Viking's Prize (27 page)

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 crisp 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—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.

“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.

CHAPTER
25

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.