Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (120 page)

“I cannot bathe you!” Elienor declared with growing hysteria, shifting indignantly from foot to foot. Her gaze darted about the room.

His lips parted, displaying straight, white teeth. “Can you not?” he asked, and then suddenly he was fully revealed before her.

Elienor didn’t wait to see whether he would follow her. She turned and raced toward the far side of the tub, floundering in her haste. To her horror, the further she went, the deeper the water became and the slower she moved. She shrieked as she heard water splash behind her and could almost feel the strength and purpose of his stride. Abruptly she was caught by the arm and was whirled about to face him. She squeezed her eyes shut, vowing that if he would force her hand in this, then at least she’d not look. He could not force her in that!

He chuckled low in his throat, and the unholy sound sent a ripple of alarm tearing through her. Elienor’s heart felt near to bursting.

It took every ounce of will Alarik possessed not to rent her clothes from her back, so revealing was her wet gown.

She had fine hips and shapely thighs, and at the glimpse of them desire, like molten iron, slid through his veins, arousing him at once. Partly because she seemed so frantic at the thought of seeing him unclothed and partly because the state of his body dictated at least a modicum of modesty, he did not coerce her to open her eyes. “Have it your way, little Fransk,” he murmured.

“Were I to have it mine own way,” she hissed, “’tis you who would be skewered instead of Stefan!”

His fingers closed about her arm and Elienor gasped as they slid down to her wrist. Turning her palm up, he pressed something small and hard within her hand, and then in the other... a cloth? Soap? Jesu! she swore silently, quivering anew at the thought of touching him.

“I... I...”

Her protest ended with a gasp as he hauled her blindly toward him. With deliberate precision, he placed her hands upon his chest, and a terrible jolt burst through her. “Wash me!” he demanded.

She tried once more to voice a protest, opening her mouth. Nothing came. Her chest constricted as he began to guide her hand, along with the soap, across his satiny smooth flesh. Tiny hairs sprang at her touch, and to her horror she imagined them wet and gold and glistening beneath her fingertips. That image made her quiver where she stood.

Dear God, but she was warm! She could actually feel wisps of steam waft by her face, could almost smell the heat. And him. Sweet Jesu, she thought she might swoon! His flesh must surely be made of steel not to be affected by the heat? Yet it didn’t feel like steel at all; it was disconcertingly soft to the touch, but solid.

Her fingers, scalding and soft, set fire to Alarik’s flesh wherever they touched.

It took him a staggering moment to discern that she’d begun to wash him of her own accord, her movements progressively slower with each stroke; when he did he released her, dropping his fists to his sides. Her heart might loathe him still, he concluded with satisfaction, but her body reacted with a will of its own, and her body did not loathe him. He knew she was not conscious of the instant when her scrubbing became exploration, but he was. Acutely. His breath quickened as she turned her face up instinctively, and the profound expression she wore took hold of him and clenched his gut. Lust, in its most guileless form. She had no notion, he was certain, what it was that she was experiencing, for her countenance wavered between innocent desire and utter confusion.

Her face was arresting, irregular for the willful chin he’d come to know, her cheeks flushed rose, her lashes long and sooty. She had no notion how beautiful she appeared with her face upturned and her hair dragging the water behind her, her slender white neck arching with passion. His fingers traced the Scar at her temple—even it failed to detract from her beauty.

Mingled with the steam, the feminine scent of her was utterly intoxicating. Instinctively, he drew her closer, his heart leaping a little when he realized she did not resist him. He began to stroke her back, though lightly, not wishing to break her concentration. He could almost imagine her garments vanished, for clinging to her as they did, they left little to the imagination.

Alarik’s breath came more labored with each delicious stroke of her hands, his reasoning more convoluted. His better judgment warned him to resist the need that clawed him like a wild unreasonable beast, yet his body could not concur.

Would not.

His goal today had been merely to initiate Elienor into her duties with the most intimate of tasks—to make her as familiar with his body as he craved to be with hers. He was sick unto death of seeing the revulsion in her eyes and wanted merely to force her to bear the sight of him.

But he’d gotten much more...

His head fell back with a groan as her hands flitted, light as feathers, down his too sensitive sides, halting at his waist. And then suddenly, they began a new descent, and he moaned, a mixture of torment and pleasure, unable to stop her.

If she desired it, then who was he to interfere?

His hands slid to the small of her back, forcing her into closer contact, relishing the feel of her cool wet garments against his burning flesh, and then he bent to cup his palms around her luscious bottom, pressing her up into his throbbing loins. His body jerked when her fingers lit upon his own buttocks, emulating him, and then she suddenly stiffened and made some choked sound in the back of her throat, as though only just realizing.

Her eyes flew wide, the vivid violet piercing him with their anguish, yet he refused to release her. They stood in that bent position, their bodies arcing so close they might have been one, their faces intimate...

Just as it had been in her dream...

Elienor closed the distance between them, boldly touching her lips to his. God forgive her but she could not keep herself from it. She was faithless, and wanton, and... and she didn’t care in that instant that her body had betrayed her!

Never had she imagined she would desire this joining of mouths.

Never had Count Phillipe’s sloppy kisses made her feel so brazen, so exquisite.

The shocking contact sent the pit of her stomach in a wild tumult. Alarik returned the touch, caressing her mouth more than kissing it, and shivers of delight assailed her at once. In that mindless instant, Elienor returned the kiss with reckless abandon, her blood leaping from her heart and pounding into her head.

She dropped the soap, the rag, and her hands slid up, her arms winding themselves about his neck of their own accord. Moaning, she sought more of him and felt his knees weaken as his fingers kneaded her bottom, sending delicious spasms through her entire being. Desperately, she clung for support, afraid that if she released him, she would drown in her own passion!

Never could she have imagined when Phillipe was kissing her that it might be so blissful. Would that she had known, yet she sensed somehow that it wouldn’t have been the same at all. There was a dreamy quality to the moment, and at once recollecting what came next, she followed Phillipe’s example, sliding her tongue along Alarik’s firm, sensual lips. He groaned, and emboldened, she offered her tongue into his mouth, pleased that she had recalled correctly.

For the briefest instant, she thought she would die from the titillating pleasure. It didn’t matter that they were enemies. She found to her dismay that her traitorous body didn’t care at all!

It took Alarik a full instant to realize what she’d done, so lost was he to the carnal pleasure—that the invasion of his mouth was forged by none other than her eager little tongue—but the instant he did, he growled, thrusting her away in startle. He spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, spitting again.

Elienor landed on her backside, splashing down into the bath with a shriek of surprise, and then came up sputtering.

“Forsooth, wench!” he swore. “Spend one accursed night with the little mongrel and you respond in kind!”

Elienor was so staggered by his unanticipated response to her kiss that she said nothing, only stared, her eyes wide, her lips burning where his had been.

Certainly with Phillipe it had never ended this way.

To her dismay, he turned from her abruptly and lifted himself up from the tub. As he did, water cascaded from his husky form, falling in rushing streams all about him. Despite the horror of the moment, Elienor allowed herself to look upon him fully; his backside was rosy from the warmth of the water, his golden skin glistened with moisture.

Sweet Jesu! How could she have been so wanton? Her face burned, yet try as she might, she could not avert her eyes. She still didn’t comprehend what had happened, could not fathom what she’d done wrong. Only belatedly did she realize she was ogling him, and averted her eyes, instantly ashamed.

He seized a towel from the furs and briskly rubbed it over his scalp, and then throwing the towel across his wide shoulders, he tugged on his breeches and stalked out, not bothering to speak as he departed.

As the door slammed, Elienor’s fingers went to her mouth where the heat and the taste of him lingered still. She licked her lips, her face heating in shock at the memory of her own eager response to his touch. By the heavens, she could not even claim he’d forced her, because he’d merely asked to be washed.

It was she who had given so much more!

H
er face burning fiercely, Elienor completed her bath, not bothering to remove her gown. It was ruined already.

Aside from that, she had no notion whether Alarik would return, and she’d reacted shamefully enough as it was. She preferred not to be discovered exposed, as well.

As she finished soaping her hair, the door opened, and she glanced up to find Alva clucking her disapproval.

“You’ve ruined your gown—all for silly modesty!”

“I fell in.” Elienor lied, refusing to admit what had so shamefully transpired within the bath chamber only moments before.

“Well!” Alva said, the cheer returning to her voice, “what is done, is done, and the jarl has sent you another, and a fine one it is, I might add!”

Resisting the urge to seize the gown in question and rip it to shreds, Elienor averted her eyes and said instead, “I’ve no wish to don someone else’s garments, Alva.” Her chin lifted as she met Alva’s twinkling eyes. “You may return it to your demon master, and tell him I said...”

“But the jarl is not my master,” Alva demurred, politely disregarding the epithet Elienor had given him in anger.

Elienor’s brows lifted, curiosity overcoming her anger. Still, she couldn’t quite keep the contempt from her tone. “Nay?”

“Nei,” Alva avowed. “He is my nephew. And this gown,” she added saucily, “well, it belongs to no one, save yourself. ’Tis true,” she swore at Elienor’s skeptical look. “He came to me yesterday and bade me fashion something of his good Byzantine silk.”

“Silk?” Elienor asked in startle. Her gaze returned to the blue cloth, scrutinizing it for the first time. “He would clothe a mere slave in silk?”

Alva chuckled. “It would seem so.” Her shrewd eyes crinkled with merriment.

In that instant it wasn’t difficult for Elienor to see the kinship between them. That irritating smile! “So Alarik is your nephew?”

Alva nodded, setting the rich blue cloth down upon the stool. She then proceeded, without being asked, to help Elienor rinse her hair. “His mother and Bjorn’s perished of fever four years past,” she revealed. “But whilst she lived, there could have been no finer son than Alarik. He was good to my sister Mathilde unto her dying breath.”

Elienor said nothing.

Was she supposed to think of him differently with that revelation?

“Would that Bjorn had cared so much,” Alva declared, sighing a little sadly. “I’m afeared Bjorn was my sister’s greatest sorrow. She oft worried he did not possess Alarik’s strength of character, and alas, ’tis true for while Alarik has long overcome his birth circumstances and has gone on to forge his way to become jarl over his people, Bjorn has never done aught but grumble over his station in life. He bears such bitterness in his heart for what he lacks, and resents both Olav and Alarik for it as well—Olav more so!”

“I see,” Elienor replied softly, having gained more insight into the three than she’d ever cared to own. Still, she couldn’t help but be curious. “Did all three share the same mother?”

“Nei,” Alva disclosed. “Mathilde was Trygvi Olavson’s slave—freed upon his death. As you were, she and I were begot in Francia.”

Elienor’s eyes widened at the revelation.

“’Tis the only reason I know the tongue so well, of course,” Alva declared. “We were both taken during a sacking there.”

“How long now?” Elienor asked in horror. The testimony shouldn’t have surprised her, she told herself, but it did.

‘Too many years for this old memory to recount! They took Mathilde because she was too fair and beautiful to resist... and I, alas, as dark as I am... well, because Mathilde would not abandon me with our mother and father both slain. Now, Astrid,” she continued, returning to the previous topic, “she was Olav’s mother and Trygvi’s rightful wife—and Bjorn... well, he shares no kinship at all with Olav, save through Alarik. He and Olav share neither the same mother nor the same father, for while my sister was Bjorn’s birth mother, his father was not Trygvi Olavson. ’Tis confusing, I know,” she said apologetically.