Viking's Prize (7 page)

“And you! Mistress Arrogance! I remember not
affording you choices!”

“Arrogance!” Elienor gasped, fury choking her.
“Arrogance?” she returned contemptuously, “And what, prithee, my lord Viking,
could be more arrogant than to steal into a sleeping manor and butcher those
within for the sake of glory, or greed?”

The Viking’s eyes darkened to coal before her own,
smoldering with ire. “Glory?” he replied sharply. “Greed?” His sneer mocked
her. “Nei, wench! But I’ve no inclination to explain myself to you. Best you
listen to me well, for I vow I’ll not deign to warn you again! From here on you
will do what is expected of you, or you will pay the consequences!”

Elienor met his gaze boldly. Something about this
barbarian Viking liberated that wicked part of her she’d repressed for so very
long; so many times she’d had to bite her lip to keep her words from spilling
free, but not this time, she vowed. “And what might that be?” she dared. “Might
I lie down and die for you?” she asked contemptuously.

He shook her briefly, and she choked back a
startled cry. His eyes glinted in warning, his jaw working furiously. “What is
expected,” he paused, battling his raging temper. “is that you be seated in
silence and cease to goad my men! As it is, you’ve caused more than enough
unrest this day.”

She had caused unrest? She had?

Where the courage came from, Elienor would never
know, for she felt anything but valiant in that moment, but her chin lifted in
challenge. “Nay!” she spat, “Not I, my lord Viking! ’Tis you, you who have
caused so much destruction and depravity this night! And you dare accuse me?”

The angry retort hardened his features, and in
answer his other hand flew to her shoulders so quickly that before Elienor knew
what he intended, he’d lifted her until she stood on the tips of her toes. His
jaw working with fury, he shook her furiously, till her teeth jarred. When he
spoke again, his lips were so near to her own that she felt the heat and fury
of his breath. “Best you realize now, little Fransk,” he advised in a seething
whisper, the endearment anything but tender, “I dare anything I please! Mayhap
yesterday you garnered your will with your shrewish ways and biting tongue, but
today you belong to me! Incite my men to violence once more, I tell you, and I
will see you repent it sorely—woman or nei! Do not try me again this
day!”

Elienor tossed her head back as best she could,
her eyes blazing with ire. Belong? He would dare remind her of their bargain!
“Nay, Viking!” she returned sourly, spitting the word as though it were the
vilest of epitaphs. “I belong to no man!” She dared again to lift her chin,
cursing the sinful pride that would impel her to do so. “No man!” she stressed
again, flashing him a look of disdain.

His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned in anger.
“Aye, my little Fransk, but you do,” he returned huskily. “For you belong to
me—bargain, or nei!”

“And I would remind you, my lord Viking, that you
breached our bargain mere moments after effecting it. You have no claim over
me, nor shall I give you anything freely!” Again, she lifted her chin. “Now
release me, if you please!”

He grinned suddenly, ruthlessly, pressing her
closer. “In such case... believe me when I tell you that I shall deeply enjoy the
taking!” He chuckled nastily. “After all, I am beast,” he said, his tone heavy
with sarcasm, “a Viking, as you so like to point out, and by your own words,
force is the only way of our people. Naught—naught!” he stressed, “shall
give me greater pleasure than to take what you will not freely give!”

Elienor’s heart flew into her throat, for she
doubted him not. “Then by all that is holy, I shall fight you!” she returned,
swallowing her fear. To her dismay, she shivered beneath his gaze.

Feeling her tremors, he laughed outright, his
expression knowing, his grin widening. “So be it, then! I trust we are
understood?”

Elienor averted her eyes, loathing even the sight
of him in that instant, loathing the fear that was undoubtedly in her own eyes.

He shook her once more, prodding her. “Are we
understood?” His fingers tightened about her arms when she did not respond.

Her gaze reverted to his suddenly, her eyes
shimmering violet fire. “Release me, barbarian!”

Triumph, that forbidden prideful emotion, flooded
through her when he winced at her words. It was a victory, no matter how small,
and she savored it fully. And then his expression turned utterly violent.

Sweet Jesu, but she was in peril of losing all
self-control did he not release her soon. She could not withstand his scrutiny,
or his touch, much longer. “Aye!” she spat at once, feeling suddenly weak and
vulnerable in the face of his fury. “Aye! We are understood! Release me now,”
she cried.

He complied at once. She collapsed to her knees.
With a last shriveling glance and a disgusted shake of his head, he turned to
leave.

Kneading the soreness from her arms, Elienor
whimpered softly, cursing him for the heartless heathen that he was. As much as
she loathed him—and aye, feared him, even—she could not allow him
to go without requesting aid for Clarisse. ‘The maid is ill!” she shouted, her
voice trembling.

She prayed for strength.

The Viking stopped abruptly, pivoting to face her,
his gaze as deadly as his sword.

With the last vestiges of her pride, Elienor raised
her chin. “I would aid her, but have need of water—”

Without a word, he lifted his skin from his belt
and flung it at her, then turned and stalked away. Elienor had no choice but to
catch it, for it landed squarely at her breast, snatching her breath away—not
from the impact, but because she’d not expected to gain it so easily.

She watched him go without another word, lest he
change his mind and seize it away from her. Her gaze fell suddenly to where
Clarisse lay. The girl’s eyes, focused upon the jarl’s massive back, were wide
with fright, her cheeks tear stained. Her gaze reverted to Elienor.

“M-M’lady, I... I fear ’tis unwise to provoke
him!” she fretted. Her eyes closed suddenly and her face contorted with pain.

Desperate to aid her, Elienor knelt beside her,
brushing the damp hair away from her forehead. “Your fever rises, Clarisse...”

Clarisse groaned pitifully. “Aye, m’lady, aye...
but... but—oh, the light!” she exclaimed. ‘The light... p-pains mine
eyes!”

Elienor’s brow’s furrowed. “What of the wound?”
She wet her skirt with water from the skin, then wiped Clarisse’s brow with it,
soothing her. “Where does it pain you most?”

Clarisse shook her head fitfully. “Mine neck...
and... and mine eyes... the light, m’lady! ’Tis the light!”

Elienor offered Clarisse the skin of water to
drink by.

Clarisse shook her head, refusing it.

Elienor’s own mouth felt dryer than sun-dried
wool, and her tongue too large for her mouth, but she held the skin out
resolutely for Clarisse to take. “I have no thirst just now,” she lied without
pause. But God forgive her, she knew the girl would not accept it and knowingly
deprive her in order to quench her own thirst. Clarisse’s station, regardless
that here among enemies they were equal, was not so easily forgotten. Still Clarisse
would not accept it. “Go on,” Elienor prompted. “I would that you drank from it
first.”

Still Clarisse hesitated. Elienor nodded
encouragement, her eyes pleading. “Take it!”

At last Clarisse reached for it, her lean fingers
quivering as she lifted it eagerly to her sun-parched lips. She drank deeply,
and with desperation, and then finally lowered it from her lips, giving Elienor
a look of utmost gratitude.

Elienor set it aside for the time being.

“Why do they not simply kill us and be done with
it!” Clarisse cried suddenly.

Elienor wondered the same. She shrugged.
“Clarisse... would you turn for me that I might cleanse the wound?”

Their eyes met and held. Elienor knew she
requested the girl’s trust unjustly, for she’d failed Stefan, yet for answer
Clarisse nodded, rolling slowly to show her back, moaning with misery.

Elienor’s eyes were drawn again to the helm, never
more full of anguish. Whatever it required of her, she vowed, she would not let
them harm Clarisse! She refused to accept that she had not the power to prevent
it. Whatever was required of her, she would do. She could not bear yet another
death upon her conscience.

As he took a hefty swig from a second flagon,
Alarik watched the little Fransk offer the skin he’d given her to the ailing
girl. He could clearly see the longing in her own eyes, yet she refused it when
the girl offered it back.

With a muttered oath, he recapped his own skin.
Why had he not left her in Francia? He should have, he acknowledged with a
scowl. What madness had possessed him to take her? What could he have been
thinking? It would serve her right did she die from lack of water!

And what should he care?

He had the urge to go to her, force the shrew to
drink.

Casting an irate glance at Red-Hrolf, he cursed
her again. His men would see such a gesture as a weakness in him, especially
after their previous confrontation, and that was the one thing he could not
afford. In his world, strength alone ruled, now more than ever, for there was
much unrest in the Northlands.

It did not help matters that his brother, Olav,
would force the people’s hearts where they would not turn. With his own eyes
he’d witnessed the iron hand his brother wielded. In anger that one of his own
men would not take the faith, Olav had offered him to Odin before the rest of
his men, cut like a sacrificial beast upon the altar stone, making of him an
example.

His gaze was drawn again to the girl. She was no
more than a thrall, he reminded himself, not worth risking the loyalty of his
men for, and with that he turned his attention to the skies.

The wind filled the Goldenhawk’s sails for the
moment, but It was only a matter of time before the weather turned foul.
Hopefully they’d be well on their way north by then... mayhap even within sight
of Friesland’s broken coastline.

By the Norns, he cared not a whit for the
Frenchwoman, he avowed. He’d taken her only to avenge himself against the
count.

Yet the wench had mettle enough for a league of
Northmen. As intrigued as he was by that fact, it also rankled, for just as
surely as the termagant sat there glaring at him, he knew she would bring him
grief.

Though if he to do it all over again... he would
take her again.

And that admission made him scowl. For he knew
that, in truth, his decision to take her had little to do with Phillipe of
Brouillard. Plainly and simply and with an intensity he’d never conceived
possible...

He wanted her.

CHAPTER
7

By late
afternoon, Elienor could no longer feel the sun’s heat upon her flesh, though
its glaring brightness assured her it had not fled. With a groan, she glanced
at Clarisse and found her sleeping fitfully. It was good that she slept, for
she seemed only miserable when awake.

Above
them, the sails rippled noisily. But down below, where they lay, the air was
stagnant, humid, and strangely peaceful, making Elienor feel oddly sedated and
dazed. To begin with, it had been colder upon the sea than it had been on land,
but now that her body was sun-scorched, she couldn’t feel anything but heat.
The salt air stung her eyes, and she squeezed them shut to ward away the burn.
Still, though she felt a desperation to, she could not succumb to the slumber
that beckoned; her thirst was too fierce, her face too burned, her throat too
raw, her worry for Clarisse too great. With a sigh, she lay as near to Clarisse
as possible, dosing her eyes to rest them, and somehow, she dozed.

She
slept no longer than an hour when she awoke abruptly to the ungodly sound of
the sea shattering against the vessel. In such short time the weather had
turned foul. Salt water dashed over the gunwales, the mist spraying her flaming
cheeks, easing the burn fleetingly until the moisture evaporated, and then her
skin blazed twice as tender as the salt cured her flesh.

With a
groan of misery, she turned to give one side of her face respite from the scorching
sun and blistering wind and whimpered as her abused flesh met with sea-drenched
wood. Sweet Jesu! To her dismay, in that instant her eyes met Red-Hrolf’s, and
the look he directed upon her was sheer malevolence.

Cold
fingers flew down her spine as he continued to glare. Hatred, unbridled and
fierce, glittered in his Nordic blue eyes. He would kill her, she knew, were
the choice his own. Thank heaven above, it was not!