Viking's Prize (8 page)

Fear
twisting her heart, she glanced hastily away, shocked to find herself thanking
God in that instant for the Viking jarl’s protection. And though she shuddered
at the notion, she recognized the truth of it, and conceded to it. He was the
lesser of evils—much as she loathed to acknowledge it.

Beside
her, Clarisse moaned pitifully. Instinctively, Elienor sought the skin of water
to give to her. Never taking her eyes from Red-Hrolf, she took two greedy sips
for herself, then forced herself to stop. Using as little water as possible,
she moistened her skirt, then used it to cool Clarisse’s face once more. That
done, she lifted Clarisse’s head to her lap, and without avail, tried to part
the girl’s lips to feed her the water. To her dismay the water merely trickled
down Clarisse’s chin. With a heavy heart, Elienor conceded defeat, recapping the
skin, and tucking it beneath her to conserve for later.

Clarisse
awoke in that instant, a pained expression on her pale face.

“Clarisse?”

“Aye,
m’lady,” she croaked.

Elienor
brushed black damp wisps of hair from Clarisse’s sickly pale face. “Art
better?”

Clarisse’s
voice was weaker this time, almost a whisper. “Aye, m’lady.” She grimaced as
another wave struck the ship, pitching it violently. “The light,” she croaked
pitifully. “’Tis the light..

Elienor
glanced up at the sun and with all her heart wished it away.

Darkness
came without warning, spreading shadows over the sea like an enormous black
veil, and with it came an unbearable chill that settled into the bones.

The
winds grew progressively stronger the further north they sailed, and to Elienor
it seemed that in the darkness demons railed at them.

No
matter how she lay, she was ill at ease and found herself shifting every so
often to find a new position. No doubt
he
felt perfectly at ease in this infernal
clime—fiend that he was!

Not for
the first time, her gaze was drawn to the helm.

Only
two of the Vikings were left awake, the leader and the nude one. Nay, he was
not nude now, but Elienor would always see him as she had that first time, nude
and dancing merrily over the dead. She blinked away a vision of Gaston prone
beneath him.

Both Vikings
were staring out over the dark waters, their enormous bodies silhouetted by the
immense moon. Soft murmurs came to her ears, but she didn’t bother trying to
eavesdrop, knowing naught of their heathen tongue.

Feeling
the woman’s overwhelming presence, not for the first time this eve, Alarik
turned to slice his rapier gaze through the thick sea mist.

She
glanced away the instant his eyes found hers.

Unobserved
by his slumbering men, he watched as she curled close to the other girl, laying
her head gently upon the overlapping planking. When she still could not find a
suitable position, he watched as she gathered up the length of her dark hair,
her movements graceful and sensual despite the stiffening cold, and attempted
to employ it as a pillow. His body hardened as he watched her cozy into that
glorious mane.

What
would it feel like to share that silky pillow along with her?

Recalling
the softness of the tresses he’d caressed within the chapel, he craved the feel
of it, yet he resisted the urge to walk the distance separating them.

He’d
find out soon enough, he told himself—the very instant their feet were on
solid ground. And with that resolution, he resumed his vigil over the fickle
sea, banishing thoughts of the girl from his mind once and for all.

It served no
purpose to think of her.

The
fact that she found it difficult to rest upon the hard planking told him much,
for while she’d not complained, neither did she appear at ease with the lot
she’d been given. She was no maidservant, he surmised, leading him again to the
conclusion that she was, in truth, the count’s—what? Whore? Wife?

A light
draft ruffled his cloak, rifled through his hair, as he again glanced at the
woman, watching her slumber.

She was
shivering.

He
continued to stare, his body disobeying as he told himself he was unmoved. By
Odin’s lost eye, who wasn’t shivering? The night air was frigid! Why should he
concern himself over one measly wench?

He
elbowed Sigurd suddenly. “Take the tiller,” he charged, and then he stalked
away without another word.

He
picked his way over the slumbering bodies of his crewmen, halting next to the
woman, his hands at his hips.

It
surprised him to discover she’d found her way back to sleep for he’d braced
himself for another confrontation. Or had he hoped?

Without
giving himself time to consider either his actions or his thoughts, he removed
his cloak, covering her with it, tucking the ends carefully beneath her. A
quick glance over his shoulder revealed that for the moment the sea held
Sigurd’s undivided attention.

Sigurd
Thorgoodson was Alarik’s sworn man, had been with him longer than any. He
trusted Sigurd with his life, but he had no wish to be spied this moment, even
by one so loyal. Sigurd seemed to understand that, and for his deference Alarik
was grateful.

The
rest of his crew slept on, and knowing this he was unable to stay his hand. The
need to touch her was insuppressible. Lifting a loose strand of her hair to his
lips, as though to taste of it, he then brought it to his nostrils, breathing
deeply of its exhilarating scent: roses, sea, wind. They shouldn’t have mixed
so well together, but they did.

Exquisitely.

Once
again a vision of her standing atop the tower, silhouetted by the heathery
moon, her hair fluttering wild and free behind her, appeared to him, and he
shivered with anticipation. Never had he craved home more than he did this
instant. The anticipation was almost intolerable.

“What
hold have you upon me, little Fransk:?” he whispered.

She
roused an alien emotion in his hardened heart.

Somehow...
when he’d stared into that ethereal face of hers for the first time... It was
as though he’d lost something of himself.

And
then, when he had slain the boy, and she’d looked at him with such accusing
eyes, he’d had absolutely no notion why he’d felt the need to defend himself.
He had taken his first life long before his twelfth year—so had many
others, for that matter, but the look in her eyes had drawn a defense from his
lips nevertheless.

“’Tis
but lust!” he swore emphatically, lifting her hair to his nostrils once more.
He inhaled the essence of her, and it held him spellbound a full instant.

When
she didn’t stir, his gaze wandered down the length of her, and abruptly,
another vision assailed him… of her lying prone beneath him, with long shapely
legs wrapped about his waist. His body hardened painfully, and he shifted for
comfort, cursing softly when he found none. With a muttered curse, he cast
aside the lock of her hair as he surged to his feet.

Hel and
damnation! It was lust and no more, he assured himself, and swore again, for
even as he made his way back to the helm, the lie followed him.

CHAPTER
8

The skies remained downcast the entire next day.
And the next, as well, though fortunately it didn’t rain.

Late in the eve of the fourth day the wind
suddenly began to gale as they moved past a string of large islands. In the
rising tempest, the ship thrust forward so swiftly that the islands soon
vanished in their wake.

Elienor had not eaten at all that first day. On
the second she’d been given measly portions of dried fish and water. Clarisse
had not eaten a bite, had grown progressively worse, though thankfully, she had
sipped some water. At the moment Elienor was not hungry, despite the fact that
she’d eaten nothing yet today. They’d given her more of the dried salmon an
hour past, but she’d not eaten it. Instead, she had saved it for Clarisse, in
hopes that the girl would try it when she awoke this time. Fervently, she
prayed that the storm would abate and the waters would calm, but to her dismay,
the storm only intensified.

Willing away her fear, her thoughts focused upon a
happier time. The month she’d spent in her uncle’s court had been all too
brief. For the first time in her life she’d felt a part of something, even if
her relation to Robert, King of Francia, was known only by a select few.

As she remembered, her fingers skimmed the ring
that lay hidden beneath the neckline of her bliaut. If her life before the
priory ever seemed unreal, distant, or if she ever doubted the vague memories
she had of her noble sire and gentle mother, she needed only to look upon the
ring that bore her family crest, the royal crest of Francia. Her uncle had
given it to her, the grandest of gifts, for the ring had once belonged to her
father.

She cherished it.

With bittersweet memories she recalled the moment
her uncle Robert had bestowed it upon her—the day he’d taken her from the
Abbey.

Having been summoned to the chapel, she’d found
him humming softly, the Latin words too soft to make out. At the sound of her
footfalls upon the hollow wood floor, he’d turned from staring at the cross
above the altar, and the humming ceased abruptly. He cleared his throat.
“You’ve the look of your mother, child,” he’d said.

“Aye,” Elienor answered. “So I have been told, my
lord.” She was helpless to keep the bitterness from her tone. “But as you can
see, I am a child no longer.”

“Aye... truly... and your father would have been
proud.”

He must have sensed her longing at his words, for
afterward, once they had talked awhile, he removed the ring from his finger.
“Take it, Elienor, for it belonged to your sire...”

Elienor hesitated.

“I understand should you choose not to... yet you
are as much entitled to it as I.”

Still she hesitated.

“Try not to condemn him, Elienor. Your father
was—as I have been—naught but a pawn in the politics of matrimony.”

At last, she took the ring from his grasp. “As am
I,” she reminded him.

He nodded gravely and sighed deeply. “As you are.
But you should know that he refused to repudiate her at first.”

Her heart stumbled at his words, and she gazed at
him.

“Alas… as you know... to no avail. I fear it
served my father well that your mother was known to bear the divine sight, for
it took very little goading on his part to rouse the common folk against her.”
He gazed at her pointedly. “At any rate, ’tis fortunate she did not bequeath to
you... her... inauspicious gift.”

Elienor’s heart turned violently. She dared not meet
his gaze for fear he’d suspect. “Aye,” she croaked, “Fortunate, indeed.”

He seemed not to note the alarm in her tone, for
he carried on. “Were it not for your father’s intercession with the church,” he
told her, “she might not even have been buried on sacred ground. For that at
least, you should offer your father a pardon... for he loved you, too.”

So Elienor took the ring.

And she was grateful for it, for with it, her
uncle had given her a sense of belonging. It had meant much to her to be
acknowledged by her family. She had despaired of ever fulfilling that dream.
She thought she understood why her uncle had been compelled to reveal it all
after so long, for he indubitably felt at least a twinge of guilt for what his
father had done to Elienor and to her mother.