Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (124 page)

Her eyes filled with confusion, for she’d not felt the pain, or neither the pleasure! Even as she called herself wanton, she lifted her chin, willing him to touch her again, willing his lips to return to her flesh, but they did not. He merely chuckled deep in the back of his throat, the unholy sound sending a thousand quivers down her spine.

Outrage flowed through her suddenly, stripping her of the last of her reserve—outrage that he could play her like a lyre, so skillfully, and then leave her to quiver in frustration—outrage that he would bring her so far only to leave her thwarted—outrage that she would allow it!

Well, she thought, her eyes narrowing wrathfully... two could play at this game as easily as one. He was not immune to her, she now knew.

Her lips curved with a secret smile as she reached out to mimic the way that he’d touched her, her fingers alighting upon his chest, soft as butterflies. She stroked the sparse golden hair, her own body quickening at the feel of his warm flesh beneath her fingertips. As she watched, his eyes darkened, flickering with amusement, yet Elienor continued, vowing to show him what it felt like to be left unfulfilled. He shuddered and groaned as she searched out and found the tiny nubs upon his chest, his dark lashes fluttering closed, then open. She smiled in victory, and continuing as he watched, lifted herself to replace her fingers with her lips. She cried out as her own maneuvering drove him deeper still, the thickness both aching and delicious—pulsing inside her, though not painful enough that she didn’t crave him deeper still.

Elienor’s fingers clutched at his shoulders as she arched her head backward instinctively. As though in a vision, she felt her hips undulate shamelessly, impaling herself deeper still, though slowly, her heart pulsing wildly, for it was beginning to grow tender. Sensing there was more, she willed him deeper yet.

The gentle sliding motion filled her with heat that consumed her.

It seemed she would die from the pleasure.

Even aware that it was she alone that moved, her hips continued to undulate of their own accord, seeking something...

More.

“Please!” she beseeched of him, her head thrusting to one side.

“Please what, Elienor?”

She gasped. “I... I don’t know!”

Alarik had fully intended to let her set the pace, but now he feared he could not. He’d held himself back, but succumbing to her pleas, he rolled his pelvis slowly, gently, taking over the rhythm where she left off.

“This,” he said, his voice thick with restraint, “is what your tongue-kiss recalls me to.” He continued to fill her, withdrawing, teasing, and filling her again, deeper each time.

Elienor’s fingers tangled in his hair, urging him forward, drawing his head to her lips. She raised her hips suggestively and moved restlessly against him, drawing him deeper.

Alarik’s heart pounded with the knowledge that he had won her surrender. Reveling in her body’s unabashed response to him, he groaned, at once sliding his hand down to cup her full bottom. He lifted her hips.

At the same instant that he bent forward to thrust his tongue into her mouth, he thrust forward ruthlessly, fusing their bodies at long last. His own body convulsed with pleasure at the incredible virginal tightness of her.

Elienor responded with an outcry of her own. She arched from the bed, quivering, her eyes darkened with passion. It seemed every last trace of Alarik’s will exploded in that instant. Like a man gone mad, he drove forth again, and again, and again, burying himself deep within her, and deeper still.

She was sweet.

She was passion.

She was his!

His arms encircled her, and his tongue stabbed her mouth with the same furor and rhythm he created with his body.

The feelings that exploded within Elienor were inexpressibly delicious, and she held on for dear life, losing her soul in the tempest.

To her shock there had been only pleasure, intense pleasure—no pain at all.

Her fingers clawing his arms, she gave back full measure as his hands stroked her body and his tongue stroked her mouth. Mindlessly, she tried to return the caress, her hands gliding along the length of his back, but she grew too delirious with the pleasure he was giving her. She reveled in the breadth of his arms, the strong tendons in the back of his neck, and all the while her body responded with an ardor of its own.

“And this!” he rasped, moving within her, “is what your kiss evokes me to!”

As though spurred by his words, something shattered within her. Elienor cried out, her body convulsing madly.

With a last powerful thrust and a savage cry, Alarik spilled himself with a deeper gratification than he’d ever known. Yet even when it was done, he could not stir from atop her, so great was the need to stay joined. He buried his face into her nape, smelling her hair, smelling her flesh, and groaning his pleasure.

After a moment, when his breathing returned to normal, he rolled to lay beside her, drawing her into his arms. She didn’t resist, and unable to deny himself, he pecked her nose, her eyes, her brow, smoothed her hair back away from her lovely face.

He understood nothing of the bond that joined them, and though he’d never feared anything before, he was unnerved by the powerful sensation that filled him suddenly. Love was for fools, he knew, and so he gave his emotion the name of desire.

Yet he was, at least, honest with himself in admitting that he lusted for no one else.

Elienor haunted his every waking moment, his every dream, and only when he was with her did her image cease to torment him.

Elienor snuggled into Alarik’s embrace. Her breathing slowed. Alarik lay wide awake listening to her faint breathing.

She’d given him all he’d hoped she would, and more, and now she slept as sweetly as a babe in his arms. He didn’t dare move and wake her, so he kept his vigil and waited for the candles to snuff themselves.

And still he could not sleep.

There was, in his heart, a strange sensation he’d never known ere now. Was it possible to lose one’s heart so quickly and completely, even against one’s will?

He thought so, for if not—then there was no explanation for the way that he felt—no explanation for why he seemed to need to guard her.

Why he burned for her.

And only her.

In her dreams, Elienor saw the majestic dragon ship once more, cloaked in mist. Alarik, or mayhap Olav, stood at the prow, his foot propped upon the wooden serpent—serpent, not hawk? his sword held firmly in his hand. From the mist came another dragon prow, and then another... and another...

Gasping for breath, Elienor struggled to free herself.

Alarik had only just drifted and was roused by Elienor’s outcry. He drew her into his arms and still she struggled.

“Let me soothe you,” he insisted.

At once she ceased, but instantly began to weep, and his heart pricked him.

And then his lips thinned as he acknowledged the irony of his request, for he was very likely the terror of her dreams.

He was her nightmare.

Moonlight reflected upon the pale snow, giving Bjorn ample light to find his way. He dared not carry a torch lest it be detected from the manor. Nor did he dare go mounted, for he needed no telltale prints exposing him.

Grateful to Thor and to Odin that snow still fell to cover his tracks—for it was late in the season for snow—he plodded onward, looking over his shoulder every so oft. Caution served, though without a doubt he knew that the gods were with him this night—after all, it was his summons that had brought Ejnar the Dane.

Not Alarik’s.

The messenger had come to him in private, had bid him meet with Ejnar in the vale, and it was there Bjorn made his way now. Bitter laughter escaped him suddenly, for the thought occurred to him that he would always have Alarik’s leavings and naught more.

Never more.

Soothing at least was the fact that Nissa shared in his anger. Still, in the back of his mind simmered the fact that she had, in reality, preferred his brother to him. He’d not been her first choice, and he could not quite obliterate that truth from his mind, regardless that Nissa had agreed to wed him if her father condoned it.

Once he reached the concealment of the pine and birch trees, he used their cover to make his way to the sacrificial stone, a runic inscribed altar where sacrifices were made to Thor, the God of thunder—his patron. No matter that Olav would have it otherwise! By Thor, his faith was the one thing in his life he retained control of, and Olav could blind himself before Bjorn converted!

And that was another thorn in his side, for he was well aware that his sole protection from Olav’s iron fist was Alarik, the brother whose shadow ever obscured him. For this one thing, at least, Bjorn was indebted. So long as Alarik kept the old faith, Olav would not risk forcing Bjorn, despite the fact that Olav would coerce his own mother for his cause.

Arriving in time to see the last of the rites performed, Bjorn stepped boldly into the group of waiting men.

“What took you so long?” a voice snarled. A russet-haired man stepped forward from the gathering, making himself known. He was Ejnar the Red, blood cousin to jarl Haakon. Beside him stood Hrolf Kaetilson.

Bjorn acknowledged Hrolf with a tilt of his head and then turned to meet Ejnar’s shrewd gaze. “I could not come in the broad light of day and chance being followed,” he explained. “Mine brother seeks you—did you not know?”

Ejnar peered over Bjorn’s shoulder. “So I’ve been told.” He gave an indifferent shrug, glancing briefly at Hrolf. “He will not find me, I think.” He turned back to Bjorn, smirking. “You are certain you were not followed?”

“Very certain,” Bjorn said, his gaze distracted momentarily by the two men removing from the old stone an animal carcass that had been sacrificed. “Mine brother is blind to all save his French whore,” he confided. He gestured toward the stone. “You are bold, Ejnar, to sacrifice under Olav’s very nose. Did you not realize he was in residence as well?”

Ejnar nodded, his eyes boring into Bjorn’s. “I did. Why else do you presume ’twas done? You have a qualm with it?”

Bjorn shook his head.

“’Tis good,” Ejnar asserted, pleased with the anger and envy he perceived in Bjorn. “What is it you wish of me, then?”

“Nissa,” Bjorn replied bluntly. “I wish to make her mine wife and she refuses me lest I should gain your approval.”

Ejnar’s red brow arched. He shrugged and opened his mouth to speak.

“I would have your consent,” Bjorn avowed before he could be refused. “Whatever it takes!”

Ejnar’s brows shot up. He nodded, contorting his mouth, considering. “Whatever it takes?” He cocked his head with newfound interest. He rubbed his chin. “Mayhap something could be arranged. But go now, ere we are discovered. I shall advise you soon of my decision.”

Bjorn stiffened. “When?”

“When it suits me,” Ejnar declared, taking a rigid stance. “Go on, now, and I will summon you when ’tis time.”

Bjorn nodded, elated with the way the meeting had gone. He turned to go, his lips curving into a smile.

“Oh, but, Bjorn?”

Bjorn’s shoulders straightened as he turned once more to face Nissa’s father.

“Touch mine daughter in the interim and I will lay you next upon that stone.” He waved casually at the stone in question. “Understand?”

Bjorn’s smile faded. “I do,” he said resentfully.

Ejnar nodded, and Bjorn spun on his heels, making his way back to the longhouse.

What he wouldn’t give, just once—just once!—to have the advantage.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Elienor refused to waken.

Jesu, she’d given herself—willingly—to her enemy! Shame tore at her, and she would have cried in misery, but she was determined to feign sleep in hopes that Alarik would leave before she was forced to open her eyes and face him.

Sweet Jesu, how could she?

It was unthinkable! She had lost herself in the heat of the moment? She was faithless! Wanton! Wicked!

“Aaaarghhh!”

The angry snarl roused Elienor at once.