Viking's Prize (5 page)

Alarm
flared in her blue eyes, and that too, rankled—that she would find the
thought of him so repulsive. Yet what else would she feel for him? And why
should it matter? As he gazed into the misty, violet-blue pools of her eyes, he
was compelled to release the hold he had upon her hair.

At once
she fell to her knees over the boy—and it was a boy, for now he could
discern the whiskerless face.

A
quiver sped through him as the long, dark strands wove their way out of his
callused fingers like cool silk. The pleasing sensation sent a surge of
familiar heat rushing through his veins and a smile curved his lips as he
imagined that whispery length tangled about his bare thighs. In that instant,
he craved her more even than he did revenge over the spineless count, and the
realization jarred him. More than that, he wanted to know her—that barely
subdued passion he could see with such clarity in her eyes. He wanted her
acquiescent—and so consumed with desire that she would whimper and sigh
beneath him.

“’Tis
settled, then!”

Startled,
the woman glanced up at him, her expression confused.

He
smiled darkly. “You have yourself a bargain, my little Fransk.” When she still
seemed bewildered, Alarik explained, “Your compliance for the boy’s life.”

He felt
no need to point out that he had no intention of harming the lad anyway. He had
no taste for slaughtering children, but it would serve him well if she thought
he might.

She
swallowed visibly, and shuddered, but nodded agreement before returning her
attention to the boy. With a quick flip of her hand she removed the length of
her dark hair from his pale face.

Feeling
a sudden rush of heat and anticipation, Alarik stepped forward to better
observe the pair. The woman’s nondescript kyrtle covered her form completely,
yet even in such a shapeless garment her generous curves were more than, and he
felt the burn of his loins intensify.

Never,
in all his experiences, had he seen her equal—hair as. dark as the
Byzantine, yet skin and features as fair as the Norse—and he found
himself mentally disrobing her, drawing up a luscious picture in his mind. For
the first time ever he was sorely tempted to lie a wench flat and ride her
against her will. But he would not. He abhorred such weakness in his
men—though now, for once, he could comprehend what drove them to such
ends.

He
watched in silence as she gently lifted up the boy’s dirt-smudged face unto her
scrutiny.

With
her eyes, Elienor warned Stefan to remain silent. With her heart, she prayed he
would understand.

“My
lady,” Stefan moaned, wincing. “What have you done to me?”

Tears
pricked at Elienor’s eyes as she envisaged the outcome of the battle. “’Tis
over, Stefan. There...” She swallowed. “There is naught to be done now.”

Stefan
moaned pitifully. ‘Then I am shamed!” He lifted himself up and thrust his head
into her lap to hide the moistness gathering in his eyes. Elienor felt the
telltale wetness even through her layers of clothing.

Tears
of frustration came to her own eyes as she searched for the words to ease
Stefan’s conscience, but before she could utter another sound, the Viking giant
suddenly gave a fearsome growl of displeasure and lifted her up into his arms,
over his hefty shoulder, pinning her there. She gasped, startled. Blood rushed
to her head as he swooped down yet again to yank Stefan up, as well.

Startled,
Stefan struggled to gain his feet.

With
scarcely an effort, the Viking hauled them both outside into the clear light of
the moon.

As she
watched Stefan struggle, Elienor’s heart went out to the boy, and she vowed in
that moment that she would die trying to save him. Furious that he would be
treated so harshly when they’d already effected a bargain, she demanded at
once, “Release him!”

The
giant said naught, merely kept his pace, and Elienor pounded his back with all
her might. “Beast! You made me a bargain!” she reminded him fiercely.

Stefan
was suddenly dropped to the ground, though almost as swiftly as he was
released, the Viking caught him by the back of his tunic and began to drag him
across the empty yard behind them, like a dog by its lead rope.

Elienor’s
anger intensified. “Is force the only way of your people?” she accused him. As
soon as the question left her lips, she felt a fool for asking it. Of course it
was! Wasn’t that what she’d always been told? “Barbarian!” she spat.

Abruptly,
the Viking lifted Stefan to his feet, urging him to walk, but Stefan only
stumbled to his knees. The giant hauled him up once more, then shoved him
forward.

“Walk!”
he snarled, “Or you will find yourself without legs!”

Thankfully,
Stefan did as he was told without balking, though his knees wobbled visibly all
the way into the donjon. Elienor’s heart stung for him. As they approached the
now brightly lit hall, her nostrils flared with the overwhelming stench of
blood. Her eyes widened at the gruesome sight that greeted them; a horde of
Vikings frolicked about the hall, partaking of ale and whatever else they
encountered. One man, his writhing form as naked as the oak in winter, danced
merrily over the body of the dead sentry, Gaston. She cried out, clutching the
giant’s tunic lest she fall with the wave of nausea that assailed her.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to block the sight of it from her mind.

Cheers
resounded the moment they were spied coming into the hall. Viking voices hailed
them—no doubt praising the barbarian that had carted her in! The din
threatened to burst her eardrums, and she knew in that moment that the
shoulders she’d been irreverently slung over belonged to none other than the
leader, himself.

“Jarl!
Jarl! Jarl!” they bellowed, each man louder than the one before.

One
bedraggled beast with hair the color of the noonday sun came to stand behind
Elienor’s captor. Roughly, he jerked her up by the hair to see her better.

Heathen!
What she wouldn’t give to slap his face just now, not for herself, but for all
the terror they had wreaked upon Count Phillipe’s castle! For Stefan! For the
way that he’d been treated! Bon dieu, were she not such a peace-loving soul
she’d strike the heinous smirk from his face but good!

Unable
to stay her hand, Elienor’s palm cracked along the side of his face.

Abruptly,
the hall went silent, and one by one, every pair of eyes turned toward them.

The
flame haired’s gaze narrowed upon her, his eyes fairly sparking with fury.

Her
palm stung. Still, she held it in midair, poised to strike again. She peered up
fearfully to see a welt beginning to form upon the flame haired’s cheek.

“Jesu!”
she whispered hysterically. Seeing the ire in his eyes, she regretted her
rashness at once, despite the fact that he deserved worse!

Beneath
her, the Viking’s shoulders began to quiver, then shake, and then rumble, and
she found to her dismay that he was laughing.

Laughing?

How
dare he!

The
fiend she’d slapped, on the other hand, glared at her. But to her immense
relief he responded only by gurgling his ale in her face. When he finished
swooshing it, he grinned, letting the sudsy, amber liquid seep from between
rotting and missing teeth. She winced as a sprinkling caught her full upon the
brow, and resisted the urge to swipe the revolting droplet away.

Beneath
her, the golden one’s shoulders shook ferociously with mirth. Bracing her palms
against her captor’s back for support, Elienor willed him to perdition and
beyond! Though even as she struggled for balance and blasphemed him, his husky
laughter filled her senses, riveted her, and only belatedly did she realize
that Flame Hair had taken another hearty swig from his tankard. He swooshed it
again, puffing his cheeks to spew it upon her. Fie! No doubt all would burst
into fits of hilarity this time. Uncouth savages! She squeezed her lids closed
and braced herself for the deluge.

It
never came.

The
metallic hiss of a sword being drawn caught every ear. Stefan’s voice resounded
off the stone walls, flying upward into the tower. “Leave her be!”

Elienor’s
eyes flew wide as he charged at the leaders back.

Her
mouth formed a scream that never materialized, for what happened next happened
so quickly that she would never be entirely certain of the chain of events;
Stefan came at them with blood lust in his eyes, his sword rising up. One
instant, the Viking leader was empty handed. In the next he held his sword and
was facing Stefan, ready to strike. With astounding ease, he’d also managed to
snatch her down to hold her by the waist before him. Next she knew, Stefan lay
skewered by his sword.

“Nay!”
she screamed. “Nay! Nay! We made a bargain!”

Frantically,
she resisted the Viking leader until he was forced to release her. “You made me
a bargain!” she cried as she tumbled to the floor beside Stefan’s body.

His
face in death was still as sweetly innocent as it had been in life, no fear, no
regret—he’d done it for her. “Nay... oh, nay!” He was but a boy! God have
mercy, he’d died for her! She seized him, clutching him to her breast, rocking
him. “Stefan!” she whimpered. “I’m so... so... so, sorry!” It was her fault.

She
cried out, her features twisting with horror as she lifted her tear-stained
face to the chaos about her. Bodies were strewn about the once spotless hall,
littering every corner. Tables were toppled. Stools, so beautiful once with
carved legs that clawed the ground, were axed into little more than rough-hewn
splinters. The only lives that seemed to have been spared were those of the
female servants who now screamed for mercy beneath the abusing bodies of
murdering Northmen.

Nay,
they were not being raped, but how long before they were all defiled? How she
wished she could aid them! She released Stefan, and tried to rise, but her
vision blackened as blood rushed into her temples. Desperately, she fought
another wave of nausea as she rose. Her legs had never felt more unsubstantial.

Anger
unlike anything she’d ever known soared within her. She whirled to face the Viking
leader, loathing in her eyes. “You made me a bargain!” she cried furiously. She
lifted her fists to strike him and he caught both wrists in midair with a
single fluid movement.

Wrenching
herself free, Elienor turned to face the rest of his butchers, all the while
shaking her head in denial. “He was just a boy!”

The
flame-haired Viking laughed uproariously. Undaunted, she met his gaze without
fail, her own eyes vivid with fury. He would laugh? He would rejoice at the
death of a child? Too furious to consider the consequences, she lunged at the
flamehaired Viking, too desperate to avenge Stefan to consider the
consequences.

An arm
caught her firmly about the waist. Elienor screamed, bucking and squirming
against the iron hold.

“Think
you a boy cannot deal a death blow?” a husky voice asked at her back.

“As God
is my witness, I wish he had!” Elienor told him and meant it with all of her
soul. “Set me free, you deceiving, misbegotten cur!”

Trying
in vain to shake herself loose from the leader’s grasp, she kicked him. He
dropped her at once. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a Norse
curse, he spun her about, his expression furious, though he said not another
word.

Blinding
tears welled in Elienor’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks, but she lifted her
chin, daring him to make her repudiate her words, daring him to say aught more
to defend himself. They’d struck a bargain and he’d forsaken it, and she’d not
forget it.
Ever!

A muscle
ticked in his jaw. “Whether boy, or man, in fact,” he enlightened her, “by the
blade he wielded he declared himself a man!” He spared a quick glance at Flame
Hair, and turned back to Elienor with a look that was lethal.

Elienor
shook her head. Accursed fate! She cast a withering glance at the one called
Red-Hrolf.

The
Viking leader snarled and tore his gaze from her abruptly. “Enough!” he
commanded his men. His scowl was as cold and fierce as the north winds. “We go
now! Take whatever catches your fancy from this wretched mound of
stones—but do so quickly!”

The
Viking in the nearest corner snickered wickedly and again tackled the wench
he’d pinned to the floor. Red-Hrolf shouted heinously as he turned and dove
upon the girl, as well. Struggling in earnest they squashed the buxom wench
beneath their strong play, causing her to scream in fear and protest.

Another
came and tapped the leader upon the shoulder. He smiled meaningfully. “I’d have
a taste of this one, if it please you.”

“Nei,
you will not!” the leader barked. His eyes narrowed in warning. “Take what else
you will with my blessing, but do it now, Bjorn. Best you not try me tonight!”

The
other Viking stood beside him stubbornly, his expression offended and
resentful.

“Suit
yourself,” the leader grumbled, and then still scowling, he turned to yet
another—the nude one! “Enough, you bare-assed sapling, dress yourself! We
go! And you!” he added to Elienor, “get yourself up and walk!” He pried her
away from Stefan, lifting her and nudging her forward.