Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (9 page)

Elisead hurriedly plopped her clean clothes on a nearby rock. As she began to work the laces at the back of her tunic, her gaze darted around the silent woods lining the river. It felt as though the trees hid a thousand eyes.

Had anyone seen her kissing Alaric? Had they seen her spy on him as he bathed? What would she feel if she knew his dancing green eyes watched her now as she undressed?

Cool air fanned her heated flesh as she ripped off her tunic and underdress with one yank. She kicked off her boots even as she scrambled for the cover of the river.

At last, she sank underwater, but even with her nakedness concealed, she felt more exposed than ever.

“You should be the first.”

Alaric yanked his thoughts away from Elisead—her soft lips, untried until he’d claimed them, her rapid breaths, those honeyed eyes that threatened to drown him in their sweet depths.

Tarr raised a light brown eyebrow at him. Bloody hammer, was Alaric’s line of thinking so obvious to the others?

“You should be the first to try the ard, that is,” Tarr said. He held the ropes that led from the donkey’s mended harness to the iron ard. With raised hands, he extended the rope ends toward Alaric.

Alaric needed to focus on the task before him—plowing, though not the kind his body craved. With a silent curse for himself, he shoved his lust away.

“Shouldn’t one of you farmers do it?” he said, eyeing Tarr and Eyva. Unlike them, Alaric had been raised from birth to be a warrior, not a farmer.

Eyva snorted and Tarr only grinned.

“Nei, you’re our leader. You should cut the first row.”

“Very well,” Alaric said, reluctantly taking the ropes from Tarr’s hand. He snapped his wrists, making the rope thwack against the donkey’s flanks.

Slowly the animal got underway. He was clearly unused to pulling the long, flat blade of metal the Northlanders used to cut rows in soil. But when the donkey finally took up a steady walking pace, the ard cut through the soil like a knife through cream. Ards were made to slice through the hard, rocky ground of the Northlands. The soil here, however, was dark, rich, and loamy—perfect for Alaric’s purposes.

Alaric walked behind the donkey and ard, straddling the deep furrow the ard cut in the ground with his feet. A cheer went up behind him. He’d initially told Tarr and Eyva to gather a dozen of the crew, but soon nigh thirty of his men had joined the effort.

The last four days had been entirely spent in clearing this patch of forest. Axes had whirred through the air as the men chopped trees and cleared underbrush.

They’d hacked the worst trees apart to use for firewood, but dragged the best back to camp. Though they didn’t have a ship builder among their number on this voyage, Alaric knew good wood when he saw it. It could be saved until next summer, when hopefully more of his people would arrive from Dalgaard, ready to build homes and perhaps even a new fleet of longships.

Blessedly, the work had kept Alaric busy from dawn until dusk. By the time he returned to camp each night, he barely had enough energy to eat a simple meal in front of the fire and fall into his pile of furs on the floor of Rúnin’s tent.

He shouldn’t have had the time or energy to think on his foolishness in kissing Elisead—or his desire to do so again. But his mind and body seemed to be colluding. His thoughts were muddled with the memory of her scent, her lips, her tongue, and his body throbbed with the need to—

Alaric cursed himself once more, willing his blood to cool for the hundredth time in the last four days.

She’d kept to herself, spending most of her time in the tent working on her bride gift—another blasted reminder of Alaric’s dangerous interest in her. She was to be married to another, an alliance her father would no doubt kill over if it was endangered. And Alaric had his own mission to think of. If he hadn’t gotten control of himself by the river, he might have betrayed all the responsibility Eirik had given him.

But even when he sweated under the midday sun, or when he fell exhausted into his furs at night, or any time he caught a glimpse of auburn hair through the tent’s flaps, his responsibility seemed to flee his mind. All that was left was white-hot desire for his flame-haired, honey-eyed forest spirit.

Another wave of cheers snapped Alaric’s attention back to his task. He guided the donkey to the right as they drew to the end of their newly formed row. The ard cut an arc into the soil, then began slicing another straight furrow in the ground next to the first.

As Alaric urged the donkey back toward the group of waiting Northlanders, a flash of red caught his attention. As if his thoughts had suddenly materialized, he spotted Elisead, who peered around the broad shoulders of his crewmen.

Alaric hurried to the end of the row, but before he made the next turn, he tossed the ropes to Tarr.

“I think you can take over from here,” he said, his gaze seeking Elisead.

When she noticed him, her eyes widened slightly.

He moved to the back of the group of Northlanders and came to her side. “What are you doing here?” he said quietly.

Most of his crew continued to watch Tarr’s progress with the ard, but some eyed their leader and his hostage with curiosity.

“I…I needed some fresh air,” she said, looking away. “And I heard the noise.”

They were only a stone’s throw from camp, so the crew’s enthusiasm must have been audible. Alaric’s men had been more than eager to set their muscles to the job at hand. Their fervor was an indication of just how restless they’d all grown without hard work to do and how keen they were to make their settlement more permanent.

“Have you gotten word from my father?” she asked, as if intuiting the direction of his thoughts.

“Nei, naught.”

If Maelcon was aware of what Alaric was up to, he’d likely be stewing behind his fortress walls. Or it was possible he hadn’t noticed that the Northmen had decided to plant fields on his land, thus inviting themselves to stay for at least the summer.

As Tarr continued to plow rows in the soil, others began following him, dropping barley into the ruts left in his wake.

“Are we too late?” Alaric asked, glancing down at her.

She seemed startled at first by his question—or perhaps it was surprise at being asked her opinion.

“Nay, I don’t believe so,” she said after considering for a moment. “Though most fields have been sown and are already sprouting, the summer is early yet.”

He nodded. “And what do you think of the spot we selected?”

Again surprise flitted across her delicate features. Unbidden pride swelled in Alaric’s chest at the possibility that he was the only man to consult her for her knowledge. Her father was a great fool if he thought his daughter was only good for a marriage alliance.

Elisead scrutinized the little clearing they’d made. Though it was surrounded by tall trees on all sides, the sun was high enough in the sky to give the patch of ground a long swath of sunlight throughout the day—Tarr and Eyva had made sure of that when they’d picked this spot. The ground sloped slightly in the direction of the river to the north, allowing for good drainage.

“I’d say you’ve chosen well, though I know little of farming,” she said, a pretty blush rising on her cheeks.

“But you have been raised on this land, and so you are my expert in everything about this place,” Alaric said softly.

She shook her head and looked at the ground. Gently, so as not to frighten her, he took her chin and lifted it slightly.

“Hasn’t anyone told you that you are worth more than a mere bargaining chip in a marriage alliance?”

Her amber eyes widened, and suddenly Alaric felt like he was falling into them.

“Nay,” she breathed.

“Not even about your stone carving? Surely others recognize your gift.”

She shook her head on a swallow, freeing her chin from his light hold.

“You never showed me how you create such fine designs,” he said.

That was because they’d been wisely keeping their distance from each other, a small voice cried in the back of his mind. It was dangerous to learn more about her, because every time he did, his desire for her drove deeper into him, taking root.

Alaric shoved the voice aside, too intoxicated by Elisead’s nearness to heed its warning now. He tossed a look over his shoulder, but his crew was still occupied in sowing barley. Without waiting for her to form a response, he took her hand and led her back toward the camp.

When they reached her tent, Alaric lifted back the flaps of wool to allow light to stream inside. They stepped in together and crouched in front of the long stone.

She’d made progress since last he’d seen it. The border was nigh complete, and figures were beginning to take shape in the middle.

Alaric ran a finger along the curling leaves and forest creatures bordering the stone.

“Tell me how you do it.”

Elisead reached into the pouch she always wore belted around her waist. She withdrew a lump of charcoal.

“First, I draw out the figures and designs I want.” She touched the charcoal to the stone on a patch where the rock’s surface was still smooth. With an easy hand, she swirled the outline of an oak leaf.

“Then I tap holes along the outside of my design,” she said, returning the charcoal to her pouch. She scooted toward the wooden chest at the foot of her bed and returned with a small chisel and mallet. “It doesn’t take much, just a few taps.”

This time she didn’t demonstrate, but Alaric could see a series of small chiseled divots outlining the last section of border that remained incomplete.

“And then I choose a pebble.” Elisead set aside the chisel and mallet, returning her hand to her pouch. He heard the soft clink of several small stones tumbling together, and then she removed one, holding it up for him to see.

It didn’t look like aught but a random pebble, yet she seemed to have chosen it purposefully.

“I have several in my collection,” she said, seeming to understand the direction of his thoughts. “Each is a different size. They all must be hard enough to wear into whatever stone I’m carving. Most masons use sandstone for their art. Luckily, it is plentiful here, and isn’t as useful for fortifying walls.”

The more she talked, the more comfortable she seemed to grow. Alaric watched her, enthralled by her knowledge of such a challenging craft.

“You place the pebble between two of the dots you’ve chiseled,” she said, demonstrating with the bit of rock in her hand. “And you run it along, making a path.” Her fingers worked the pebble, rolling it back and forth a few inches.

Slowly, Alaric began to notice a groove forming between the two divots. He sat back on his heels, rapt.

“And you can make any design you want like that?”

“Aye—well, rubbing away little pathways in the stone would be the simplest way to do it. But Una taught me the more complicated method. See how the vines seem to be standing out from the stone?”

Alaric looked closer. He hadn’t even noticed, but all the designs and patterns seemed to be rising out of the stone rather than being simply tunneled into it.

“I am not so much carving what I want into the rock, but rather removing everything I don’t want,” she said, still running the pebble along its groove. “It is as if the images are trapped within the stone, and it is my job to free them.”

“What is this here?” Alaric pointed to the middle of the stone, where a rough figure was beginning to materialize. Two shapes, one a circle and the other a rectangle, were taking form next to the figure.

Elisead’s fingers stilled. “That is me.”

“What?”

She dropped the pebble back into her pouch. The light in her eyes from a moment before dimmed slightly. “It will eventually be a woman on horseback. See? Here is the horse’s head, and here is her body, sitting sidesaddle. The circle there is a mirror, and the square a comb, which indicates that she’s a woman.”

Alaric nodded as the shape began to make sense. “And why is this you?”

“For my people, a woman sitting sideways on a horse symbolizes the Virgin Mary.”

“She is the White Christ’s mother, ja?”

She blinked at him, clearly startled by his knowledge of her God.

“You remember how I told your father I learned the Northumbrian tongue from a woman who was captured by my Jarl?” he asked, giving her a half grin. “The woman, Laurel, grew up in a Christian monastery in Northumbria. She told us about your God, his son the White Christ, and the Christ’s mother, Mary.”

“A Christian woman living in the Northlands among…”

“Among savages?” He chuckled to show her that her unspoken word didn’t offend him. “Ja, Laurel is happy in her new home.”

“And has she abandoned her faith in God?”

Now it was his turn to be surprised, for Elisead’s question was not spoken with disgust or horror, but rather with curiosity.

He shrugged. “Laurel is happy living in the ways of the Northlands now, although I think she sees room for her God and ours. Eirik, her husband, certainly does.”

“And if they were found out? Must they hide their belief in two different religions?”

Alaric laughed, but then he saw the genuine confusion on her face. “Nei, for Eirik is the Jarl of our village—a chieftain, like your father. He is the one who sent me here.”

She blinked up at him, the stone before them forgotten for a moment. “The Picts are said to be of and for the Ancient Ones. But when the priests of Christianity came to us many generations ago, we set the old ways aside and followed God. Sometimes…”

She faltered, biting her lip.

“Whatever you wish to say, you may say it to me, Elisead.”