Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (4 page)

The great hall felt like it was spinning. Only the golden warrior’s green eyes pinned her in place.

Suddenly Elisead couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt like it was being squeezed of every wisp of air, and still his gaze held her.

She heard her father shout something in the distance, but she couldn’t understand the words. It was some sort of denial. He would never turn over his daughter to a band of savage Northmen. As her father continued to fume and reject Alaric’s demand, the Northman’s eyes felt as though they were eating away at her, gnawing right down to her bones.

At last he freed her from her captivity and turned to her father.

“You said yourself that the hostage must be of some importance. Who better than the chieftain’s daughter?”

Her father sputtered. “She is engaged to another—the son of the King of Picts himself. She is innocent. There is no way, by God, that I would send her into a camp full of Northmen!”

Alaric’s eyes darted back to her, and once again she couldn’t breathe. His brows drew together as if she suddenly displeased him—or the news of her engagement displeased him.

A laden silence stretched as the golden warrior continued to assess her.

“And what if I could promise that she will remain untouched, as pure and innocent for her intended as she is now?” Alaric said, his gaze traveling over her just as it had when he’d trapped her between himself and the river.

“How could you promise such a thing?” Maelcon snapped.

Alaric’s relaxed air suddenly vanished, and he sat forward so swiftly in his chair that Drostan, who stood next to Maelcon, jumped and reached for his sword.

“A man’s honor is the only thing he truly has,” Alaric said icily. “It is the only thing that matters in the eyes of the gods, and the only thing he can control. Do not call mine into question.”

The woman who sat at his side gripped his arm, urging him back into the chair. They exchanged a look that seemed to bear much silent communication. The act was not lost on her father. Suddenly his amber eyes were sharp on the two Northlanders.

“And who could you possibly offer in exchange as a hostage? Who could rival the importance of a chieftain’s daughter?”

Alaric seemed to consider for a moment, but when he spoke, his air of coolness had returned. “I offer my twin sister, who is also my second in command. That should suffice.”

Now it was the Northlanders’ turn to erupt in refusals, or what Elisead took for refusals, for the woman and the dark-headed man spoke rapidly in their own tongue. To her surprise, it was the dark warrior on Alaric’s other side who seemed most agitated at the suggestion.

At last Alaric put a stop to the debate with a hand raised for silence. The woman, his sister, gave a curt nod despite the black looks the other warrior was giving her.

“Very well,” Alaric said to Maelcon. “Your daughter in exchange for my sister. Both are to remain completely unharmed—in any way. Their safety is what binds us together as we move forward in these negotiations.”

Elisead shook her head slowly. “Nay, Father,” she breathed, but he was already grudgingly extending his arm toward Alaric. As they clasped forearms, Elisead had to swallow hard not to choke on the bile rising in her throat.

She would be the golden Northman’s captive.

She would be alone in a violent, nightmarish camp surrounded by savages.

It was all too much. The room once again spun wildly. The ground swayed beneath her feet, and then suddenly it was rapidly approaching.

She slammed into something hard, but the ground was still a hand-span away. Through fuzzy eyes, she looked up to find Alaric looming over her. The hardness encasing her was his body. His arms bound her like iron bands to the rock wall of his chest.

He’d caught her just before she’d slammed to the floor in a faint. But how had he moved so quickly from the dais? And how were his eyes so vividly green?

She shook her head, trying to clear it of her addled thoughts. Alaric lifted her with ease and propped her upright, his hands lingering on her shoulders to steady her. Unbidden, her own hands rose between them and gripped his linen tunic for balance. The hard expanse of his chest was warm beneath her curling fingers.

Then her father and Drostan were by her side, and Alaric’s hands dropped away instantly.

Maelcon shot a dark look between the two of them.

“Prepare yourself, daughter,” he said at last. “For you are to go at once.”

Alaric waited in front of the now-open wooden gates. Madrena and Rúnin stood off to the side, talking quietly. His hostage had yet to emerge from what he’d learned the Picts called a great hall.

Apparently, much like a longhouse, there were private chambers built off a corridor along the back for the chieftain and his family. The chieftain’s daughter, now Alaric’s hostage, was there now, readying herself to depart.

He sent up another round of thanks to Odin, Thor, Freyja, and all the other gods that the girl had proven to be the chieftain’s daughter. It had been a risk to insist that she be his hostage, an impetuous move that could have sent his whole mission crumbling if it had failed.

The needlework he’d noticed earlier on her long tunic set her apart from the other Picts he’d seen gathered in the great hall. She was different—he’d sensed it from the first.

But it was more than her finely made clothes that had marked her as the chieftain’s daughter. There was a likeness in the golden-amber eyes of both father and daughter. Some shared intelligence and nobility lingered there. Some proud spirit flickered in their depths.

Taking her as his hostage meant that he’d have leverage over Maelcon—but it had also meant that he had to risk his sister. He’d catch Hel’s wrath from Rúnin for such a move, but it was the only way to show Maelcon that he was serious about negotiating for the Northlanders’ settlement.

Just then, the doors on the stables built against the wall to the left of the great hall slid open and a stable lad emerged pulling a donkey. The donkey was harnessed to a small wooden cart, which the animal drew behind him.

Before Alaric could ask the stable lad a question, the great hall’s doors opened and the girl emerged. She was dressed for winter, though it was a balmy summer afternoon. Over her tunic now draped a thick wool cloak, fastened at the neck with a pin.

Behind her, a few young men filed out carrying a chest of her personal effects. As the lads loaded the chest in the front of the cart, several others emerged from the great hall struggling under the weight of an enormous stone slab. They grunted and groaned as they shuffled toward the cart. When they slid the stone onto the wooden planks, the whole cart sagged low.

“What in…”

“My daughter is a skilled stone carver,” Maelcon said as he emerged from the great hall. “She is making a fine carving for her betrothed as her bride gift. I do not wish for her to fall behind on her work while our…discussions continue. She will be married at the end of the summer, which is barely two moons away.”

The words were spoken coolly, as a pointed reminder to Alaric of her betrothal—and his promise to leave her untouched. He gritted his teeth against a sudden frustration that sprang into his body.

The chieftain’s daughter climbed into the cart and sat upon her chest of belongings. Madrena and Rúnin seemed to take that as a sign that their time to separate had come, for they embraced for a long moment, whispering unheard words into each other’s ears.

Alaric waited until Madrena had untangled herself from Rúnin before stepping to her side.

“Take care of yourself, sister,” he said. Though he attempted lightness with his voice, the words sounded too ominous.

She barreled into him in a hard embrace.

“I’ll be fine, brother,” she said. “I’m more worried about you.”

He drew back slightly. Leave it to his brave, fierce, shieldmaiden sister to be a hostage in a strange fortress and be worrying about him.

“I hope you know what you are doing,” she went on. Her pale gray eyes flickered for the briefest moment toward the chieftain’s daughter.

Something twisted deep in Alaric’s belly at the sight of the girl, her auburn hair glinting in the sun and her eyes wide with fright for what lay ahead.

Odin’s breath, what had he gotten himself into?
 

*   *   *

Maelcon stood on the wall and watched as his daughter was carted away by the two Northmen. As they descended the hill and wended their way through the deserted huts, he caught sight of the rest of the band of Northmen warriors approaching them from the woods.

“I hope you know what you are doing.” Drostan stood by his side, a deep frown on his face. But if there was anyone in the world who’d stand by Maelcon’s decision, it was Drostan, his loyal warrior.

“Aye, I do.”

“How can you be so calm when your daughter is in those bastards’ hands?” Drostan said, his voice tight.

“Though you are too proud to admit it, they could have slaughtered us all.” Maelcon tugged on his beard absently. “We should both be thanking God that those Northman wish to settle instead of raid.”

“But they are still animals,” Drostan persisted. “How can you trust—”

Maelcon rounded on Drostan, his patience at last worn out. “There is a reason I am Chief and you obey my orders, not the other way around. I am thinking about my people—not just today, not just tomorrow, but for countless generations. Our fate rides on this moment.”

Though Drostan stood nigh a head taller than Maelcon, the warrior bowed slightly in acquiescence to Maelcon’s authority.

“The Northumbrians will never cease to threaten the borders of Pictland, no matter how many times we drive them back,” Maelcon went on, lowering his voice though none dared to eavesdrop on the Chief and the leader of the warriors. “And even though we count Causantín mac Fergusa as our ally today, there is no telling which direction the winds of his favor will blow tomorrow.”

“Even when Elisead marries Causantín’s son?”

“Aye, even then. These Northmen will never stop coming, and like as not, more will wish to settle, like these ones, rather than just raid. Hell, Dál Riata has been swarmed with them. Though Causantín hopes to put Domnall on the throne in the west, the King of the Picts may not have that option if the Northmen have their way.”

Drostan squinted over the wall into the sun. Maelcon’s eyes followed, catching the last sight of Elisead’s cart as she and the Northmen around her were swallowed by the forest.

“And you think that aligning yourself to these Northmen will provide you some…protection?” Drostan said, his voice calmer now.

“Aye,” Maelcon replied, clenching his fists against his powerlessness. “From Causantín, from the Northumbrians, and from other Northlanders, when they come—and they will come.”

Maelcon descended the stairs and made his way toward the great hall. He would wait to send word to Causantín mac Fergusa, King of the Picts. News of these Northmen’s arrival, their desire to settle, and Elisead’s role as their hostage would only threaten the betrothal between Elisead and the King’s son, Domnall. Everything hung in a delicate balance, and one wrong move, one rash decision or early jump would destroy it all.

Even still, he wasn’t going to sit on his hands until the Northmen contacted him again. He would need their camp watched. And mayhap the Northwoman, Alaric’s sister, could provide information.

He approached the strangely-clad woman, eyeing her where she stood in the yard as if poised for battle.

“I’ll show you to my daughter’s chambers. You may be here a while, so you’d best make yourself comfortable.”

The woman—Madrena if he remembered Alaric’s introduction—tilted her head in such a way that she acknowledged Maelcon while still looking down her nose slightly at him. She was unusually tall, but it was more than that. She carried herself with a regal, arrogant air. Maelcon gritted his teeth against the foul taste in his mouth at the predicament he found himself in.

“Very well,” Madrena said, with that same thickly accented Northumbrian tongue as her brother.

As Maelcon guided Madrena toward the great hall, his eye snagged on a flash of white in one of the shadows.

Feitr.

Perhaps the Northland slave would finally prove more valuable than the labor to be wrung from his body.

Maelcon’s mind swirled even as he plastered a kindly smile on his face for Madrena’s benefit.

As the Northmen emerged from the woods to meet the cart, Elisead had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.

It was already terrifying enough to be mere feet behind Alaric as he walked with a hand on the donkey’s harness, guiding it away from the safety of the fortress and everyone in the world she knew.

She watched, nigh spellbound, as he strode with an easy gait that belied his swiftness. Even now, her body hummed at the memory of the hard expanse of him wrapping around her, protecting her from the floor. Her shoulders tingled where his hands had lingered for a breath longer than necessary when they’d steadied her.

The one called Rúnin walked behind, setting the hairs on the back of her neck to stirring. And as the cart was surrounded by the warriors nigh two score in number, her skin crawled with unease.

But these were her keepers now. She tried to remind herself that her wellbeing was in their best interest as well—if what Alaric had said in the great hall was true.

Many sets of eyes, mostly shades of blue and green, darted to her as Alaric spoke in that lilting tongue. A moment later, he was guiding the donkey into the trees.

Elisead jerked her head around and caught one last glimpse of the fortress before pine boughs obscured it. Her heart hammered in her chest, her stomach sinking like a rock in a pond.

She was alone with these Northmen now, with no stone walls or chieftain father to protect her. Her father had seemed all too quick to agree to Alaric’s terms. As usual, he put his people’s safety above his daughter’s happiness and wellbeing. If it had been anyone else in this situation, she would have seen the wisdom in it. But as it was, she wanted to scream at him for her freedom from these Northmen.

“What is your name?”

Elisead’s head snapped back around at the rich, silky voice right next to her. Alaric had let one of the other Northmen take the donkey’s harness and he now strode slowly by her side.

She swallowed. “Elisead.”

“Elisead.” He tested the name. It sounded different, foreign on his tongue. For some reason, goose bumps rose on her arms despite her heavy cloak. She’d worn it just in case the Northmen left her out in the elements. For all she knew, she might have to sleep on the ground in the open, and the sea breezes turned cool even in the summer.

As if reading her mind, Alaric shifted his gaze to the cloak. “Cold?”

“Nay,” she said quickly, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “But…I know not how long I will be forced to remain with you.”

She dragged her gaze up and held his eyes boldly, a silent challenge in them. She must make it clear early on that she would not be pushed over like a reed in the wind. She was not here by choice, but she would maintain her dignity in the process. She was a chieftain’s daughter, and soon to be a King’s wife.

“You are engaged.”

Again, it was as if Alaric could see into her mind and discern her thoughts with ease. But unlike his question about her cloak, which had been subtly playful, now his eyes were dark and searching.

“Aye.”

“To whom?”

He seemed slightly annoyed at her lack of ready information.
Good
. Elisead had no desire to make life easier for this intimidating Northman.

“To Domnall.”

He raised a golden eyebrow at her. “And who is Domnall?”

“The son of Causantín mac Fergusa.”

“And who is Causantín mac Fergusa?”

She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, considering any other possible evasion. “He is King of the Picts,” she said at last.

This had both brows shooting up and a slow exhale escaping from Alaric’s lips. Her gaze lingered there for a moment. His lips were most expressive. They curved playfully, or wolfishly, or they compressed into a hard line that conveyed an unbending will.

“Your father must be very interested in negotiations if he would risk such a valuable…asset.” His eyes roamed over her, as they had by the river, and she felt heat once again move up her neck. Though his gaze wasn’t lewd, something about it sent a knot into her belly.

Elisead silently cursed herself for giving up that piece of information. In truth she didn’t understand the whole of her father’s reasoning. Perhaps Alaric had already deduced more about her father’s position wedged between the Northmen and the Pictish King than she had.

“Don’t punish yourself overmuch,” Alaric said, that easy smile creeping back to his lips. “You fought valiantly to make that information hard-won.”

She stiffened. “It is not my place, nor my wish, to help you in any way. I will just have to work harder to avoid inadvertently aiding you.”

Alaric snorted softly. “You need not see me as the enemy. You are a hostage, not a captive.”

“What is the difference?”

“As you likely very well know,” Alaric said, holding her gaze, “if you were a captive, you would not be sitting in that cart. You’d be over my shoulder.”

Elisead inhaled sharply. Then unbidden, the tingling started in her body where she’d come in contact with her as he’d scooped her up in her faint.

“But as a hostage, I must look out for your wellbeing as if you were my own flesh and blood.”

A dark promise that Elisead didn’t fully understand flickered in Alaric’s bright green eyes. All she knew was that it was wrong—wrong of him to insinuate aught, and wrong for the knot to tighten hotly in her stomach at the glint in his gaze. Nevertheless, she straightened her spine so that she sat rigidly on the swaying cart.

“I want naught to do with you barbarians. The sooner these negotiations are over, the better.”

Alaric chuckled, drawing the eyes of some of the men who walked alongside them.

“Very well, little spirit.”

“What did you just call me?”

His eyebrows drew together for the briefest moment, as if translating from his native language to Northumbrian. “Do you not have forest spirits in this land?”

She was so startled by the question that her lips parted wordlessly for a long moment. “Aye,” she managed at last. “We have forest spirits. Or at least we did—in the time of the ancient ways.”

“And do not your forest spirits run through the trees, hair unbound, luring strange men deeper into the woods?”

He took a tangled lock of her auburn hair between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed it boldly.

Elisead jerked back, freeing her hair from his gentle grasp. Of course, if he had wished to maintain his hold, he could have—and might have even yanked out a few strands given Elisead’s swift jolt. But he let her hair slide between his fingertips and then dropped his hand.

She floundered for a long moment, trying to come up with something to say in response to his teasing question. She must have looked the fool, for he chuckled again.

“You are quite safe, little spirit,” he said, though his smile began to fade. “My honor, the life of my sister, and the future of my people depend on it.” By the time he finished speaking, his jaw was clenched and his emerald eyes were stormy.

Though he was a Northland savage, strangely she believed that she wouldn’t have her throat slit in the night or her skull split with an axe. Yet heat continued coiling deep within her as he shook away the tension that had crept into his strong features and flashed her another wicked smile.

At last, he turned away and fell into pace with the one called Rúnin. The two spoke quietly in their own tongue.

It wasn’t long before she caught a whiff of salt air among the pine and soil scents of the forest. The trees thinned ahead and the two longships came into view. Their curved dragon prows, painted red and baring their teeth, send renewed apprehension through her.

She was in the belly of the beast now.