—to hear this? Nei, Hrolf, I think not. If Ejnar had decided not to
deal with me, then ‘tis his way to simply ignore me. ’Tis my guess you have a
proposition for me.”

Hrolf
nodded. “You always were a shrewd one,” he answered. His gaze averted
momentarily to the blade in his hand, and then returned to Bjorn, again
measuring, his eyes brilliant with purpose. “I wonder what might have been were
you to have held Alarik’s high seat instead,” he suggested slyly.

Bjorn’s
hands fell to his sword, unsheathing it. The metal hissed as it left his
scabbard. “I have never coveted Alarik’s seat,” he denied hotly.

Hrolf
poised himself with dagger in hand, anticipating Bjorn’s attack. When none
came, he laughed, taunting, “You lie!”

Bjorn
lunged at him, but Hrolf dodged him and stood ready once more, dagger in hand.
His eyes narrowed, his lips curled viciously. “Still, Ejnar perceives Alarik as
the best match for his daughter,” he revealed. “He’s convinced that if he kills
the Frenchwoman, Alarik’s interest will return to Nissa.”

“Return
to her?” Bjorn snarled, striking his sword against the tree. “Mine fool brother
has never wanted her for aught! Damn him! Damn mine brother!” He turned to face
Hrolf, ready to listen.

Hrolf
agreed with a nod. “My sentiments wholly. You and I perceive thus much, but
Ejnar refuses to acknowledge it. Then again... he can be a very persuasive
man.”

He
allowed Bjorn a moment to digest his meaning. “Nevertheless, ’tis none of my
concern whether Alarik accepts the bitch, or nei. My concern is only that the
Fransk, along with Olav and the holy man, are poisoning Alarik’s mind... that
soon Alarik will turn from the old ways as has Olav. Were he to join with
Ejnar’s daughter, I fear to think of the power he would have at his hands.
Consider it, Bjorn.”

“I’ve
said afore,” Bjorn argued, though with less passion, “Alarik will never embrace
the Christian faith. I’ve told you. I should know, for he is mine brother.” .

“Ja,
well...” Without warning, Hrolf heaved his knife at the tree behind Bjorn. The
bone hilt quivered portentously. “We both know what value he’s placed on that of
late.” He raised a challenging brow. “Don’t we, Bjorn?”

“’Tis none of your—”

“I
wonder why he’s so often spied at the kirken these days?” Hrolf interjected
harshly. “He seemed to have little regard for the place before.”

“’Tis
no secret that he bums for the Frenchwoman.”

“Nei,
but mark mine words—’tis merely a matter of time before he begins to
employ the same harsh tactics Olav adheres to.”

Hrolf
snatched up his blade, glaring at Bjorn wrathfully. He re-sheathed it within
his boot. “At any rate, I came to relay only this... if you should find
yourself wishing to oppose your brother, you have mine support... as well as
that of others, for neither am I pleased to be with Ejnar. There is naught for
me to gain in remaining with the Dane.”

Bjorn straightened,
one tawny brow raised. “What you propose is treason.”

“What I
propose is freedom from Olav’s persecution!” Hrolf countered. “Think on it,
Bjorn... you could have both the high seat... and Nissa as well. Consider it,
at least,” he suggested. “And then let me know what you decide.”

Having
said all he wished to, he turned and seized his reins, then leapt back into the
saddle.

Bjorn
watched him, saying nothing, his brows knit.

“You
won’t hear from Ejnar again—not directly,” Hrolf told him. “As you so
aptly speculated, he has determined it beneath himself to acknowledge your
request. So... you should consider my counsel carefully.”

With
that he turned his mount about, but swung back to add, “Oh, and Bjorn... you
should keep in mind that once Alarik has joined Ejnar by ties of wedlock, all
will be lost to you. Apprise me soon, if you would.” With that, he turned
again, riding out of the grove, leaving Bjorn feeling more impotent than ever.

In
truth, Bjorn prized his brother—despite the fact that they had so little
in common. But what if what Hrolf said was truth? He would not be
forced—he refused to cleave to this new faith!

And
then there was Nissa...

Peering
up at the glowing orb of fire that was the waning sun, he watched Hrolf go, and
then turned and started back toward the steading, Hrolf’s words simmering like
a potion in his head.

Alarik
reined in suddenly at the sight of the lone rider racing away from the grove.
Even from this distance, he recognized the sun-fire bright hair.

Hrolf
Kaetilson.

He
stiffened, for moments later Bjorn rode out as well, racing toward the
steading, clearly so preoccupied that he failed to notice he had an audience.

Alarik’s
eyes darkened as he watched his youngest brother’s flight, his emotions
wavering between fury and regret, and then he swore beneath his breath and
spurred his own mount after him.

CHAPTER
27

Alarik and Elienor arrived at the steading mere
moments after Bjorn. Perceiving that Bjorn would have ridden directly to the
stables, Alarik reined in before the longhouse, shaking Elienor awake.
“Elienor,” he said hoarsely.

Sleepily, she Lifted up her head.

“Wake yourself!” he demanded, and the brusque edge
to his voice instantly alerted her to his dark mood. She straightened and he
dismounted, hauling her down after him. “I would have you go to the
eldhus
.”

Disoriented from her nap, she asked, “The
kitchens?”

Alarik gave her a curt nod. A muscle ticked in his
jaw. “Tell Alva to delay the serving of
nattver
.”

Elienor nodded, looking puzzled by his change in
mood, and turned to go.

He watched only an instant to be certain that she
complied, and then he sought out Olav.

He found his brother in the
skali
, seated at the high table,
drinking horn in hand. As he made his way to where his half-brother sat, his
look was blacker than the deepest night, causing Olav’s horn to arrest in
midair.