Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (137 page)

Only when he’d concluded did he turn, his brows drawn together in displeasure, expecting to find either Bjorn or Brother Vernay observing him, and was stunned to find neither. His shadowed eyes widened at the sight that greeted him. Elienor, in all her tattered glory.

His heart quickened.

“Elienor?” he croaked. He surged clumsily to his feet, lack of sleep making his body unwieldy.

For the longest moment neither spoke.

Elienor’s eyes filled with tears. “You are,” she asked, swallowing, “truly here?” She touched her own face, as though to touch his, assuring herself that the moment was real.

“Aye,” he replied hoarsely. His arms ached to hold her, but he dared not move lest she prove to be naught more than an illusion. He was afeared to blink lest she vanish before his eyes. He tried to read her in the dim light but couldn’t; her emotions were hidden to him by the glare of the sun in his eyes. Even as he determined she was real, he stood rooted to the spot, loathing himself for all that had befallen her since taking her from Francia, certain that she despised him for it.

Yet his eyes beckoned her.

Elienor attempted to take a step forward and swayed weakly. She braced herself upon the door frame, and in that moment, Odin himself couldn’t have kept Alarik from her. He moved forward swiftly to claim her, and Elienor’s breath caught as he swept her into his arms. A low cry was torn from his lips as his mouth brushed her brow, her nose, her mouth...

Elienor’s heart skipped its normal beat. Looking up into his dark, smoldering eyes, she could only think how glad she was to be within his arms again—how glad she was to see him alive. She wanted him to hold her this way always...

“Shhhh... don’t cry,” Alarik soothed, his voice husky. “Nei, Elienor...” He placed his forehead to hers, and swore, “I shall make everything aright—
everything
!” And with that, he withdrew the leather neckband from about his neck and pressed her uncle’s ring into her palm. “’Tis yours,” he revealed grimly. “I...” He swallowed. “I took it from Olav,” he said without censure. The time for petty jealousies was past. Naught mattered now but Elienor’s happiness—not even the accursed reason for which she’d gifted Olav the ring to begin with. He couldn’t care any longer.

Unclasping her palm, Elienor stared in bewilderment at the ring, recalling the moment she’d given it to Olav, and then in succession... Olav’s face as he’d released the serpent prow and descended into the water. “I...” Her voice faltered. “He was to have returned it to my uncle,” she revealed somberly. Her violet eyes lifted to his. “H-he promised he would speak to you... that you might send me back to Francia... to my uncle...” She shook her head and averted her gaze suddenly. Alarik released her, freeing her from his embrace.

Elienor felt the separation acutely.

He lifted her chin with a finger, the shadows in his eyes deepening. His silver eyes pierced her. “And is that still your desire?” he whispered hoarsely. His fingers went to the scar at her temple, tracing the fine line. Though it was long healed now, it was a raw reminder of the suffering she’d endured at his hands.

Elienor said nothing, could not speak, for her heart lodged in her throat. Tears welled in her eyes.

In her silence, Alarik heard what he most feared. The lump in his throat thickened. “Then... I shall grant you your freedom,” he told her grimly, bending to kiss her scar. He’d sworn to do so, he reminded himself, and he would comply—no matter what it cost him.

Tears coursed down Elienor’s cheeks. Life was so unfair! Now, when at last she wished to remain with him, could surrender herself with an open heart and soul, he would discard her so easily? “And will you also restore to me my heart?” she asked him, unable to stifle the note of bitter hysteria that invaded her soul.

Alarik shook his head, unwilling to mistake her words, unwilling to hope, only to lose her all over again. “Your heart?” he asked softly, his heart hammering. His gaze never wavered, afeared to miss even the slightest shift in her expression.

“Aye!” Elienor cried in outrage, “My heart! for as surely as you stole me away from Francia, so, too, did you seize it away from me!”

A muscle ticked in Alarik’s jaw as he drew her back into his arms. “God—Elienor!” Afeared that he was somehow dreaming, he merely held her, unable to end the moment, unable to speak again for fear that he’d misunderstood. More than aught else he wanted her happy, but he wanted her more than life itself! He would give everything he held to see her look at him with adoration in her beautiful violet eyes.

“I love you!” she cried out, and then stiffened within his embrace, revealing to Alarik that she’d not intended to voice the endearment. Giddy relief unlike any he’d ever known jolted through him at her declaration. How he loved her impetuous tongue! A gratified smile curved his lips, but he said nothing as he savored the truth of the feelings she’d disclosed to him.

Regretting the foolish love words, Elienor cursed herself a thousand times for a fool.

When would she ever learn to master her traitorous tongue? Did she think he would simply lay down his heart and vow his love in return? How foolish she was to hope that he would. He was a Viking leader—she nothing more than his French whore! He a noble chieftain—she nothing but a measly—alas, but she could not even claim the church for her own, for she no longer came to them a pure bride of Christ—in their eyes she was soiled! In an attempt to salvage her pride, she told him, “I meant nothing...”

“Elienor,” he broke in, his voice gruff. “Do you wish to know what I’ve prayed for?” He held her possessively, as though to loosen his hold upon her was to lose her.

For the longest instant, Elienor could not find her voice. As long as he held her thus, she could almost believe he wanted her still. “What... what did you pray for?”

He answered her question with a question of his own. “Is it not your custom to ask your God to bless a marriage ere its union?”

Elienor’s eyes misted. She shrugged at his question, fighting tears. Losing the effort to contain them, she closed her eyes. “You have decided to allow Bjorn and Nissa to wed?” she asked him in puzzlement, her tone anguished.

“That,” he apprised her, swallowing the lump that appeared in his throat, “is not my decision to make. Bjorn and Nissa will wed if ’tis their wish... though I have determined they may indeed remain at Gryting.” Taking Elienor’s free hand into his own, he charged, “Look at me, Elienor!” He waited until her violet eyes opened to meet his once more, and moved by the tears that flowed so freely down her ashen cheeks, he cupped her face within his callused palms, cradling it there, his touch more gentle than a tender babe’s. “Shush,” he hissed. “Don’t cry, love,” he pleaded. “If you wish it, then I will send you back to Francia—if you wish it—but I beg you do not cry!”

Elienor tried desperately to suppress her sobs, but she could not. She buried her face into his chest, unable to face the possibility that he would make her go!

Alarik sank to his knees, seeing that her strength wavered. Kneeling before her, he urged her down upon her knees before him, and then bent to kiss her sorrow away. With every salty tear he kissed from her soft face, he felt his own uncertainty ebb.

“Elienor,” he whispered huskily, “I have asked your God to bless our union—not Bjorn and Nissa’s.”

Holding her face between his hands, he forced her to look into his eyes, and shook his head. “Tell me ’tis what you wish, as well. Tell me ’tis so!” he commanded, coming as close to pleading as he dared. It was not in his blood to beg. If she refused him... then he would indeed release her. But he felt certain she’d not, for when she lifted her tear-stained face to his, every emotion she held in her heart was unveiled to him. It was the look he’d waited so long to see.

“Y-you wish... you wish t-to wed... with... with me?”

Alarik nodded, smiling arrogantly now, knowing that her answer would be aye. But his jaw dropped as she broke away, surging to her feet and going to the altar. She fell to her knees before it.

“Elienor?”

Elienor heard the uncertainty in his voice and turned to look at him with misty eyes, gifting him with her most serene smile. “One more prayer,” she whispered, her voice breaking with joy, “One more... so that I too may ask God to bless our union!” And she lowered her head to pray.

In mere seconds Alarik was on his feet. Filled with exhilaration, he lifted Elienor into his arms as though she weighed no more than a new born babe. He leaned eagerly to kiss her full upon the lips, thinking that it had been too long since he’d tasted of his little Fransk. And in his need to love her he went to lay her down upon the
kirken
floor, oblivious with the need to hold her, to love her.

“Not here!” Elienor said in consternation, laughing, sobbing. “Never here!” she told him.

Alarik grinned sheepishly and rose to his feet, bearing her toward the door... eager to get her into his bed, even if they did naught more than sleep... his arms embracing her.

Elienor struggled to free herself. “Release me!” she demanded, and her eyes grew sober. “Let there be no doubts between us this time—allow me to go of my own will!”

Alarik halted abruptly, his expression suddenly grave. He shuddered as he looked deep into her eyes, and Elienor flushed as he allowed her to slide from his embrace. Her body melded against his, and she nearly ceased to breathe at the wicked sensations it roused within her.

“Do you feel I’ve forced you?” he asked gravely, as though suddenly unsure of himself.

The muted sunlight from the doorway bathed them both, and in that instant it was as though they were transported through time... and were again in the
kirken
in Francia. Only this time, it was he who could not see her face, his expression that was revealed by the light. “Nay,” Elienor whispered, her heart rending at his forlorn appearance. “I only meant that I would go beside you—that all who see us will know I go willingly.” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand.

Standing in the doorway, haloed by the sun, Elienor looked like an angel to him, but she was neither angel nor
Valkyr
, he knew. She was flesh and blood.

And she was his.

In that instant, Alarik’s heart filled near to bursting. Thrusting a hand into her hair, he bent to brush his lips against her flushed cheek. “I love you, Elienor,” he said, voicing the words for the first time in his life, his voice hoarse.

Elienor’s heart soared, for it didn’t take a seer to know he spoke true. He did love her, and she nearly cried out with the exhilarating sense of completion that burst through her in that instant. God help her, but for the first time in her life, she knew what it felt like to be cherished, for she was too young at her mother’s death to recall her loving arms.

At long last. At long, long last.

With a sigh, she allowed the ring she’d once held so tightly to slip forgotten from her fingers to the floor, not needing it any longer, for while it had once been her comfort, her family, it was no more.

Held so tenderly within Alarik’s embrace, she had, at long last come home.

“M
ama! Mama! Tell us again of the vision—the one you first had of Papa!” a child’s voice demanded. “Gunnar will not believe me!”

As Elienor swept into the
skali
, a throng of children rushed to surround her, led by her eldest daughter, Kirsten, who bore her mother’s blue eyes and father’s blond hair. All eyed her hopefully, and her own eyes lit with merriment as she glanced up to spy Nissa supervising the preparation of the tables for
nattver
. Upon Alva’s passing, Nissa had quietly stepped into the task, taking her lessons from Alva. At Elienor’s look, Nissa merely smiled, and shrugged, telling Elienor by that gesture that she’d been unable to sway the children from asking yet again.

Jesu! How many times would she be called upon to recount the tale? As it was, she felt she’d told it near a thousand times. Ahh, well... Alva had warned her, rest her soul. It was simply that because it had been so long now since she’d had a single vision, she found herself e’er recounting the same tales. It was a wonder no one ever seemed to tire of them. She sighed, capitulating.

“Very well.” She smiled as she scanned the faces of her expectant audience, for among the children were her own two daughters: Kirsten and Dahlia. Along with them, Bjorn and Nissa’s five, four girls, and their ever recalcitrant son, Gunnar. And the quiet lad who always lagged behind belonged to Sigurd and Clarisse.

Finding a suitable spot, Elienor adjusted her skirts and sat. And no sooner had she done so than her youngest daughter, Dahlia, scurried into her lap. After her came Mischief, eager as always. Her daughter shrieked happily, hugging the dog, and Elienor put her fingers to her lips, shushing her, for their infant son, Krossbyr, was fast asleep in their bedchamber, with Alarik watching over him. It never ceased to amaze Elienor how many hours he spent simply watching the babe.

“You didn’t truly spy Uncle Alarik first in a dream!” Gunnar exclaimed.

Elienor merely smiled, for he said the same each time. Truthfully she was beginning to wonder if it was his ploy to persuade her to recount the tale yet again.