Viking's Prize (10 page)

At once, Bjorn leapt to do Alarik’s bidding,
knowing there was too little time to waste. In this Hel wind it would take very
little to devastate the sail cloth.

“Leave the mast raised!” Alarik called after him.
He would need it later to raise a shelter. Then too, as soon as the wind abated
he would again hoist the sail and use the drift anchor. Best to make use of it
while they were able.

Once more, the Goldenhawk tilted violently. With
hoarse shouts and curses, the men braced themselves against the tempest, lest
they tumble into the frothy sea. Alarik stood his ground like an effigy from
hell, not wholly real, but paralyzing in his towering might and intensity.

Satisfied that he would have no more resistance from
his men, he gave his complete attention to the woman at his feet.

CHAPTER
9

“She’ll bring unrest,” Red-Hrolf said at Bjorn’s
back.

Bjorn didn’t bother turning. “How so?”

“She’s Christian,” Red-Hrolf declared. “Why else?”

A prickling crept down Bjorn’s spine at
Red-Hrolf’s proclamation. He paused at his task, turning abruptly.

Red Hrolf’s expression was filled with scorn.
“What else would a Frenchwoman be?”

Shuddering over the notion, Bjorn frowned,
returning to the task of lowering the sails. He tugged violently at the lines.
“Why should that concern me? You heard as well as I... she is mine brother’s
problem! Speak to him if you would!”

Red-Hrolf’s eyes narrowed balefully. “Are you so
blind, Bjorn? I say she is a threat to all of us.”

“She’s naught but a puny wench!”

“You underestimate her!”

“I think not.”

“Like a coiled adder is a woman’s bed talk. If you
allow it, she’ll work her accursed faith upon you both! Destroy your alliance
with the old gods! Mark my words, friend—else you will fall to its
force... as has Olav... as has Alarik,”

Bjorn’s face contorted with disgust, and he
dismissed Red-Hrolf once and for all. “You lie!” he charged. “My brother has
not claimed the White Christ! I would know! No matter what else lies betwixt
us, there has always been truth!”

Hrolf’s face contorted. “Do you not see how he
risks us to save her? Nei, Bjorn, we all see what value he places upon our
lives—your life.”

At once, Bjorn’s gaze was drawn to where Alarik
knelt over the Frenchwoman. He stood watching a moment, doubts creeping in even
against his will.

Red-Hrolf said darkly, “Watch them closely,” he
warned, and with that spun away, leaving Bjorn to mull over his counsel.

As the storm abated, frosty white flakes fluttered
down from the northern skies, sweeping their way into the icy blue sea.

Despite the fact that the gale had been brief it
was fierce and Alarik estimated that it had borne them at least a full day
closer to their destination. He’d been concerned for a time because the third
and smallest drakken had vanished from view, but only moments ago it had been
sighted ahead of them, its sails slightly tattered from the winds, but
otherwise intact.

A cool flake lit upon the bridge of his nose,
dissipating almost at once. Considering the fact that the temperature had
already dropped considerably, he made his way to where the small canvas shelter
had been erected utilizing the mast, cursing himself for doing so yet again.

Nor could he discern why he’d spared the other
wench’s life when It was possible his men could have been right. She might, in
truth, have carried the pestilence—something he could not have risked at
sea. Yet he had. All because the little Fransk had protected her so fiercely.

Why should he be so affected by that accusing
glare of hers?

And why, by the thunder of Thor, should he care
what she thought of him?

It was only meager consolation that the other
wench was so much improved, for he had, in truth, risked more than he ought to
have in letting her live. Alarik had no idea what malady had possessed her
earlier, but she appeared to be recovering now, and Sigurd seemed to have taken
to her, as well. The old warrior managed to play nursemaid to her when not
otherwise occupied, and Alarik could well see why, for she was a comely little
thing.

Reaching for the tent flap, he hesitated before
lifting it, torn between his loyalty to his men and that which he’d sworn to
the woman within. He should be aiding with the navigation, he knew, but he also
knew he could not attend to his command without first seeing to the wench, and
his scowl deepened.

Surely he’d been bewitched!

With a disgusted shake of his head, he shoved
aside the flap and stooped to enter the small cloth-enclosed chamber. Within he
straightened to his full height and moved silently toward the figure slumbering
so peacefully upon the pallet. At her side, he dropped to his knees, noting
that the wet rag he’d left upon her forehead had fallen to the side of her
face. Lifting it, he contemplated the paleness of her skin.

In the dim light her features were ethereal, the
fine bones of her face set in the most perfect arrangement he’d ever beheld on
a woman. And her skin... as pure and unblemished as freshly fallen winter snow.
Nevertheless, It was her eyes that drew him most, held him inexplicably
spellbound. They were a work of artistry, with the delicate line of her brows
arching over bewitching violet irises. Though closed now, Alarik could still
see their vivid violet color, startling in its clarity.

To him, she was more beautiful even than the
imagined Valkyrs of his youth, though he was well aware that few others would
share his opinion, for she was darker than the maids of his land.

Retrieving the skin of fresh water that lay
discarded atop the coverlets, he uncapped it, dousing the rag once more. He’d
watched her do the same for the other maid and had surmised she’d done so to
deter the fever. He was well aware that fever induced madness, and though that
it might have incited the other maid’s fits. Recapping the skin, he tossed it
carelessly aside, then refolded the dampened cloth, considering the woman lying
before him.

She’d slept without waking in the hours since her
injury, causing him to wonder. With his own eyes he’d witnessed such a state
where the injured fell into the deepest slumber and remained therein for days,
weeks, months even, ere waking. Some were said never to revive at all. But such
was not the case with this one, he assured himself, his mouth curving into an
unconscious smile, for the little wench babbled much in her sleep.

Indeed, for the better part of her slumber it
seemed she’d dwelled in a world of vivid fantasies.

On impulse he moved the coverlet down to view her
body beneath.

In removing her wet kyrtle, an undertunic of fine
embroidered linen had been revealed, affirming the fact that she was a woman of
substance. Discarding the rag, he placed his hand at her ribs, ascertaining
whether the garment had dried, and despite himself his body quickened at the
feel of her warm, soft flesh beneath the filmy gown. Unable to recall when he’d
been so affected by a wench, he shook his head in self-disgust.

His eyes were drawn upward, and he stared,
transfixed at the canvas, his heart hammering like mighty hoof-beats against
his ribs. With all his might, he resisted the urge to slide his hand up to cup
one luscious breast, squeeze it gently… though he craved it madly.

Was he no better than Red-Hrolf?

Cursing himself, his hand drifted downward, away
from that which tempted him so sorely, only to encounter something hard and
round beneath her gown. Curious as to what it might be, he slipped his hand
quickly within her neckline, his eyes closing with self-restraint as his
fingers moved between her bare breasts, skimming her warm flesh. Surely the
Gods taunted him.

He drew from her undertunic a long leather string,
and his brows lifted in surprise, for suspended from it was a gleaming silver
ring, generously embedded with tiny jewels.

For the longest instant, Alarik merely stared, transfixed,
studying the ring thoughtfully. If his memory served him—and it
did—the design within the raised border was the same worn by the Frankish
King.

Who, then, was this woman to be wearing such a
ring as this? A thousand possibilities crossed his mind, none of them
acceptable.

“By the jaws of Fenri!” he whispered, removing the
ring from about her neck and weighing it speculatively within the palm of his
hand. “Who are you, wench?”

He caught it suddenly, closing his fist over its
hardness, and then with a muttered curse drew it over his own head, dropping
the ring beneath his tunic. Taking hold of the discarded rag once more, he
raised the cloth to the woman’s forehead, smoothing it over her brow. And
despite the grim turn of his thoughts, the ache in his groin intensified as he
slid the moist rag down her lovely throat... so white and soft.

Was she mistress, or daughter?

He refused to consider that she might have been
Phillipe’s bride.

She had claimed he was not her count as of yet.
Mayhap then, she was his betrothed?

He didn’t bother trying to convince himself he’d
taken her for revenge, for he knew it wasn’t true—not when the merest
thought of Phillipe touching her left acid burning in his mouth.

As an afterthought, he lifted one hand, inspecting
it, noting the calluses that contradicted the noble breeding the rest of her
proclaimed. Strange that a highborn woman should bear the hands of a laborer.
He considered that an instant, and then released her hand abruptly, letting it
drop at her side, lifting his fingers reverently to her lips—such a
luscious pink they were, despite the fact that they had been chapped by the
wind.

But it was her hair that was her crowning glory,
the color of richest sable. This moment, it was spread like a crown of shining
velvet about her face, with a wayward lock entwined about her slender neck.
Moistened with water from the rag, it clung to her silky flesh like a jealous
lover. The comparison fully aroused him.

Determined now to view all he would lay claim to,
he drew the blanket down to her ankles.

His eyes never made it beyond her breasts. Beneath
the sheer undergarment her nipples were dark and lovely, hidden only by the
gossamer linen, and he resisted the nigh irrepressible urge to touch them,
telling himself that he was content to savor them with his eyes as they rose
and fell with her gentle breath.

Later he would have his fill of her... later when
she was healed and able to partake... later when he could take pleasure in the
passion he knew he could arouse. He didn’t doubt that he could, but he knew he
would need to leave her be for now. Unlike Red-Hrolf, he’d gain no pleasure
from this manner of loving.

Flinging the coverlet over her, making certain
those parts of her body that would tempt him were covered, he rose abruptly,
considering what he would do about Red-Hrolf, for as certain as the wench had
beguiled him, he also knew Red-Hrolf would cause dissension among his crew. He
might have been distracted with the wench, but he’d not missed the
confrontation Red-Hrolf had with Bjorn—nor had he missed Bjorn’s agitated
expression afterward.

It boded ill.

Raking his hand across his scalp, he moved toward
the tent opening, peering out speculatively at his men. All was quiet for the
moment, but another tempest was brewing.

He could feel it in his bones.

CHAPTER
10