Viking Passion (8 page)

“That would make Erik’s life easier. But
Snorri is cunning and lucky. He will be back.” Halfdan’s handsome
face darkened. “And now he and Thorkell speak of his marriage to
Gunhilde, who is the daughter of Thorkell’s old friend, Sven the
Dark.”

Lenora digested this information.

“If that happens, will they live here?” When
Halfdan nodded with a gloomy expression, Lenora added, “Then who
will have charge of Thorkell’s household? Will it be Freydis or
this Gunhilde?”

“I do not know. I met Gunhilde once. She is a
cold, proud woman. She will not bow easily to Thorkell’s unmarried
daughter.”

“Freydis should marry,” Lenora told him
impulsively.

“Freydis should not marry.”

Halfdan’s face was etched in pain. Lenora
moved closer to this Norse giant who she had begun to think of as
her friend, and touched his arm.

“Isn’t there some way,” she asked, “for Erik
to make peace with Snorri? Then you could marry Freydis yourself.
As a chieftain’s son, surely you would be acceptable to
Thorkell.”

“You do not understand our ways.” Halfdan
took a deep breath before explaining. “Freydis’ mother killed
Erik’s mother. Erik is my blood brother. His feuds are mine, but
more than that, because he is my brother, his sister is my sister
also. Brothers and sisters do not marry.”

“But Halfdan—”

“Do not speak of it again. And do not speak
of this to Erik. I do not wish to cause him pain. I will find Erik
and tell him what has happened with Hrolf and Bjarni. Stay in the
house until Erik comes.” Halfdan set off toward Thorkell’s private
chambers.

Lenora tried to fit Erik’s shirts into one of
the carved chests that sat on the floor of his house, but there was
no room. A heavy fur cloak for winter and a lighter but still bulky
woolen cloak filled all the space.

A second chest held bolts of the strange silk
fabric Erik had brought from Miklagard, and a hoard of gold and
silver jewelry. She had seen the contents once when he had opened
the chest, but it was locked now. It was too full to hold anything
more, anyway.

“Perhaps this one.” Lenora moved the oil lamp
off the third chest. It was unlocked, but Erik had never opened it
in her presence. The other two were Danish chests, carved in the
convoluted designs Lenora had learned to recognize as distinctively
Norse. Like almost all Viking carvings, they were painted in
brilliant colors. The third chest had human figures carved in neat
panels and was unpainted. Because it was so different from the
other two chests, Lenora decided it must have come from Miklagard,
wherever that mysterious place was.

She lifted the lid and smiled. There was
plenty of space here, on top of those flat blocks wrapped in linen.
She laid the shirts carefully into the chest, then picked up one of
the blocks and uncovered it. It was a book. Unfamiliar characters,
hand-inscribed, covered the parchment pages. She laid it aside and
picked up another block. It, too, was a book, this one in
Latin.

It had been a long time since she had read
anything. It took her a while to decipher the letters, but finally
she began to read, her finger tracing the line.

“What are you doing?” Erik stood in the light
from the open door. The white streak in his hair gleamed as he
turned his head; his green eyes glittered in anger. “I said, what
are you doing with my books?”

“I – I found them when I was putting your
shirts away,” Lenora stammered.

“If you have damaged them, I will beat you.”
He picked up the book from the ground and examined it
critically.

“I meant no harm. I only read a page or
two.”

“Read? You?”

He clearly thought she was lying. She could
tell from his expression that she had better convince him quickly
or there would be trouble for her. She showed him the book she was
still holding.

“This one is in Latin. ‘In the beginning was
the word,’ ” she read, pointing to each word with her finger.
“That’s from the Holy Book, isn’t it? Are you a Christian,
Erik?”

“Only a provisional one. Do you really know
how to read?”

“I can read and write.”

“You can write too?” He stared at her, his
anger forgotten in his interest in her accomplishments. He sank
down on the bed platform, still holding the first book Lenora had
unwrapped. A smile began to spread across his face. “You may be of
some use to me after all.”

“I couldn’t read that one,” she informed him,
indicating the book in his hands. “What kind of writing is it?”

“Greek. I brought it from Miklagard.”

Miklagard again. Lenora knelt on the earthen
floor by the open chest and looked up into Erik’s dark, handsome
face.

“What is Miklagard?” she asked softly.

“The greatest city in the world.”

“Is it like Rome?”

Lenora, raised in a small settlement in the
midst of agricultural lands, was unable to picture a city, although
she had heard of York, and Father Egbert had spoken of Rome.

“It is the second Rome,” Erik told her, “and
greater than the first, if you believe the people who live
there.”

“Greater than Rome?” she echoed. “How can
that be? I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to understand.” He picked up
the piece of linen and began to rewrap the Greek book.

“But where is Miklagard? Is it near here? Can
we go to see it?” Lenora’s curiosity flared, intrigued at the
frequent repetition of that name since she had met Erik. “I would
so much like to see a great city.”

Erik laughed, amused by her enthusiasm.

“It is many months’ journey by sea and land
and riverboat,” he said. “To get there you must travel far east to
Gardariki, where the Rus live, to the place the Slavs call Kiev.
From Kiev you must sail down a dangerous river to the Euxine Sea, a
great black sea far south of here. Across that sea lies Miklagard,
in Grikkland. The Greeks call it Constantinople.”

His eyes focused on something far away,
remembering. He did not notice that Lenora had risen on her knees,
and, leaning forward, had gripped his right forearm with both her
hands. Her face was close to his as she listened to him. She forgot
the damp, barren cabin in which they lived, forgot everything but
Erik and his deep voice as he talked on, conjuring up wonders for
her starved imagination.

“It is a city of gold and silver, and huge
buildings of stone and brick and marble.”

Lenora did not know what marble was, but it
sounded wonderful.

“Buildings bigger than Thorkell’s hall?” she
asked.

Green eyes met gray ones with a smile. “Much
bigger,” Erik said. “The Emperor of the Romans lives in an enormous
golden palace set in beautiful gardens. There are parades every
day, and great ships lay tied up at the wharves, laden with gold
and silks and spices and jewels, and merchants make huge fortunes
buying and selling goods from all over the world. In Miklagard the
sun shines every day and the air is warm, and life is sweet for a
man with a purse full of silver.”

“Oh,” Lenora breathed, nearly overcome with
wonder, “How I would like to see it. Will you go there again, Erik?
Will you take me?”

They gazed into each other’s eyes, so close
Lenora seemed to see the same faraway vision filling Erik’s mind.
She could almost believe that she, too, had walked the distant
streets of Miklagard and breathed its foreign air. Then the vision
faded and she was once more aware of Erik’s physical presence, of
his tautly muscled body and his wide, smiling mouth so near her
own. That mouth came nearer, almost touched hers, before he turned
his head away.

“No.” The light faded from his face. “I shall
not see Miklagard again. And even if I were to go, I could not take
you. The journey is too dangerous. You would die before you reached
the Great City. I was nearly killed getting there, and almost died
again returning home.”

“Was that when your leg was injured?”

The look in his eyes changed again. He stood
up, shaking off her hands.

“I have told you before, you ask too many
questions,” he said harshly.

He had finished wrapping the Greek book. He
replaced it in the wooden chest and held out his hand for the
second book. She pressed it against her bosom.

“Let me keep it,” she begged. “I want to read
it.”

“Give it to me. Now.”

“Please.” She was almost in tears. Why this
one book meant so much to her she could not say, but she would not
give it up easily.

He moved so quickly, she did not see the
motion. Iron-strong hands reached out to grip her upper arms,
pulling her to her feet. There was an angry expression on his face,
but as Lenora bravely met his eyes, challenging him for possession
of the book, she saw a softening of his habitual sternness toward
her. Suddenly she was held tightly against him, only the book
separating them. One of his hands left her arm and caught the hair
at the back of her head, pushing her face against his. For one
breathless moment they stared at each other, and then his mouth
ground upon hers as his other arm slid around her shoulders,
crushing her.

She was briefly aware of firm-sinewed thighs
against her legs, and of one corner of the book she still held
cutting painfully into her right breast, before she was swept into
a sea of sudden desire. She had lost control of her own body. She
felt herself pressing ever more closely against him, heard a low
moan escaping from her own throat as her mouth opened and his
tongue entered her, seeking, searching out the most sensitive
places, lighting fires deep within her that excited and terrified
her at the same time.

The kiss deepened, becoming almost violent
before he tore his mouth from hers to rain scalding-hot kisses on
her cheeks and her eyelids, finally returning to her lips, his
tongue thrusting fiercely into her. She welcomed his assault,
adding to the fire with her own response.

While one hand tangled into her hair, holding
her head immobilized, his other hand and arm plastered her body to
his in an unbreakable vise that grew ever tighter. Once more he
left her lips, this time to set her throat aflame with his kisses.
When his mouth met hers again, her surrender was complete. She
leaned into him and gave freely of her own desire.

Held against him as she was, she could have
no doubts about his arousal. She could feel his manhood pressing
against her thigh, hot and strong. The touch added fuel to the fire
raging in her brain and her bosom and further inflamed the strange,
urgent ache deep within her. Not consciously aware of what she was
doing, acting on instinct alone, she moved her hips, crying out
softly as he pushed himself at her. Freeing one arm, she slipped it
around his waist and up under his jerkin, feeling the smooth, warm
skin of his back.

He recoiled from her touch. He let her go so
suddenly she swayed and nearly fell until he caught her by the
upper arms once more and flung her onto the bed platform. She lay
there, skirts flaring up about her knees, her head against the
wall, still clutching the book, waiting for his next move with
mingled fear and anticipation.

“Give me that.” His voice was drenched in
barely controlled fury as he stretched out his hand for the
book.

“No,” she whispered. “Oh, Erik, please.”

She was not certain whether she was begging
him not to take the book from her or for him to take her. She lay
watching him, her lips parted, her breasts still heaving with the
unexpected emotions he had aroused in her.

One long hand reached out to her slowly, as
though fighting some invisible force that held it back. Slender
fingers traced her cheek and skimmed along the curve of her mouth.
One finger slid between her parted lips and rested there before
probing deeper, until it met her moist, warm tongue. It lingered a
moment, testing, while his green eyes watched her and his tense
body bent ever nearer.

Suddenly Erik snatched his hand away as
though it had been burned in a fire. He grabbed the book from her
nerveless fingers and turned his back on her.

“Get up,” he said, “and go about your
work.”

When she made no response, he turned on her.
“You were Snorri’s once,” he said. “I do not want you. As a slave
you are worthless. You lie about all day. If you do not work I will
sell you.”

His cold words stifled all the warm passion
that had been building in her.

“I was not lying about until you threw me
here,” Lenora replied, stung by the injustice of his complaint. “I
was working. I was putting your shirts away.”

“You have done that. Go to the kitchen and
help with the cooking.”

“I am afraid to go out. Halfdan told me to
stay here. Hrolf and Bjarni—”

“Yes,” he interrupted. “Halfdan told me. It
seems you are entirely too alluring to men.”

“I did not encourage them,” she declared, her
anger matching his own. “I hate them. And Snorri. I hate them
all.”

“So you have repeatedly told me. What am I to
do with you, Lenora? Shall I sell you to remove you from the
vicinity of Snorri and his men? Would that please you?”

“It would not. I don’t want to be sent away
from -” She stopped, unable to complete the sentence.

“From?” He frowned at her, his dark brows
drawing together in a fierce line. “There is someone. Who don’t you
want to be separated from, Lenora?”

“Edwina,” she said quickly. “It is Edwina, of
course.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“I worry about her, Erik.” Lenora dared not
stop to wonder why she felt it necessary to explain at length a
perfectly justified concern. “Edwina has not recovered from what
Snorri did to us. Her thoughts are disordered, and she is unlike
the Edwina I used to know. Her spirit is broken. I wish I could
help her, but I don’t know how.”

“Lenora.” His hand moved as if to stroke her
hair, hesitated, and then, without touching her, withdrew. “There
are some sicknesses only time will heal, and there are others that
cannot be cured.”