Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (122 page)

“God doth have his own plan, my sister,” he said cryptically, studying her a long moment. “Alas, you must listen to your heart. ’Twill not mislead you, I think.”

She shook her head miserably. “I wish it were so,” she replied softly, blinking away the sudden sting in her eyes, “but I fear did I listen to my heart, Brother Vernay, then I would perceive naught but hatred.”

And did she listen to her treacherous body, she amended silently, averting her eyes in shame, she would be nothing but the Jezebel she felt to be in this leman’s gown!

Elienor was confused.

She could not comprehend what it was she was supposed to be, to feel. Everything had been so clear... until this morn. And now she was afeared she knew naught, she trusted naught. Nevertheless, there was some comfort to be had in the familiar scriptures, and she vowed to put her heart into it from here forth.

If naught more, it would save her from foolishly giving it elsewhere.

The door opened suddenly, startling both Elienor and Brother Vernay, though upon seeing Alarik, Vernay at once eased and smiled in welcome.

Elienor’s face flushed at the sight of him, yet she did not avert her eyes in shame. She dared not, for Brother Vernay had turned toward her and was watching them curiously. She tilted her chin up deliberately, fighting the urge to turn away as Alarik’s tawny brow rose. He said nothing as he removed his crimson cloak, this one not so fine as the one he’d given her to wear. Behind him entered another man who Elienor sensed watched them both, as well. For a disconcerting instant, the silence of the chapel was interminable as she and Alarik stared at each other.

And then the stranger spoke. “Do we make progress?” he asked of Vernay.

Elienor turned to regard the man at once, and at the sight of him her heart vaulted into her throat. To her shock, he was near the image of Alarik—like him in most every detail but for the darker shade of hair and his startling green eyes. She shook her head, doubting her sight, and blinked. When the pair did not unify, she squeezed her lids shut until she was certain the vision had vanished.

“Why,” the man said. “I’ve not seen one so dark and yet so fair since mine days in the Danelaw!”

Elienor opened her eyes, her face growing more pallid with each second.

The man laughed. “Forsooth, bror! I’ve seen many a look accorded us for our semblance, but never one so terrorized! What have you done to the poor girl?” he chuckled. “She looks as though she might perish at the notion that there are two of you.”

Hours later, as Elienor paced the length of Alarik’s chamber, she still could not compose herself.

Jesu, but the likeness between them amazed her! And now she was more confounded than ever—the dream; who, then, would die? Mayhap it was not Alarik, after all. Mayhap it was Olav instead? And then mayhap neither?

She fumbled for her ring at once, holding it desperately within her fist, grateful that Alarik had thought to return it. “Mother.” She whispered miserably. “How did you bear it?”

As though in response to her question, a mournful whine came from the vicinity of her toes.

Elienor glanced down to spy the pup sniffing bashfully at her feet. No sooner had she stooped to stroke it behind its ears then the door clicked opened. Alva entered. Startled, Elienor sprang to her feet, leaving the pup to paw at her soft leather shoes in protest.

“I’ve brought you another garment along with your own clean ones,” the older woman announced, coming forward to offer the neat stack of finery into Elienor’s arms. “The silk is splendid, to be certain, but ’twill hardly keep you warm enough in this clime.”

Sighing, Elienor accepted them, her reply no more than a cheerless nod.

“I understand you met Olav today?”

“Aye,” Elienor replied. “The likeness between them is remarkable.”

“’Tis true,” Alva agreed. “That it is why Olav could never deny Alarik as his blood kin the first time they met, yet there are many differences betwixt them if you’ll but see them,” she suggested. “Oooh, what a vexing mongrel!” she declared, spotting the stubborn pup at Elienor’s feet. “Always into everything. Away!” She shooed it, waving her hands indignantly. “I’ve not an inkling what possessed the jarl to bring the mongrel into his bedchamber!”

Elienor had wondered the same, yet she had been pleased he had, for she felt a bond with the poor beast.

As though discerning that he was the cause of Alva’s tirade, the pup scrambled away, ensconcing himself beneath the bed.

As Elienor watched its ears droop unhappily, she felt more than a touch of kinship with the animal—not that Alva was unkind. Elienor had found her anything but, yet this was not her home, and she did not feel especially welcome. Save for Alva and Brother Vernay—and Clarisse, of course—no one was overly welcoming. And Clarisse, she understood, would be leaving the steading before long, for Alarik had given her to Sigurd. Still, Elienor sensed that the time had come for her to forget the past and make the most of the situation at hand.

Like it or nay, this was her future.

“I suggest you change for bed,” advised Alva. “I heard the jarl say that he and Olav were to leave early in the morn—something about gathering men for Olav’s voyage. If ’tis so, he’ll be in directly, I think, for he’ll be wanting his sleep.” Having revealed this, Alva took her leave, though not before imparting one last bit of advice. “Best you hie to it lest he comes in and you be forced to undress before him.” She stifled a giggle as she closed the door, for Elienor immediately thrust the bundle from her arms onto the bed.

Having been forewarned, she quickly divested herself of the loathsome silk over- and undertunic. And then, after snatching her own garments from the pile upon the bed, she donned them hastily, leaving herself concealed only by the frail linen undertunic. Before she could scurry into the sanctuary of the furs, however, the door clicked opened once more.

“Do mine eyes deceive me?” a husky voice remarked with levity. “Or are you truly so eager to share mine bed tonight?”

Elienor froze, her heart beating frantically as she turned to face him. She crossed her arms as Alarik closed the door, concealing herself. Her face flamed under his scrutiny. He took a step forward and she instinctively took one backward, reassuring herself with the simple fact that he’d yet to force himself upon her.

It was unlikely he would begin now, she told herself.

And in truth, after this morn, she wasn’t certain he wasn’t as repulsed of her as she claimed to be of him.

Her brows knit suddenly.

Claimed?

Nay, she amended silently,
was
!

She was repulsed of him!

So why did she feel so strangely excited by the possibility that he might desire her? Averting her eyes to the floor, she stammered, “A-Alva said—sh-she said you planned to seek your bed. I-I only thought to...”

“Conceal yourself before I arrived?” Alarik asked dryly, his gaze riveted, despite her lack of dress, upon her lips.

Elienor swallowed, her heart turning violently at his question. His eyes, like shards of molten silver, impaled her as he took a step forward.

To Alarik’s annoyance he’d been able to think of nothing else all day, even in the face of Olav’s political concerns. Hella’s curse, even now he remained in a state of painful arousal with the merest thought of those warm, sweet lips upon his own.

Her gaze returned to him, and the deep violet pools lured him closer. He took another step forward, diminishing the distance between them, fearing he’d finally reached the point of madness, for his reason had all but fled now that he was in her presence once more. “Have I given you so much cause to fear me?” he asked huskily.

Elienor managed to shake her head in response.

“Have I taken the slightest liberties with you?”

Again Elienor shook her head, for in truth, he’d not.

She had been the one to take them, for he’d asked only to be washed this morn. Naught more.

Elienor’s breath quickened, for his eyes impaled her still, burning with something wholly carnal as he came even closer.

“In certainty, who forced whom this morn?” he challenged, as though he’d read her thoughts.

Or had she spoken them aloud?

She couldn’t discern.

“’Tis you who forced me!” Elienor replied a little hysterically, retreating until the back of her legs encountered the bed. The look of purpose in his wintry eyes alarmed her. “I... I did not ask to bathe you,” she asserted. “Nor did I...”

He stopped before her, reaching out casually to lift her thick plait into his palm, and Elienor gave a little shriek.

He slid his hand up the length of it and back, admiring the healthful shine, holding her gaze. “Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes,” he murmured silkily, a quiver snaking through him as his eyes finally acknowledged the rest of her. “I vow, you’ve bewitched me,” he said softly.

His fingers slid to the end of her plait, and at once commenced to unraveling it.

Elienor shivered at the charge, closing her eyes to steady herself, suddenly feeling so light-headed and weak-kneed that she feared she might swoon before his eyes.

It was said that her mother had bewitched her father...

She refused to tread in her mother’s shoes—refused, for she could not abide the repercussions!

“Tell me who taught you to use your tongue so,” Alarik demanded, his whisper faint but warm upon her face.

Her heart racing, Elienor opened her eyes to find him staring intently at her lips.

Jesu, did he wish to kiss her now? After spurning her this morn? Surely not?

“Answer me.”

Elienor swallowed, trying desperately to think what it was he was asking. “I... I...”

She could not compose her thoughts, yet she sensed it had something to do with the kiss by the way he stared so intently at her mouth. “I... I did not mean to!” she cried suddenly, shaking her head. “I...” Her voice faltered. “I swear, I...” Her mouth snapped shut, for his face was suddenly so close to her own that she feared even to breathe lest they vie for the same breath.

“Who taught you to use your lips so?” he demanded once more.

“Ph... Phillipe,” Elienor replied honestly, her chin lifting. “I... in my country ’tis the custom for lovers—”

His fingers gripped her plait and he rocked backward upon his heels, as though buffeted. “Lovers?” His eyes slitted. “Were you lovers, Elienor?”

His look unnerved her, yet Elienor could not wrench her own gaze away to save her life.

Nor could she calm her raging heartbeat.

Or the sudden heat that flared within her at the memory of his powerful body beneath her fingertips. The fact that he was fully dressed now did little to banish the sultry image of his smooth chest, glistening bronze with sweat and steam from the bath chamber.

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he anticipated her response. “Were you lovers?” he demanded once more, his tone soft but ruthless, nonetheless. Elienor glanced at his hand uneasily, her heart quickening, for with her plait unraveled, he stroked a lock of her hair between his fingers. If she angered him, what would prevent him from using it to subdue her?

She shook her head in answer.

A look of fierce satisfaction came over his harsh features. He brought the lock he was caressing to his nose, breathing deeply of its scent. “That pleases me,” he told her, his gaze softening considerably. His fingers moved to tangle deep into her hair, and a quiver swept Elienor’s spine as she felt them curl about her nape. Had she wanted to flee him, she couldn’t have, for he held her firm now. His other hand lit upon her hip, and she started with a gasp of surprise. He smiled, squeezing gently before sliding his arm about her waist. She cried out as in the next moment she found herself hauled forward and crushed against the incredible heat of his body.

“I’ve known kisses afore,” Alarik said bluntly, his eyes glittering strangely. “Kisses of homage betwixt men...”

He touched his warm lips to each side of her face, lingering as though to savor the scent and taste of her skin. Elienor’s blood rushed into her head at the delicious sensation. Instinctively she knew that never were those kisses he spoke of so lingering and spine tingling as this one had been.

“Kisses of promise,” he continued gruffly, “those meted behind the backs of fathers... or between lovers,” he added pointedly, pecking her lips softly.

When their lips parted an eternity later, Elienor felt a heart pang over his disclosure. Yet why should she object that he’d shared such kisses with others, she asked herself scornfully. He was her enemy, she reminded herself.

His smile deepened. “Never,” he revealed fervently, his molten silver eyes penetrating her defenses, “have I thought to taste so deeply.”

Elienor looked up at him questioningly, and he shook his head slowly, his provocative mouth inching closer, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. Elienor whimpered at the soft caress, and his grip firmed upon the back of her neck as though to keep her from escaping him. “Never have I even considered it,” he told her, “for ’tis not our way. Yet I find the flavor of you lingers, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes. Lingers,” he whispered, “like exquisite Fransk wine—strange to the palate… intoxicating nonetheless.”