Viking's Prize (34 page)

Disappointed,
Alarik sighed wearily, and nevertheless drew her within his embrace. “The
church shall be restored,” he assured her. “That I pledge you.”

Elienor
raised her tear-stained face to his, fighting back a new flood of tears.
“You... you will take care?”

He
blinked at her question, as though startled by it, and then his eyes lit with
rare emotion as he gazed down upon her, stunned by her behest. He opened his
mouth to speak, but knew not what to say. He swallowed, afeared to hope.
Cupping Elienor’s chin within his palm, he nodded. He bent to kiss her lips,
those lips that had made him burn from the first, those lips that shocked and
plagued him still. “You take care as well, my little nun,” he whispered,
lifting his mouth from hers. He bent once more, unable to resist. Her delicate
lids closed as he kissed them too. He wrapped his arms about her, holding her
close. “To be certain... I shall leave my best man, Sigurd Thorgoodson, to
watch over you.”

The
tender spell of the moment shattered. A vivid picture of Sigurd, dancing nude
over the bodies at Phillipe’s castle, was conjured within Elienor’s mind, and
her eyes widened in alarm. “Nay!” she gasped, breaking free of him.

A
shadow passed over his features. “I trust him more than I do mine own kin,” he
assured her, his tone somewhat strained.

Sensing
the pain beneath his words, Elienor nodded her acquiescence, her gaze dropping
against her will to his bare chest. The sight of it made the blood course
through her, and she stared as though transfixed.

His answering
chuckle was low and rich. It sent quiver after quiver through her.

Gratified
with the way she gazed upon him in that moment, Alarik drew her into his arms,
and bent to kiss her, unable to take his leave without partaking once more of
the sweetness she offered. With a hand to the small of her back, he coaxed her
forward, parting her lips with gentle pressure. Elienor opened willingly unto
him, arching to accept his hunger, and his body quickened in response.

He
reveled in the taste of her. Never would he have imagined he’d enjoy such a
thing so well.

Alas,
it seemed the Fransk were good for more than swords and wine.

By God,
it would be so easy to lose himself... so easy to stay. Shuddering over the
need that coursed through his veins like terrible jolts of thunder, he crushed
her to him, devouring her mouth without mercy.

Her
hands entwined about his neck and he groaned his torment, knowing he could not
have her just now.

Damn
him, he was loath to leave, but he could not linger... lest the filthy culprits
escape him in the meantime.

Now he
had yet one more reason to kill Hrolf Kaetilson.

“Elienor,”
he murmured huskily. He took a deep breath, tempering himself. His heart
hammered like that of a fresh-faced youth. “If only you knew what you do to me...”
He groaned in regret. “Later,” he promised, and bent to nip her gown where it
cloaked the tip of her breast, a guarantee of his word.

To
Elienor’s shame, she delighted in his wicked promise. Leaving her weak-kneed
with anticipation, he turned his back on her, and she watched as he strode to
his chest, lifted up the lid, and removed from it a fresh tunic. After it, his
mail, laying it aside as he donned his tunic, and then, kneeling, he beckoned
her to him with a wriggle of his finger. “I cannot arm myself alone,” he told
her, a ghost of a smile twisting his lips. “Come aid me, Elienor.”

Elienor
didn’t hesitate at his command. Alarik observed her advance in silence, smiling
when she struggled to lift his heavy mailed tunic.

Elienor’s
cheeks flushed. “I did not think it would be so heavy!”

“’Tis
larger than most, I’ll warrant.” His dark eyes twinkled.

Together,
they guided the mail
brynie
over his head, and once it was in place, she sat again upon
the bed to watch as he positioned his scabbard across his hips. Lifting up from
the coffer his crimson mantle, he drew it on, placing it carelessly over his
shoulders, and then he fastened it with a brooch that was fashioned to look
like a blazing sun with a hawk in its center. Finally, he retrieved his sword,
inspecting it painstakingly, running his hand over the runes carved so
meticulously into its gleaming blade.

“What
do they mean?” Elienor asked, cocking her head in ill-suppressed curiosity.

Alarik
followed her gaze to his blade, and gave a nod of comprehension. His silver
eyes met her violet-blue ones. “Dragvendil,” he told her. “’Tis the name of
mine sword, it means readily drawn.” He gave her a meaningful sideways glance.
“As is another blade I own.” He ignored the way she shivered at his disclosure,
the way she averted her widened eyes, telling himself he didn’t give a damn if
she feared him still.

But he
did.

Mayhap
by the time he returned... Alva would have something to tell him.

If not,
then mayhap he didn’t wish to know what haunted the wench.

After
all, no matter what...

She was
his. And would remain so evermore.

He’d
not give her up—her uncle be damned, the church be damned, Bjorn be
damned—Olav be damned!

With a
foreboding hiss, Dragvendil was sheathed within his scabbard. The thought of
Elienor’s ring deposited about his brother’s neck clenched at his gut. Without
a word, he procured his shield—he wasn’t certain he trusted himself to
speak—and with a final glance at Elienor, seized his helm and started for
the door.

Nothing
in his gait suggested he would pause to bid her farewell, but he spun abruptly
in the doorway to face her, and stood an unending moment, saying nothing, his
visage dark. Their gazes interlocked, clung to one another, and there was some
longing perceptible within the silver glint of his eyes... as though he
anticipated something more of her, Elienor knew not what, and then a momentary
sadness in them, when nothing was spoken between them.

His
gaze narrowed to shadowy slivers. “Take care, my little nun,” he whispered
sullenly, “for I vow I shall return.”

And
with that promise he departed.

CHAPTER
29

Lost.

Everything had been lost. All her long hours of
copying.

Everything.

Nevertheless, the
kirken
itself, having been made almost
solely of cobbled stone and pitch, stood solid. Blackened with soot, it took
nigh a sennight to scrub clean, and still Alarik did not return.

Each day Elienor watched, along with Brother
Vernay, as the
kirken
was further restored. It dismayed her that she’d dedicated so much of herself
to the copying.

They would begin anew, Brother Vernay had said
hearteningly, come spring.

Yet spring came to the steading in elusive
glimpses, the snow melting and the greenery stealing timidly forth. And still
Alarik did not return. Elienor’s dread for him multiplied with each passing
day. At night she could sleep not at all. She lay there, berating herself for
being such a coward that she would allow men to die unnecessarily. She told
herself it was simple dread over what would become of herself were Alarik to
perish. But she knew better. It was for him she feared, and each morn the
circles that darkened her eyes deepened.

Nevertheless during the light of day, she labored
wherever Alva bid her to, all the while spurning

her heart and her conscience, both. It was, she
told herself, the only way to endure.

One late spring morn, as she served within the
eldhus
,
kneading and pounding bread, Alva came to her.

“You love him, do you not?”

Elienor refused to confess it. She said nothing,
although the way she pummeled the dough gave lie to her silence.

Alva sighed. “My dear... one need only look at you
to know.”

Elienor’s eyes misted and she lowered them in
shame.

“Hmmmph, now! Why the weeping? Rejoice in it, my
dear, for I believe he loves you too.”

Elienor swallowed, shaking her head. Why did that
possibility, remote as it was, make her feel infinitely worse?

Doubtless because she’d made the decision not to
forewarn him... and now she could lose him—not that she’d ever truly had
him, she promptly reminded herself. Jesu... she was so confused. She swallowed
once more, fighting back angry tears, unable to look into Alva’s knowing eyes.
God curse her, for not only was she a liar... she was indisputably a coward of
the worst breed!

“Something else troubles you, Elienor? Perhaps if
you spoke of it?”

Elienor peered up into Alva’s concerned blue eyes.
Why shouldn’t she tell? What mattered it now if Alarik did not come back? she
told herself. She could not bear it! Guilt and pain knotted inside her. Mayhap
there was time to undo what she’d been too cowardly to face ere now. At any
rate, what had she to lose?

Her very life, she reminded herself bleakly.

Yet what life was this to live...

Without him?

Fighting back the tears, Elienor confided
everything unto Alva, quietly, so as not to be overheard. Alva, she trusted
implicitly, but Nissa was present, watching them, and Nissa she trusted not at
all. When she finished, she waited anxiously for Alva’s reaction.

“Elienor!” Alva rebuked. “This is what you’ve kept
tucked away so long?”

Elienor’s brow furrowed. That was all? Nothing
more? In Francia they put her mother to death—cast her as a babe into a
nunnery for the better part of her life—and Alva did nothing more than
scold her? She cocked her head. “I don’t think you quite perceive what I’m
telling you.”

Alva gave her a fretful look. “Certainly I do! In
the Northland ’tis no crime to be gifted, Elienor! Why, along with the
skalds
, those
capable of the sight are well honored! ’Tis the truth,” she persisted, when
Elienor merely gaped incredulously. “In verity, ’tis the soothsayers, who are
most revered, for they are so very scarcely.” Her brow furrowed suddenly.
“Nevertheless, I do hope you are mistaken about this vision of yours... you did
say you were present during this... this battle?”

Elienor nodded hopefully.

“Then mayhap there is time to alter its course.
Let us pray ’tis so.” Elienor followed Alva’s glance, and met Nissa’s Nordic
blue eyes. A shiver of foreboding raced down her spine. “I wish now I’d come to
you sooner,” she whispered softly.

Alva sighed. “What is done, is done,” she
declared.

Elienor tore her gaze from Nissa.

“You must pay her no mind,” Alva stressed. “As for
me, I cannot wait for the jarl to rid his home of Ejnar’s daughter! I tell you,
she’s been naught but trouble since the day she arrived!” And then her eyes
suddenly lit with mirth. “I declare a wager!” She unhooked one of the brooches
that secured her overgown and offered it to Elienor, grinning mischievously.
Her frock hung precariously on one side, but she seemed not to notice. “If the
jarl does not acknowledge his love for you upon his return, I believe I shall
aid him in the endeavor, but for now... I wager you this brooch he’s already
lost his heart to you. Go on... take it!”

Elienor thrust Alva’s hand away, shaking her head.
“I could not!”

Alva merely smiled as she pressed the brooch
insistently into Elienor’s palm. “You can,” she whispered. “And you shall. Keep
it, for I fear I’ve long since lost the gamble!” Her tone bore that of a young
maid silly with her own first love.

Elienor said nothing, only clasped the brooch to
her breast. Dare she? Dare she hope?

Alva chuckled and spun away, ambling off to look
in on a cluster of chattering women. Rather than scold them, she at once joined
in their conversation, tittering cheerfully over something one of them said.
Elienor marveled that she accepted these people so easily... and they her.
Never would she have guessed Alva’s tragic past... had she not been told. She
shook her head in admiration of Alva’s fortitude, and observing Alva so
intently, she was unaware that Nissa came to her. Elienor started with a gasp
at Nissa’s hand gently placed upon her shoulder.

“I do hope we can manage to put the past aside,”
Nissa said, her eyes bright with purpose.

Elienor’s hands stilled upon the dough. Having
anticipated Nissa’s venom instead, she blinked in surprise at the amiable
declaration.