Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (7 page)

“You want to take my fortress?”

Even though the words weren’t directed at her, Elisead flinched back at her father’s tone.

Alaric sat calmly by her side at the high table, seemingly unaffected by Maelcon’s outraged question.

“Nei, not
take
it. Have the use of it. Just as your own people do,” Alaric said levelly.

Things had gotten underway smoothly enough that morning. Alaric had suggested that they take the cart and donkey back to her father so as not to appear to be pilfering in any way. She’d ridden in the cart, while Alaric and Rúnin, who still frightened her with his dark scowls, had walked beside it.

They’d been greeted civilly by Maelcon, with Drostan standing ever silent by his side.

Alaric’s sister Madrena had rushed into Rúnin’s eager arms, though she assured both her mate and her brother that all was well. She’d been treated fairly, she said loud enough for all to hear. She’d even taken up residence in Elisead’s old chamber.

After Elisead had made her own assurances of her wellbeing to her father, Maelcon had led them all into the great hall for a morning meal of porridge, cream, and clay bowls full of the forest’s ripest berries.

But when it came to the actual negotiations, her father’s temper flared. And although Alaric wore the relaxed smile that was becoming familiar to her, when she peered down she noticed his hand clenching and unclenching under the table.

“And why ever would I turn my fortress over to a band of Northmen if not by force?”

Madrena, who sat across from Elisead, actually rolled her eyes, but Alaric shot her a warning glance.

“We’ve been over this, Maelcon,” he said patiently.

“That’s
Chief
.” Drostan remained standing by her father’s chair, rigid and tight-lipped.

Alaric held Drostan in his gaze for a long moment before nodding slightly in acquiescence.

“You must stop thinking of us an invaders,
Chief
, and see us as settlers.”

Maelcon’s cheeks turned red above his beard. “Do not invaders arrive uninvited? And do not invaders demand admittance into my home? Do not invaders simply
take
the land they want, pretense of negotiations be damned? Nay, man, you are not merely settlers!”

Alaric’s fist hammered down on the table, sending the cups and bowls bouncing. Elisead jumped and stifled a scream behind her hand.

“I have said it before, but you make me say it again.” Alaric’s voice was surprisingly even given his obvious annoyance. “If we had simply wanted to destroy your people and your land, we would have done so already.”

“More threats from the purportedly peaceful settlers,” Maelcon shot back.

Alaric leaned back in his chair, considering her father with sharp eyes. “Ja, I suppose you are right. I have threatened you in order for you to see the benefit in working peacefully with me.”

Now it was Maelcon’s turn to stare narrow-eyed at Alaric. “And what is the benefit to
you
of remaining peaceful?”

It was a question that Elisead had longed to ask Alaric as well. These Northmen didn’t behave the way she’d expected, and though she’d spent nigh two full days in their presence, she still couldn’t make sense of Alaric’s motivation for leaving her people un-accosted.

Alaric smiled and casually rubbed the dark gold stubble bristling his jawline. “I fear you will mistake my motives for weakness, but I trust you know that such an error would be deadly wrong. I take it you know little of the Northlands?”

Maelcon frowned. “Only rumors.”

“It is a harsh land, to be sure, made harsher in recent years by a terrible string of winters. My people are primed to thrive, yet the land seems to wish to keep us in check.” Alaric shrugged. “So we seek new land.”

Her father leaned forward. “That isn’t an answer. I’ll have your true aims out of you, for I would be a fool to trust you otherwise.”

Alaric chuckled, surprising Elisead once again.

“Very well. Consider my options. My crew and I could have laid siege to your fortress. After we’d taken it, we could have slaughtered everyone within its walls. Then for sport, we might have burned down the huts outside. We’d set fire to your crops, just to make sure that your neighbors understood our ability to completely destroy them.”

Both Maelcon and Drostan visibly tensed at the scene Alaric painted. The man gave no hint that what he spoke of caused him any qualms. Elisead repressed a gasp. Was he truly the same as the other murderous, destructive Northmen after all?

But then Alaric dropped his removed air and leaned forward, holding her father with his gaze.

“Setting aside the fact that such a course of action is utterly shameful and dishonorable according to my gods and my people, it would be foolish and short-sighted as well. We’d have naught to eat come winter. If we destroyed the fortress and the village, we’d have nowhere to take shelter when those neighbors whom we threatened with our very presence came hunting for us. And we wouldn’t even know our enemies from our allies.”

Her father stroked his beard, clearly pleased to have gotten the information out of him.

“And although I’d hoped to…encourage you toward peaceful negotiations with the knowledge that I can take away your choices,” Alaric went on, his eyes flashing, “you have your reasons as well. Who would dare challenge a Chief with a band of Northmen two score strong at his back?”

“Aye,” Maelcon said with a slight nod of his head. “But that brings us to another patch of thistles. You say your men will be at my back. Does that mean I’ll be their chieftain? Or would you seek to usurp my power and name yourself chieftain?”

Once again they were back to staring at each other coolly across the wooden expanse of the high table.

Suddenly, Alaric pushed his chair back and stood. “Let that be the starting point of our next discussion. I think we’ve accomplished enough for the day.”

Maelcon stood as well, clearly not used to following another man’s lead. But Alaric took command of the situation with such ease, with such self-assuredness, that Elisead doubted he ever found himself trailing after others.

As they all made their way from the great hall to the yard, her father caught her arm.

“You are sure you are well?”

Elisead knew that as she stepped into the sun-drenched yard, her blush wouldn’t go unnoticed.

“Aye, Father, I am fine.” Why heat flooded her cheeks, though, she could not comprehend.

She was more than fine under Alaric’s care. In fact, she couldn’t make sense of how safe she felt in his presence. It was simply because he needed her to continue these tense negotiations, she reminded herself firmly.

Maelcon kept a grip on her upper arm but raised his voice to ensure the others heard him as well. “Good, because these talks will only continue if you are kept unharmed and untouched.”

Her cheeks flamed even hotter, for suddenly she thought of all the times Alaric had touched her. He’d held her hand, and gripped her waist as she’d stepped down from the cart, and had even caressed a lock of her hair.

They were undoubtedly intimate touches—mostly unnecessary for her wellbeing. Each moment of contact seemed to please Alaric, for his eyes glowed whenever they touched. She, too, felt a strange flutter at every touch, however brief or utilitarian.

Shame at her own reactions flooded her. He was a Northman and she a Pictish maiden engaged to another. Her body had no right to respond to his handsome features and powerful form the way it did.

“I am a man of my word,” Alaric said coolly in response to her father. “I promised to keep Elisead safe, and I will.”

Madrena broke the tension by moving in to say her farewells once more. Elisead had to avert her eyes when Rúnin took Madrena in his arms firmly and the two shared a lusty kiss. They whispered in their own language for a moment before Madrena turned and gave her brother a hard hug and a pound on the back, strong as any warrior.

Then Feitr approached from the stables, the same donkey and cart in tow that they had brought back that morn.

Alaric frowned. “I wished to return those to you.”

“I appreciate the gesture,” Maelcon said. “But when these negotiations come to a conclusion, you’ll need them to safely transport my daughter and her bride gift back to me.”

When, not if.
And Elisead didn’t miss her father’s second overt warning to Alaric in as many moments that his daughter was to remain pure for her impending marriage.

“How goes your work on the stone, daughter?” he asked as he stepped to Elisead’s side and assisted her into the cart.

“It goes,” she said vaguely. Truth be told, she’d barely worked on it since entering the Northmen’s camp. Late summer—and her wedding—loomed ahead, yet there was still so much to be done.

Maelcon eyed her for a moment before huffing and turning away.

Feitr stepped aside as Alaric approached the donkey and cart, the slave’s pale blond head lowered. But Elisead didn’t miss the defiant flash of Feitr’s eyes as he dared a glance up at Alaric.

Strange. Feitr had never been content as a slave in her father’s fortress, but such was the fate of a captured enemy. He was not treated cruelly, only expected to work hard.

What had just silently passed between Feitr and Alaric? And what had Feitr said yestereve that had upset Alaric enough that she hadn’t seen him again until this morn?

The fort’s gates were pulled open and the iron grille lifted. Elisead refused to look back as they cleared the walls and began their descent to the Northmen’s camp.

Nevertheless, she sensed Feitr’s gaze lingering on her, and unease tingled between her shoulder blades.

Alaric resisted the urge to kick a fist-sized chunk of rock lying in his path.

He was the leader of forty Northlanders, selected by his Jarl to create a new settlement in this land, not some petulant child.

Still, Maelcon’s stubbornness and resistance to the negotiations grated.

Alaric glanced at Elisead, who sat with her back straight, hands in her lap and looking calm despite the jostling cart she sat in. There was more at stake in these negotiations than his pride or his patience. His people were counting on him, and so was Elisead.

He felt Rúnin’s eyes on him, so he quickly dropped his gaze from his hostage.

By Odin, why did she have to be so beautiful? Her auburn hair shone like polished copper in the midday sun. Her skin was pale, despite the fact that she clearly loved being out in the fresh air. And her form—she was smaller than most Northwomen, but her feminine curves were more than enough to keep a man enthralled for all his days.

And it wasn’t just her delicate beauty that kept distracting him. There was something about her—some air of otherworldliness, of mystery. She might indeed be a forest spirit, for she seemed touched by a god—either hers or one of his.

Thor’s bloody hammer, he was staring again. She was not his to ogle, nor would he ever break his word and risk his entire mission falling apart. His people were counting on him—desire for this Pict woman be damned.

But judging from Maelcon’s continued hesitancy to trust Alaric, these negotiations could draw on for several more sennights. And that meant Elisead would be sleeping in Alaric’s tent, eating around his fire, and entrancing him with her every breath during that time.

Alaric bit down on a curse. He was stronger than his desire. He had to be.

They began their descent down the sloping hillside upon which Maelcon’s fortress sat. The village spread below them, and beyond that, the woods separating the fortress from Alaric’s camp stood dark and quiet.

The village was still and empty, for the villagers had once again removed themselves to the fortress, just in case the Northmen had planned to lay waste to their homes rather than negotiate.

The donkey leading the cart was letting the slope of the hill do some of his work for him. He and the cart were speeding up, so Alaric took the donkey’s harness firmly in hand.

Suddenly a stone came flying through the air. It hit the donkey’s flank, spooking the animal.

Alaric didn’t have time to glance behind him in search of the stone’s thrower for the donkey bolted, ripping the harness from Alaric’s hand.

Elisead screamed in surprise as she went plummeting down the hill in the cart. Alaric took off after it, Rúnin on his heels, but the donkey and cart were gaining speed.

“Hold on!” Alaric shouted to Elisead, but he wasn’t sure she’d be able to hear him.

The animal, cart, and Elisead careened through the deserted huts. Just as the sloping hill leveled off, Alaric heard a snap.

The donkey was suddenly free of the cart. He sprang to the side and slowed to a trot as the cart sped onward.

“Secure the animal!” Alaric shouted over his shoulder to Rúnin. Without waiting to see if his friend did as he bid, Alaric sprinted after the cart. It had built up enough momentum coming down the hill that even now it plowed past the edge of the village and toward the dense forest.

“Alaric!” Elisead screamed. Her red hair streamed behind her wildly and she clung desperately to the cart.

Alaric had noticed immediately upon first seeing the cart that it was a simple wooden contraption. The wheels were fixed to their axles, and the axles were attached directly to the cart’s bed, so that the cart couldn’t turn unless guided by man or beast.

Now that knowledge sent a stab of fear into his chest. Elisead was barreling directly toward the thick forest with no way to control the cart.

Alaric pushed his legs to their limit. At last he seemed to gain some ground on the runaway cart, for the grassy earth was nigh level now. But in just seconds, Elisead would be thrown into the woods.

The cart flew between two trees, and Alaric knew he was out of time. He hurdled over a fallen log, never losing his pace, and at last came even with the cart.

“Reach for me!” he shouted to Elisead. He only granted the side of his vision to avoiding low-hanging limbs and protruding roots. His gaze was focused on Elisead, who clung to the cart as it bumped and jostled over the uneven forest floor.

She extended one arm but was nearly thrown from the cart as the wheels thumped over a series of roots.

There was no more time for delay. Alaric lunged forward, clamping his arms around Elisead and yanking her hard from the front of the cart. He lost his footing from the effort. The two of them went tumbling to the ground.

They rolled over and over again. Alaric wrapped his arms even tighter around Elisead, trying to take the brunt of the impact with his own body. Distantly, he registered a loud crack and the sound of splintering wood.

After what felt like ages of endless tumbling, they finally skidded to a halt. Elisead felt so small and limp in his arms, but he could feel her chest rapidly rising and falling against his.

Slowly, Alaric eased himself up to sitting. Never loosening his hold on Elisead, he brought her up with him.

“Are you hurt?”

She lifted her head and blinked up at him. Her amber eyes were clouded with lingering fear and confusion.

“Nay, I do not think so.”

Just then, a trickle of blood slipped from her hairline and down her forehead.

Alaric cursed and wiped the blood away with the sleeve of his tunic. Careful not to hurt her, he probed her scalp and found the cut, small but flowing freely. He pressed his sleeve against the wound, drawing a wince from Elisead.

“What happened?” she asked.

Just then, Rúnin sprinted into Alaric’s line of sight. Alaric waved, though he kept one arm firmly wrapped around Elisead.

Rúnin dragged the donkey, who was calm now but panting heavily, behind him by the harness.

“Are you well?”

“Ja. Though we would have ended up like the cart if I’d been a breath slower.” Alaric motioned with his chin behind Rúnin, where the cart lay in splinters. It had slammed full force into an enormous oak tree.

“There is foul play afoot,” Rúnin said darkly as he came to a halt where Alaric and Elisead sat.

“Speak in our tongue,” Alaric said sharply in his and Rúnin’s language. “There is no need to frighten her further.”

Rúnin nodded. “When I caught up to this beast, it was obvious that his harness had been cut.”

Alaric stood slowly at last. His body ached from taking the worst of the impact and protecting Elisead, but naught felt broken or seriously damaged. He stepped stiffly to Rúnin’s side, blocking Elisead’s view of the donkey with his back.

Sure enough, the leather harness had cleanly snapped—too cleanly. Only a sharp knife taken with purpose to the harness would cause it to break in such a way.

“Who?” Rúnin said quietly.

It had been Feitr who’d brought the cart and donkey from the stables. The slave had glared daggers at Alaric. And his ominous words from the night before—either a warning or a threat, Alaric knew not which—still rang in Alaric’s ears.

But Feitr was a slave, meaning that he followed orders—Maelcon’s orders. Would Maelcon dare to harm his own daughter? He’d dragged his feet at every moment during their negotiations. Was the chieftain looking for a way out of their talks?

If only Alaric had been able to see who’d thrown the rock at the donkey, spooking him and causing the already-cut harness to snap.

“We have enemies at every turn in this new land,” Alaric muttered.

“Ja, but this was aimed at the girl. Who would want to hurt her?”

Alaric rolled his neck, aware of the ache that was forming from his tumble. “Our negotiations with the Picts ride on Elisead’s wellbeing. If she were to come to harm…”

“Then the negotiations would be destroyed,” Rúnin finished.

“Ja. Who would benefit most from ending our talks and setting our peoples against each other?”

Rúnin lifted a dark eyebrow. “As you say, enemies are everywhere.”

Alaric cursed and rubbed his neck. Someone—or several someones—worked against him. And whoever it was didn’t mind risking Elisead’s life in the process. She was now not simply his hostage. She needed his protection.

“Alaric, what is happening?”

Elisead sat on the forest floor, a fresh trickle of blood sliding down her forehead. Her brows were knitted as she gazed up at him. Gods, but there was a look of trust behind the confusion in her honey-colored eyes.

He turned away from Rúnin and extended a hand toward her.

“Naught,” he lied flatly.

“But…but he said foul play was afoot,” she said, her gaze flicking to Rúnin.

“Do not concern yourself. He merely fears that your father will be upset that his cart has been destroyed. But it was an accident, a freak occurrence.”

His stomach twisted as he watched her absorb his lie.

He’d called himself a man of honor, but he wasn’t above lying to Elisead if it meant keeping her safe. If it was truly all an unfortunate happenstance, he needn’t worry her pointlessly. Of course, he didn’t believe for a second that the smoothly sliced harness was an accident, in which case frightening Elisead with the truth wouldn’t keep her any safer.

When Elisead placed her hand in his, he lifted her to her feet. But when she stumbled, he scooped her up, not trusting her shaky legs to carry her back to camp.

He’d be damned by Odin himself if he gave in to these intimidation tactics. Yet the thought of Elisead being harmed for the purpose of keeping him from his mission sent a stab of fear into his belly.

No matter what, he had to protect Elisead. His mission was riding on it.

But it was more than that. Some invisible thread tugged at him, binding him to her. He would protect her with everything he had. But protect her from whom?