Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (126 page)

Brother Vernay sighed in defeat. “My lord?” he said, somewhat less than enthusiastically. “Have you come to watch, too? I assure you all is in hand. The demoiselle copies very well, if we but had time...”

Alarik didn’t bother to reply. He glanced briefly at Olav, his brows colliding with displeasure at finding him present, and then his wintry eyes sought Elienor’s violet-blue ones, holding them fast. Elienor’s breath caught in her throat as she waited for him to speak, though she prayed he would leave before doing so.

Did he not know what his presence did to her? That she hated herself for what her body wanted of him? He’d not touched her since that night, and she never wanted him to touch her again. She had no wish to feel this way for her captor.

She wanted peace. Her mind and body simply would not give it with him so near.

Nor even with him far, she acknowledged.

It was wrong to submit to his loving, wrong to crave it, yet she could think only of that as she gazed into his stormy dark eyes. She tried to cast the memory of his touch from her mind, but could not. Lowering her gaze to the bureau, she wished she could vanish from the face of the earth.

Truly, she was shameless.

How many years were wasted in the cloister?

None wasted, bien aimee.

Elienor’s gaze flew up at the words spoken so clearly in her mind, meeting Alarik’s piercing silver eyes. Was she mad? Was she truly mad now?

How could she allow herself to love her enemy? A man possibly fated to die if her dreams held true.

If she allowed herself to yield to it, would she be compelled to tell him aught?

And would she die for it?

For the longest moment, there was silence.

Alarik flung his mantle behind him in an agitated gesture, telling himself he cared not a whit for the woman whose stark violet eyes slashed into his soul.

It was merely lust.

Lust that tore at his gut.

Lust that made her face haunt his thoughts.

Lust that made him want her in every moment of his life.

Lust. And no more.

She was a woman, he reminded himself, and he refused to lose his mind and command over any female—Bjorn being a perfect example of the former for his brother seemed unable to think clearly for love of Nissa, and Olav of the latter, for Tyri seemed to rule his every decision.

The hard glint in his eyes held a shred of caution as he turned to Vernay, ignoring Olav. “Your work is concluded for the day,” he informed the monk curtly.

“Not precis—”

“It is concluded,” he maintained, his eyes gleaming.

Vernay glanced at Olav and finding no help from that quarter relented. “Yes, my lord. Very well... if ’tis your wish.”

Appeased, Alarik turned toward Elienor, his expression veiled. He refused to concede that he needed to be with her. Refused to concede anything at all. He straightened to his full height and took a step toward the woman who bedeviled his every waking thought. Yet before he could speak his intent, Mischief bounded upon his boot, growling insanely, nipping as though possessed. “Hel’s hounds!” Alarik exploded in surprise, rocking backward upon his heels. “Demon dog!”

Olav hooted with laughter.

Elienor gasped, springing from her chair to restrain the dog.

“’Tis as though he abhors you, my lord!” Vernay exclaimed, stifling a chuckle.

Elienor went to her knees at Alarik’s feet, prying Mischief away from his boots. “Nay! Mischief!” she reproached when he twisted loose and charged at Alarik’s boots once more. It never ceased to amaze her, the vehemence with which Mischief raged at him, particularly since Alarik did nothing but curse at the dog—ever. Never had he laid a finger upon it in malice—not ever! Nevertheless, she believed Mischief sensed Alarik’s aversion toward him, and responded accordingly. Nor did he seem to appreciate Alarik’s boots!

With no small measure of envy, Alarik observed the way Elienor soothed the animal. Would that she would touch him so sweetly... of her own accord... instead of with such disaffection. He wondered how it would feel if just once she would look upon him in pleasure—not in fear, or bitterness... or defiance. “It does seem so,” he conceded to Vernay.

“You would think the cur would bear him some small measure of affection,” Olav declared, chuckling heartily. “Its mother was the man’s favorite hound, after all.”

With the pup secure in her arms, Elienor peered up at Alarik. “Was?” she whispered, her expression anxious.

Intuitively, Alarik understood what she asked of him. “Is,” he assured, giving Olav an admonishing look. His gaze returned to Elienor. “She
is
mine favorite hound, Elienor.”

Elienor’s brows drew together. “Where is she? Why does she spurn him? ’Tis my guess that the poor mite is scarcely past the age of suckling.”

Alarik’s brow lifted. “Poor mite?” he debated. His jaw tightened in remembrance of their discourse over his own birth circumstances. “I’ve told you, Elienor, the Northland is ruthless. Only the strong survive. The pup’s mother lives only because she knows this, and she fends for herself.”

Brother Vernay came forward to deliver the unruly dog from Elienor’s arms. “’Tis the truth the jarl tells you, my sister. This land is harsh to those not hale enough to endure it.” He nodded when she glanced at him. Olav nodded as well.

Nevertheless, Elienor took exception to those words flung at her once again. She glared at Vernay, letting him know that she considered his siding with Alarik a betrayal of sorts—regardless that she likely had no right to feel so. Vernay might be her own countryman, and a brother in Christ, but like aught else in this forlorn place—including herself—he belonged to Alarik. Her eyes narrowed as they returned to Alarik. “Mayhap instead of casting each other off, as though life were no more precious than offal from a refuse pit,” she suggested, meeting Alarik’s gaze boldly, “the strong might be wiser to aid the weak. You, my lord, above all men, should realize that oft times the weak become the strong... and the strong become the weak.”

Alarik’s jaw tightened as he gazed down into Elienor’s eyes. He was quickly coming to regret telling her aught about his life, yet despite her renewed vehemence against him, the sight of her kneeling before him ignited him, heated his blood until white-hot desire ripped through his veins. He glanced at the pup, safely ensconced within Vernay’s arms—it yelped at him, curse its mangy hide!—and then back to Elienor, uncertain of what to say to restore the frail bond that had only begun to form between them. “You named him...” he fought the urge to blaspheme the ungracious mutt, “Mischief?”

“Aye,” Elienor replied.

He cleared his throat, but the hoarseness lingered. “The name suits him.”

“Aye,” Elienor answered once more, though this time somewhat warily.

She held his gaze.

In that moment, as they stared at each other, Alarik forgot where he stood, forgot Vernay, forgot everything and everyone but the intensity of his own hunger and the woman kneeling at his feet.

Did she realize she brought such turmoil to his senses?

He shuddered, disturbed that a mere look of hers could make him lose so much composure. It was as though she bewitched him with those magnificent violet eyes.

A rush of feeling overtook him suddenly, a wanting like he’d never experienced in all his days, and along with it panic and fear—he who’d never felt such weakness—fear that Elienor held him in a grip from which he could never escape. He fell to one knee, his hand going to her arm in an attempt to regain his edge, his reason. His fingers closed about the soft silk of her gown. As he stared into her stark, violet-blue eyes, his own eyes darkened.

Elienor averted her gaze, her heart skipping a beat at the intensity of his stare. She could not let it happen again. Sweet Jesu, she could not live with herself as it was. Yet she shook her head at her own foolishness, for how could she deny him when her own Judas body cried out that he lift her up and sweep her away? That he take the decision from her hands.

“Tell me, Elienor,” Alarik said softly, gruffly, his gaze unrelenting, “does Mischief’s lady abhor me, as well?” She lowered her face and he forced her chin up with a finger, though her lashes remained stubbornly upon her cheeks. “Does she?” he demanded.

Elienor’s gaze flew up, her eyes misting. Her heart cried out in agony for shameless as it was, she’d given herself freely and of her own accord.
To her enemy.
She shook her head miserably, resenting the truth with all her heart, yet unable to deny him the answer he sought.

At her reply, the harsh lines softened in his face. A shuddering took him. “You please me,” he told her gruffly. He rose abruptly, drawing her up with him.

Elienor cried out as he drew her against the hard strength of his body.

His face lowered to hers. “What can I do, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes,” he murmured silkily, “to please you in return?”

Vernay cleared his throat discreetly, afeared that the situation would advance in an unseemly manner. “My lord?” he objected softly, his eyes remaining downcast.

Mortified, Elienor’s gaze flew to the monk—the pate of his head shone back at her—and then to Olav.

Olav looked pensive, saying nothing.

She spun back to Alarik, her spine stiffening in humiliation to have been spied in such a shameless embrace—by a man of the cloth, no less! Olav, she could bear, for he and Alarik were two of the same, but Brother Vernay—it was miserable!

“You could take me home,” she appealed brokenly, her eyes stinging with tears. “Take me back to Francia.”

Before I lose my soul, she appended silently.

Alarik shook his head, his eyes narrowing in displeasure at her suggestion, for it made him consider himself without her—empty, less than whole. And damn him, for he could less bear the thought of being without her than he could the debilitating fact that he should need her at all. “Nei, Elienor!” he said. His fingers gripped her arm in frustration. He shook her. “Ask of me something I can give! I wish to please you!”

“I want naught else!” Elienor declared fervently. “Please, let me go!”

“My lord?” Vernay interjected, rubbing his own arm as he observed the possessive way Alarik held her.

Still Olav said nothing, only watched the scene unfold, tucking everything away for later.

Alarik glared at Vernay, then at his brother, who sat silently across the room, his expression strange.

He straightened suddenly, as though checking himself, and his expression was guarded as he released Elienor’s arm. “You say your work is complete for this day?” he asked Vernay without meeting the monk’s gaze, nor Elienor’s, but still looking directly at Olav, warning his brother without words to stay away from the kirken... from Elienor.

“If ’tis your wish, my lord.”

“It is,” Alarik asserted. The fine line of his control redrawn, his gaze returned to Elienor, his eyes shadowed with a hunger no amount of self-control could dispel. “Fetch your mantle, my lovely little nun... I find I’m in sore need of a bath,” he told her bluntly.

Olav roared with laughter.

Vernay choked.

Alarik’s gaze returned to the monk, disregarding his brother completely. From the corner of his eye he noted with satisfaction that Elienor hurried to recover her cape as he bid of her. “You have objections?” he asked Vernay.

Vernay’s brows clashed, but he shook his head quickly. “Nay, my lord! ’Tis but that…”

“Good!” Alarik declared, cutting him off. When Elienor returned, he snatched the cape from her hands impatiently, placing it about her shoulders. That done, he opened the door and ushered her out, assuring Vernay that she would return at her appointed hour on the morrow.

He said nothing to Olav.

“Mischief!” Elienor exclaimed, remembering the pup as Alarik drew the door closed behind them.

“Vernay will see that he makes it safely to the manor. He won’t be able to keep up.”

Elienor made no more objection as he led her to his horse, lifting her upon its back. And then, in one fluid motion, he mounted behind her, driving his heel into Sleipnir’s flank.

In a little time they reined in before the bath house, and all Elienor could think was that Mischief truly wouldn’t have been able to keep pace. Alarik had ridden as though demons cleaved at his heels.

The realization swept over her suddenly that she wasn’t going to be able to stop this.

She wasn’t even certain she wanted to!

Dismounting hastily, Alarik drew her down to her feet. Elienor’s knees faltered, but he steadied her, and then opening the door to the bath house, he ushered her into the shadowy interior. He’d not even taken the time to have Alva restore the fire, and the dying embers glowed eerily.

“My lord!” she protested, in panic. “’Tis day yet! There are people about!”

He kicked the door closed, his lips curving diabolically. “We’ll not be disturbed,” he told her with certainty. Taking her by the arm, he swung her about sharply, until her back was to him, and then proceeded to undo the brooch at her right shoulder, not needing to see it to undo it, his fingers deft at their work.

Her gown slid down on the right side. Crying out, Elienor clutched the silk to her breast, halting its descent. “’Tis cold!” she protested.

“Not for long,” Alarik promised at her nape, his breath warm as it hissed across her flesh. The determination in his voice sent a quiver down her spine. He unfastened the twin brooch at her left shoulder, and with a gentleness that belied his strength, drew the gown down.

Elienor whimpered, her eyes squeezing shut as the silk was pulled out of her grasp. But he wasn’t satisfied, for no sooner was the silk overgown discarded than he began to undo the laces of the matching undergown. That done, he drew it up over her head and tossed it aside, baring her wholly to his hungry gaze.

It settled with a whisper upon the furs.

With a sigh of intense pleasure, Alarik traced a finger down her spine, content for the moment merely to gaze at her perfect form. The flush of her skin was perceptible even in the shadows of the dying firelight. She gave a startled whimper and stumbled back against him, and his heart somersaulted like that of an unseasoned youth with the unexpected contact.