Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (5 page)

Alaric watched Elisead’s face as she took in the sight of the longships moored along the bay’s sandy shoreline.

Did she know just how expressive her amber eyes were? He doubted it, for she’d seemed surprised at how easily he’d sensed not only her changing moods but the shifting thoughts and fears behind them.

Alaric forced himself to tear his gaze away and return his attention to where it belonged—on his crew, and on the camp that needed making. A quick scan of the area helped get his thoughts in order.

“We’ll make camp there.” He pointed to a level patch of ground slightly elevated from the bay’s shore. The trees were sparser on that sandy expanse before the forest rose and the land sloped into a series of hills.

His crew set about unloading the two longships. They formed a line and passed down chests and beams of wood that had been tucked along the ships’ sides.

Alaric was about to take up a spot at the end of the chain when he heard Elisead shifting in the cart behind him. Before she could awkwardly struggle to the ground, he spun and captured her waist in his hands.

Even through the thick material of her cloak, he could feel the supple trimness of her waist in his grasp. She gasped but automatically placed her small hands on his shoulders as he slid her to the ground.

Involuntarily, he inhaled. He hadn’t gotten the opportunity earlier when he’d caught her in her swoon, but now he took full advantage of her nearness. She smelled like sun-warmed pine boughs and something sweet and subtle, perhaps her own skin.

When her feet reached the ground, he quickly removed his hands lest he forget how to control himself. Even still, he lingered. Alaric’s pulse thrummed as he stared down at Elisead, those liquid gold eyes enthralling him.

By Thor’s bloody hammer. He spun on his heels and took his place at the end of the line.

’Twas an innocent touch, he told himself firmly. Naught to berate himself over—and certainly naught that warranted the heat coursing through his veins.

He flexed his hands in preparation to take the large wooden chest being passed down the line. He’d only promised to leave her a virgin, not forego assisting her in any way that put them in physical contact.

As he piled chests, tent beams, weapons, and the rest of their supplies on the ground, he kept one eye on Elisead. She stood awkwardly to the side, watching them all work. Perhaps his sister had been more astute in her caution than even she knew—perhaps he would have to tread carefully with Elisead, else his own interest in the girl distract him from his mission.

*   *   *

Just as the sun dipped behind the western hills, Alaric straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow. They’d erected a dozen tents along the shoreline where the river flowed into the bay. Most of his crew had already made their sleeping arrangements and were carrying their sea chests into the tent of their choosing.

His tent was by far the largest and finest. It had been a gift from Eirik in honor of this voyage. Alaric stood back and admired it for a moment as the sea breeze cooled him.

Two thick wooden poles leaned against each other, crossing well over Alaric’s head. The top ends of the poles, which stuck out above either side of the tent, were carved with the same dragon heads as the prows of his ships. A rafter pole nestled at the point where the heads sprouted and extended nigh ten paces back, resting on another set of poles propped together. Finely spun but stout wool, the same as they used for their sails, provided the roof and walls, with a slit in the front for a door flap.

’Twas a tent fit for a Jarl—and in a way, Alaric was the Jarl of this voyage, the Jarl of this new settlement. Pride at his responsibility swelled as he gazed upon the tent.

“What are you going to do with her?”

Rúnin emerged from the back of the tent, where he’d been fastening the woolen cover to the poles.

Alaric didn’t need him to clarify the question. Elisead stuck out like a sheep among wolves amid the Northlanders. She’d stayed next to the cart the entire time they’d worked, not making a sound.

“Since my sister isn’t here, I’ll share your tent. She can have mine.”

Rúnin scowled at the reminder that Madrena was with the Picts. But instead of arguing further with Alaric about the wisdom of his plan, Rúnin silently hefted Alaric’s sea chest, which lay nearby, and carried it the short distance to his own smaller tent.

Alaric approached Elisead as the blue light of the summer evening began to settle around them.

“You will have the use of my tent for the duration of the negotiations.”

Those amber eyes widened in horror, and it took Alaric a moment to understand why.

“I will be sleeping elsewhere,” he said quickly as realization struck him. “As I promised, you will go untouched within this camp.”

She nodded quickly, lowering her gaze. Reaching into the cart, he lifted her wooden chest and hefted it on one shoulder.

“This way.”

She walked with him toward the tent but faltered when he held back one of the flaps for her to go inside. She stared for a long moment at the dragons carved into the tent’s poles and a visible shudder went through her.

Something tightened in Alaric’s chest at that. Surely she had every right to be frightened of the situation she found herself in. The runes carved next to the burned bones revealed that whatever Northlanders had landed here before, their contact with the Picts had been violent. He’d have to ask her what had happened—not tonight, though. This day had been trying enough.

There was just enough light filtering in from the open flap that she could pick her footing toward the back of the tent. To his pleasant surprise, he found that Rúnin had set up the bed that had been part of Eirik’s gift. A thick mattress stuffed with goose down sat atop a wooden crate. A few furs covered the mattress. The bed was fit for a King—or the daughter of a Pictish chieftain.

Alaric set down the chest at the foot of the bed with a grunt. Even that sound made Elisead jump. It would be quite the task to get her to relax and truly believe she was safe here.

“What do you wish to do with your…stone?”

Maelcon mac Lorcan had called her a skilled stone carver. Alaric hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but the stone must be important for the father to send it with the daughter into Northmen’s hands.

“I’d have it brought in, if that is all right.”

All her hardened bluster from before seemed to have withered away. He could tell from her eyes that she was coming to learn the seriousness of her situation.

Alaric nodded and stepped out of the tent. He motioned several men over and they retrieved the enormous slab of stone, even longer than he was tall and as broad as his shoulders. They shuffled into the tent and lowered the stone to the ground.

In the dim light, Alaric could make out a few swirls and divots in the rock’s surface. Yet another thing he’d have to ask Elisead about—in the morning.

“We’ll have a fire going shortly,” Alaric said as the others filed out of the tent. For some reason, he found himself lingering in her presence yet again. “You are welcome to warm yourself by it. There will be food and drink as well.”

“Nay,” she breathed. “I would rather…be alone.”

“Very well. I’ll have some nourishment sent in, all the same.”

She nodded, and suddenly he felt like he was being dismissed from his own tent. She was the daughter of a chieftain, after all. Alaric forced his feet toward the slit in the tent’s front, then dropped the tent flap closed behind him.

Just as he was about to step away, however, he heard a muffled cry from inside. He almost barged back in, sword drawn and ready to face any danger that threatened Elisead. But then the noise came again, and he realized it was the sound of her weeping.

She must have buried her face in the furs, or perhaps her cloak, for each cry was barely audible. An unfamiliar twinge of guilt twisted in his chest. He didn’t relish causing the fire-haired beauty pain, but he had responsibilities greater than tending to her worries and sorrows. Elisead—and Madrena—bore the consequences of his plan, but the stakes were higher than the two of them.

He willed his feet away at last, distancing himself from her sobs.

Elisead woke with a pounding headache that was no doubt the result of her childish tears the night before.

True to his word, Alaric had sent a blond-headed lad, who was perhaps of an age with Elisead, to her tent with a horn of ale, a package of dried meat, and a somewhat stale round of flatbread.

But more than his word to send her food, he’d kept his promise that she’d be safe all night. Except for the young lad, who blushed so deeply in Elisead’s presence that she had a hard time imagining that he was a danger even to a midge, no one had disturbed her.

Even still, she’d slept poorly. Every snort or shifting body beyond the walls of the tent sent her jumping. Considering all the tales she’d heard about Northmen and what she’d seen for herself seven years ago, it was a miracle she got any sleep at all.

As the sounds of the camp rising and starting the day filtered into the tent, she lingered behind the woolen walls. At last, the sun was high and strong enough that the tent was filled with soft light. She removed a comb carved out of bone from her chest and set into the tangles in her hair.

When that task was done, she still didn’t feel ready to face the Northmen—especially Alaric, whose gaze seemed to tease and yet cut into her every time he looked at her.

With naught left to do, she sat down in front of the stone that was to be her bride gift. She’d already discarded her heavy cloak and so was able to reach into the pouch at her belt unimpeded.

She fingered the pebbles that sat at the bottom of the pouch. Though an untrained touch would be hard-pressed to distinguish between them, she knew the shape and size of each with a brush of her fingers. She considered the stone for a moment, then withdrew a pebble of medium size. She wouldn’t do the most detailed work just yet—she didn’t trust her nerves, or the still-soft light filling the tent.

Elisead placed the pebble atop a small hole she’d already made in the stone. Then she glided the pebble toward another of the holes, then another. As she worked the pebble between the string of holes, a groove formed in the stone that connected the little marks. The groove would eventually turn into the outer edge of a twisting vine winding around a stag.

As the pebble rolled under her callused fingers, a sense of calm stole over her. Though this project was one she’d been ordered to complete by her father, carving of any kind never failed to soothe her. Gradually, she took to humming in time with each stroke of the pebble against the stone’s surface.

Suddenly, harsh light flooded the tent as the door flaps were drawn back. The song in her throat turned into a scream. The pebble fell from her fingertips as she whipped around, squinting into the sun at an enormous figure outlined in the doorway.

“Easy, Elisead.” Alaric’s deep, rich voice sounded like he was trying to calm a spooked animal. And she supposed she was behaving like one.

His bright green eyes flitted past her to the stone, and he squinted at the area she’d been working on.

“Your father said you were a carver, but I don’t think I understood his meaning until now.”

Alaric fastened one of the tent’s flaps back, allowing the bright morning sun to continue streaming in. Whatever his original purpose for entering the tent, he now seemed completely transfixed by what she was doing.

“You…you did all this?”

Alaric crouched next to her, and suddenly her heart pounded hard in her chest. But not from fear—nay, for strangely, she felt both unsettled and safe in his presence. How could that be? She pushed the thought aside as she watched his battle-roughened fingers trace over the band of curling vines and forest creatures she’d been carving around the edge of the stone.

“Aye,” she managed at last. Her voice sounded small in her own ears.

“’Tis too fine to have been done with a chisel,” he said absently, his fingertips caressing the stone.

“Do you…do you truly wish to know?”

He looked at her then, mirth around his mouth but his eyes sharp. “You think me a barbarian, a savage. And to your mind, savages must not have any interest in or appreciation of art.”

It wasn’t a question, but rather almost an accusation. Elisead’s cheeks heated under his scrutinizing stare.

“My people have faced Northmen before. We know your brutal ways. You are no better than wolves, preying on God’s children and devouring everything in your path.”

Though she’d spoken bravely, she had to swallow hard once the words were out, for at her declaration, Alaric’s smile dropped and his eyes darkened. Suddenly she felt like she was face to face with a real wolf.

Was this a glimpse of the Northman’s true character? Was he just like the others who’d ravaged her lands and people?

Alaric glanced down at the stone again, narrowing his eyes. When he returned his gaze to her, understanding flickered there.

“The runes next to the burned bones. You carved them, did you not?”

She swallowed again. Was she as safe as she’d come to believe over the course of one undisturbed night?

“A-aye.”

“Come with me,” he said, standing suddenly. He lifted her by the elbow, and although his grip wasn’t meant to inflict pain, it was firm enough to make it impossible to break free.

Before she could ask where they were going, he guided her out of the tent. She had only enough time to cast a brief glance around the camp.

A low fire burned near the bay’s shore, and a few of the Northmen lingered around it with their morning meal. Others were moving about the little tent village they’d erected last night. A few glanced at Alaric and Elisead, but none seemed concerned at their leader’s grip on his hostage.

Alaric made his way along the bank of the river, Elisead in tow. Realization struck her even before the dreaded site came into view. He was taking her to the carved runes—and the remnants of all those incinerated bodies.

“Nay!” She struggled harder against his hold, but his grip didn’t falter.

Her leather-clad feet sank into the soft sand of the river’s bank where it widened. The sand was gray here. Seven years of rain, snow, and wind hadn’t removed the ash. In fact, they seemed only to drive the ashes deeper, like a stain on the earth.

At last Alaric halted in front of the stone with the two runes carved into it.

“You did this.”

“I…I carved them, aye.” There was no point in lying. She’d always been told her face betrayed every thought and flicker of emotion.

“How did you learn these symbols?” Alaric’s eyes, like his voice, were hard and flat.

“There was…a boy. He was with them.” She gestured vaguely at the field of bones, unable to look.

The stench assailed her again. Although she knew it wasn’t real, only a product of her imagination, it still made her insides twist.

Alaric didn’t seem to notice, though, for he frowned down at her. “What boy?”

Perhaps if she told him all, he would release her and she could flee this terrible place. “His name is Feitr. He came with the others. Now he is my father’s slave.”

The sickening pops and crackles of burning flesh rang in her ears. If she didn’t get away soon, she would be sick.

“How long ago was this? And who were these other Northlanders? Did they have a distinctive color or pattern to their sails? How many of them were there?”

She swayed in his hold. “Please…” She wasn’t above begging now. Blood darkened the sand in her mind’s eye. Screams tore through the air—the screams of her people as they fell under the Northmen’s blades.

Elisead looked up to find a blurry Alaric gazing down at her, his brows drawn together. The sun glinted off his golden head, so sharp it was almost painful to her eyes.

“What is the matter?”

The harsh edge to his voice was now replaced with genuine concern, but she didn’t trust herself to open her mouth to respond, lest she become sick right there and then.

She pointed to the tree line behind him. Without hesitation, he guided her swiftly away from the carved stone and into the protection of the trees.

Elisead inhaled deeply of the fresh, piney air, trying to rid herself of the burnt smell lingering in her nostrils. Inadvertently, she caught his scent. ’Twas surprisingly clean—lye soap mixed with wood smoke and plant life.

“I do not wish to bring you harm or distress you,” Alaric said at last, his voice low. “But I must have answers. What ails you?”

Taking another steadying breath, she met his searching gaze. “I become…overly sensitive at times.”

’Twas embarrassing to discuss it with him. Her father and those in the village knew she was odd, but to explain it to this outsider made her feel ashamed. “I…feel things intensely. Sometimes I faint if I become overwhelmed.”

His dark gold brows winged as his eyes widened slightly. “Were you cursed? Or hexed by a witching woman perhaps?”

Elisead repressed a sigh. That was what some in the village thought—that she was to be pitied at best and feared at worst because sights and sounds overwhelmed her at times, and an unexpected touch or a powerful scent could send her swooning. Even memories could be so strong as to cause her panic and tears.

“Nay, I have always been this way.”

In truth, it had gotten slightly better when she’d learned how to carve. Even though the world’s intensity still left her stunned at times, carving was always an escape, a relief.

Alaric’s eyes searched her for another moment. Then his gaze softened. “You are touched by the gods, then.”

“What?”

He shrugged but considered his words, likely picking them carefully in the Northumbrian tongue. “Our gods deign to grant a select few a sliver of their powers. You’ve been touched, albeit lightly.”

It sounded like something from the old ways. But she and her people were Christians now. They only had one God, and her sensitivity was certainly not a favor granted by Him.

She shook her head. “It does not feel like a gift most of the time.”

“Perhaps your people do not understand your true value.”

Alaric lifted his hand as if he would brush a lock of her hair behind her ear, but then hesitated, his fingers suspended in the air between them. Her mind shot back to how she’d pulled away from his touch last afternoon. Suddenly she felt a stirring, barely a flutter, low in her belly. Would his touch be as soft as it had been before?

“Your eyes are the color of amber.” His voice was like a silky caress, intimate and dark.

“Aye, so I have been told.”

“Amber is a most precious stone where I come from. Its beauty is held in the highest regard, its value unmatched.”

The flutter turned into a knotted warmth deep in her core.

“Aye?” It was barely more than a whisper, for suddenly her throat was dry as he held her gaze for another long moment.

At last, Alaric dropped his hand, and the spell seemed to break. Elisead shook her head a little to clear it.

“I have a great many questions,” he said. “And you have been less than forthcoming.”

He softened the critique with a quirk of one side of his mouth. “I do not wish to drag answers from you. Surely you can see how providing me with the information I seek will have you settled back in your home with your father and people all the sooner.”

“Nay, I suppose I don’t see.” Now that she had recovered her senses, she forced her feet to take a step back from Alaric’s large frame.

“The better I understand your people and their ways, the easier it will be for my people to join yours and get on with the process of making our home here.”

“And you truly wish to settle amongst us?” Though she’d heard him proclaim it in the great hall, she still didn’t fully believe that a Northman wished to do more than plunder and destroy.

“Ja,” he replied, slipping back into his own tongue, though from the fervency of his tone and the clear, stubborn set of his face, she understood his meaning well enough.

She hesitated for a long moment, considering all that had transpired since yesterday morn.

The Northmen had landed upon their shore, armed and prepared for battle. They’d reached her father’s fortress and demanded admittance.

But they had never attacked, even when her father’s archers had fired on them. Since then, they’d built a temporary camp but hadn’t made another move against her people or the fortress. And of course before all of that, Alaric could have killed her by the river, but instead had let her go.

And here she stood with the man now, alone and far enough away from camp that no one would hear her scream if he tried to harm her.

Perhaps it was all some elaborate plot to lure her father into letting his guard down, then striking. They’d already managed to earn enough trust—or mayhap simply leverage—to gain the chieftain’s daughter as their hostage.

But from what she’d heard of Northmen and what she’d seen for herself seven years ago, they weren’t known for their patience or their elaborate plots. Nay, they normally took what they wanted when they wanted it, life, limb, and property be damned.