Viking's Prize (32 page)

Making certain that Bjorn was not present, he
bellowed a dismissal to everyone within the hall, ordering them not to return
until the meal was ready to be served. Only when he stood before the high table
did he speak.

“Backbiting, sniveling fool!” he declared, ripping
off his mantle and hurling it across the table into his empty chair at Olav’s
side.

“Do you speak to me?”

Alarik’s face contorted with cold fury. “Nei.
Bjorn! A week ago I was told he sent a messenger from Gryting. The man was
followed well into Dane territory.” A string of oaths erupted from his tongue.
“This afternoon he met with Hrolf Kaetilson. Loki take the boy!” he exploded. “He’s
never wanted for aught under mine hand!”

Olav dropped his horn to the table. “Can he not
have come upon Hrolf unintentionally?”

Alarik struck the table with his fist in bitter
rage, not caring that he risked his sword hand in the angry gesture. “Nei!” he
bellowed. “Curse him—a thousand times, curse him!”

“What do you propose to do?” Olav asked quietly.
He well understood Alarik’s outrage, for Alarik had long coddled the
boy—going so far as to soothe Bjorn’s wounded pride when he’d felt
threatened simply because Olav had appeared in their lives.

Olav had never known his sire, for he’d had the
misfortune to be born in the year after his father’s death. Directly thereafter
his mother, fearing for her son’s life at the hands of those eager to claim his
father’s seat, took Olav and fled to safety. He alone had returned, a man
grown. It was incredible to look upon the brothers, for other than the color of
their eyes and hair, there was little disparity between them.

There were times when Olav envied Alarik that he
had known their sire, yet not enough to cross his half-brother, for Alarik was,
in more ways than not, his kindred spirit.

Bjorn was another matter entirely.

Olav and Bjorn bore no blood relation to each other,
save through Alarik, nor did they bear each other much affection. From the very
beginning Bjorn had resented Olav coming between him and Alarik, for Bjorn had
been a youth in awe of his elder brother. Olav’s arrival had driven a wedge
between them, yet Olav could no longer bring himself to care, for Bjorn had
rebuffed every attempt Olav had ever made to befriend him.

Still, Olav would have saved Alarik the pain of
betrayal. “Perhaps my little errand with Burislav could be useful in some
manner?”

Alarik heaved a weary sigh, leaning heavily upon
the table. He peered up at Olav, his eyes red rimmed and glazed. And then his
gaze settled upon the ring about Olav’s neck. A rage as he’d never experienced
in all his life erupted within him as he stared at that ring. King, or nei,
brother, or nei, he wanted to leap over the table and strangle Olav with the
leather that bore it. “I’ve no idea what to do,” he ceded, his voice tense.
“But ’twould be wise to keep this to ourselves... for now... until I can at least
ascertain what he intends.” Again, he slammed the table and spat another oath.

Olav nodded “’Tis agreed, then. We shall
wait—”

“Where did you get that ring?” Alarik demanded,
his voice strained. A thousand possibilities raced through his mind, none of them
palatable, for Elienor wore the ring always, well secreted beneath her gown.
His eyes blazed.

Olav’s brows lifted, his hand going to the band.
He opened his mouth to speak, but then he peered over Alarik’s shoulder, a
motion beyond the door catching his eye. His shrewd green eyes met Bjorn’s blue
ones, and then Alarik’s iron gray ones. “Speaking of the beast,” he said
quietly.

Alarik pivoted about to face his youngest brother,
willing himself to remain composed. Damn the fool boy! Some part of him wanted
to tear out Bjorn’s heart—carve the blood eagle upon his back—rip
out his lungs! Controlling his features to conceal his ire, he attempted a
smile. He clasped Bjorn’s arm as it was proffered.

“Mine brother?” Bjorn said warily. Alarik nodded,
and Bjorn winced at the unyielding grip maintained upon his arm.

Bjorn turned to Olav, his mouth twitching as he
noted Olav’s grave expression. Olav watched them as though he expected
something dire to occur any moment.

“Alarik!” Bjorn protested when Alarik failed to
release his arm. He slapped a hand over Alarik’s fist, easing Alarik’s fingers
from his flesh. “Mine arm,” he appealed. “Forsooth, mine bror, at times I
believe you forget your own strength.”

Alarik’s lips curved only slightly as he released
Bjorn; it was all the smile he could muster. “We missed your company today,” he
said softly, too softly. “Where have you been?”

The silence within the hall was palpable.

Bjorn peered again at Olav, noting the ill-at-ease
way that Olav drummed the tips of his fingers upon the table, his eyes fixed
upon Alarik.

“Alarik?” Olav prompted. “Mayhap Bjorn would care
to join us.”

Alarik’s gaze narrowed upon Bjorn, his brows
lifting. He made no move to reply to Olav. “Holed up with some wench no doubt?”
he asked of Bjorn.

His eyes flickered when Bjorn gave him a nod.
“Well, then, I do hope she was worth it.”

“Indeed, she was!” Bjorn replied.

Alarik gestured toward the high table. “Won’t you
join us, then, mine brother?”

Bjorn’s brows drew together, sensing Alarik’s
request was more a command. Awkwardly he made his way around the table, taking
his seat upon the bench directly at Alarik’s left, away from Olav, sending Olav
a resentful glance as he sat. He felt a twinge of regret over the decision he’d
come to as he rode home—though merely a twinge, for in his heart he felt
that what he’d decided was for the best of the steading.

Hrolf was right.

Alarik was not thinking rationally—not if he
was thinking like Olav.

The very air within the hall seemed to crackle
with tension as Elienor entered. She felt the unease tangibly. When Alarik
motioned her to the high table, she resisted the urge to flee past him into his
bedchamber—his bedchamber, for she still could not claim it despite the
fact that she spent her nights there within his arms.

It was his.

As was she, in more ways than she cared to
acknowledge.

As she made her way to the dais, Alarik elbowed
Bjorn, and spoke to him softly. Elienor heard not a word, but she had no need
to guess what had been said, for Bjorn stood suddenly, toppling his bench
backward. His legs were braced apart, his eyes blazing hatred at Elienor. “You
displace me for her?” His voice rose. “For her! I’ll not move!”

“You will,” Alarik returned softly.

“I’ll not!” Bjorn exploded

Alarik stood, raking his chair backward. His hand
went to the hilt of his sword. “You will! And you will do so now,” he said with
deadly menace.

Bjorn’s ire exploded with an appalling string of
oaths. Elienor had never heard such words. ‘Take it then—give it to the
whore!” And with that, he kicked the bench away. He stalked off without a
backward glance at Alarik. Elienor’s face paled at the look he shot her in
passing. She glanced at Olav. Then Alarik. Then Olav.

Olav’s green eyes missed nothing. He lifted a brow
in silent question, and something in his look triggered a memory, something in
the intensity of his gaze.

Something...

She felt dizzy suddenly and reached out to steady
herself. The room swam before her and then her vision went momentarily black.
She saw him again standing at the prow—Olav. It was him, she knew, for
the eyes were green.
Green.
The ship’s prow twisted before her eyes into the head of a
serpent. One instant Olav was holding it, the next he was in the water, his
crimson cloak swirling downward after him, into the deep blue sea.

“Elienor?” It was Alarik’s voice that penetrated
her dazed senses.

Yet she couldn’t come back. Something held her
still. Vaguely, she was aware that he came toward her, and the vision
solidified before her eyes. She saw him upon his own ship, watching, too, as
Olav plummeted into the ocean. And then again she saw Alarik’s face torn. He
was torn, uncertain whether to come for her... or to go after his brother. In a
split second he made his decision—to come for her. Like a hawk, he soared
the distance over the churning water. At the same instant, a gleaming axe was
hurled through the air, toward his back.

Elienor cried out. Her legs went weak.

“Elienor?” Alarik shook her firmly, the sting of
his grip upon her arm bringing her back. “Elienor?”

Aware suddenly that he was supporting her, she
steadied herself, shaking her head, but she swayed, giving no substance to her
words. “I... I... fine,” she said much too quickly, breaking away. She glanced
down at her hands, her heart beating erratically.

No blood.

There was no blood.

She glanced back up at him in dazed shock.

Alarik stood there before her, his brows drawn
together in confusion. Yet her dream foretold of his death. Her gaze went to
Olav, who sat still at the table, and then returned to Alarik. She shivered.
Both! Both would die—not one! She felt suddenly ill with the revelation.
“I... I... I’m not hungry!” she exclaimed, bolting past him.

Desperate to be away from so many pairs of eyes,
she thrust open the door to Alarik’s chamber and escaped within, slamming it
behind her in desperation.

Alarik shrugged at Olav. He had no inkling what
had come over Elienor so suddenly, but whatever it was he would discover it, by
God!

She’d looked at him with such dazed terror once
too often!

He followed her into his chamber and found her
lying abed. As he opened the door, she bolted upright, her face pallid.

Elienor could not stop trembling. “It was Olav!”
she murmured full of anguish, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

“What did he do?” He took her hands. They were
damp and sticky with cold sweat. He thought he’d kill his brother if he’d
harmed her in anyway.

Still the possibility that she might not have
given him the ring of her own volition filled him with a reckless hope.

He hung his head suddenly, confounded. Guilt
ridden. By Odin’s breath, he knew not what to feel. Olav was his brother, by
the blood of their sire. His brother!

“H... he jumped,” Elienor stammered. “And then you
came... and there was blood!” She peered up at him a little wildly. “But there
wasn’t... there wasn’t any blood,” she said, suddenly pensive.

She nibbled her lip.

“You speak in riddles!” Alarik accused her,
kneeling before her now. “Elienor?” He took her hand in his. “Are you unwell?
Did Olav do aught to harm you? Tell me!”

Elienor shook his hand away. How could she explain
when it could mean her life? Her gaze returned to his face, his handsome,
troubled face.

How could she not at least attempt it? She
couldn’t simply let him die.

Could she?

He looked at her as though she were mad, and a
quiver raced down her spine as she recalled the way her mother had been
persecuted, and therein lay the awful truth—she was cursed if she told
him, cursed if she didn’t! Her mother had been murdered for naught more than
predicting the course of an infant’s illness.

Nay, she could not tell him. He would never
understand.

Besides, she didn’t fully comprehend the vision
herself. Despite the fact that it came to her exactly the same each time, it
was much too chaotic to comprehend fully. She only knew that there would be no
happily ever after for her.

Take what happiness you can, bien aimee... while you can.

She didn’t even blink at the words spoken so clearly
in her head, accepting them unquestioningly. Would it be so wrong? she asked
herself. Nay, she determined. She took a breath, calming herself, and assured,
“It was naught... I’m fine.” She became aware of his hands in her hair,
stroking the length of it, the look in his eyes peculiar.

“Mayhap you should rest,” Alarik suggested, noting
the pallor of her skin.

Elienor nodded, and he rose from his knees. Still,
he peered down upon her, as though searching her soul.

The back of his fingers grazed her cheek. “Sleep
then. Alva will bring supper later.”

Elienor nodded again, lying back upon the immense
bed. She closed her eyes so that Alarik would see that she was ready to comply,
and was surprised by the languor that came over her so swiftly.

Mayhap she was simply overtired.

Mayhap this time her dreams would not hold true.

As she lay there, considering that, daring to
hope, she drifted...

Alarik watched over her a moment longer,
contemplating the terrorized look she’d had in her eyes as she’d looked upon him
in the
skali
,
and then he lifted the furs to her chin, tucking her within, noting that she
shivered still. In fear of him? In loathing? He remained only until he was
certain she slept, and then he left to seek out Alva.

If anyone knew how to glean information from
reluctant souls, It was she, and the woman lying so serenely within his bed had
secrets to withhold.

By the rood of her God, he intended to find out
just what they were.

CHAPTER
28