Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  He fell backward onto his heels, unable to stifle the sudden catch to his breath at what was revealed to him in the silvery light: Dark hair framed a face more lovely than was conceivable. Skin that was almost translucent in the light of the moon beckoned to his fingers that they would revel in the softness of her creamy flesh. Eyes that were so blue they were almost ethereal met his own without fail, and he nigh toppled from his haunched position to see them focused upon him so intently.

  The scowl that touched his face was violent, for his body’s lustful response was immediate and unappreciated under the circumstances.

  Those eyes were a maelstrom, a stormy violet blue that glimmered in the darkness with the intensity of blue heat from a torrid flame. He’d thought her dead, but it was more than obvious to him now that she was not—not by any stretch of the imagination, for her eyes were vibrant. His fingers moved to the fragile softness of her cheeks, examining the cool satin flesh.

  Elienor swallowed with difficulty at the feather-light touch, though in truth she wasn’t certain whether it was from fear. Her eyes closed as a quiver sped through her.

  No one had ever touched her so tenderly.

  By the blessed virgin, was it supposed to feel so good to be caressed by one’s enemy?

  Or was she simply faithless?

  Her eyes flew open once more, and it was then she saw him—truly saw him. That face! Sweet Jesu—that face! She recalled it from her dream and shuddered, though what it was exactly that made her tremble she did not know, for she recalled only the face. Her cry of terror was stifled only by the constriction of her throat, for the tales she’d so oft heard of his kind truly did the man little justice. He was every exaggeration ever told—multiplied a hundredfold.

  What had she dreamt of him?

  She couldn’t think.

  Too acutely was she aware of every stroke of his thumb. She tried to find her voice—to plead with him to stop—but could not speak for the terrible lump in her throat. God help her, but she didn’t think she could bear it much longer!

  What kind of man was this?—that he could slay her with his gaze, yet touch her as gently as one would a tender babe? In the darkness his eyes were sinister pits that seemed to bore into her very soul. They had to be black as pitch in color, for they were, indeed, blacker than the night that engulfed them. Yet if his eyes appeared overly dark, then the opposite was true of his lion’s mane of hair. In the heathery moonlight it appeared silvery.

  She forced herself to look below his shadowed face and shining hair, and swallowed with difficulty as her gaze took in the rest of him. His shoulders were massive, wider than any man’s she’d ever beheld. Her scrutiny fell to the laces of his boots, where she found herself staring desperately at the ties that criss-crossed upward toward his leather-protected knee. But if she’d thought it would help to look away from his face in order to regain her self-control, she was mistaken. His legs were enormous too. They reminded her of oak stumps. She commanded herself not to look, but she couldn’t keep herself from it. In panic, her gaze skidded upward—to his arms. No doubt he was capable of swatting her dead with the palm of his hand as effortlessly as the tanner would a fly.

  God have mercy on their souls.

  He chuckled, and her gaze flew to his in alarm.

  “We shall see if your God will aid you, little Fransk,” he said smugly.

  Elienor’s blood curdled within her veins to hear his husky voice and his words of flawless French. How had he known what she was thinking? She’d not spoken it aloud! Or had she?

  Jesu—did he have the sight, as well?

  Nay, but nay—get hold of yourself, Elienor!

  She tossed her head back, a defiant gesture that the nuns—admonishing her—said was worldly and proud—not virtues suited to one promised to the cloth. Then again, she’d never felt the calling in her soul—had always fought against her disobedient self in order to be what the nuns had wished of her.

  “What know you of my God?” she asked him.

  Again he chuckled. The sound reverberated within the old chapel, unnerving her. “Enough to know he’ll not intervene for you this night,” he said evenly. “As of now, little Fransk…” One finger swept down her cheek, beneath her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his. “Whether you like it or nei… you are mine to do with as I will and there is none here who would gainsay me—not you, not your spineless count.” He chuckled again, the sound wholly sinister. “Nei, not even your God.”

  His laughter mocked her.

  Elienor’s eyes closed with loathing as she shook the Viking’s offending fingers from her chin. But his hold only tightened in her hair. Her scalp screamed under the torture, yet Elienor dared not break.

  “He was not my count as yet!” she informed him. Again his fingers tightened. Elienor winced, but would not be so easily cowed. Her chin tilted. “Nor was he craven!” she added.

  Despite her resolve not to give in to hysteria, her heartbeat quickened, though she hid her fear. He’s but a man, she reasoned wildly. Aye! her mind argued, a man! But a blood-thirsty Viking as well! With fingers so warm and gentle they sent quivers down her spine. Her eyes welled with tears. Nay! she scolded herself. You will not go to pieces in the face of this! If she feared, it was only for Stefan—at least that was what she told herself as she felt the trembling work its way through her limbs.

  The Viking’s brow arched and his voice was full of derision as he said, “In fact, your count is as spineless as they come.”

  Elienor shivered. “Is?” she returned contemptuously. “What is he now but dead? And by your hands! You murdering sav—” She felt his fingers tighten against her scalp and she cried out in pain.

  “I would have a care with that blade of a tongue were I you,” he advised softly. “If I say is, ’tis because the bastard lives. He fled the castle, I’ll warrant.” Her eyes narrowed in disbelief and his brows arched. “Did you not realize, he’d left you to die at our hands? You have been forsaken by both your count and your God.”

  As stunned as Elienor was by his disclosure, she could do naught but glare at him.

  Beneath her, Stefan moaned and her eyes flew to him fearfully. She prayed fervently that he’d not wake. If he would die... best he not know it. Best he not feel the cold edge of the barbarian’s blade meet with his tender flesh.

  The Viking glanced down meaningfully at Stefan’s twisting form. His eyes glinted dangerously. “Mayhap ’tis him you shield even now?”

  “Nay!” Elienor cried, her heart pummeling madly. “I swear ’tis not! Leave him be!”

  The Viking’s gaze never wavered, and Elienor found her own gaze locked steadfastly with his. Sweet Jesu!

  Mercy! she pleaded silently. Mercy!

  Alarik contemplated the wench’s reaction to the boy. It was evident there was some bond between them. What it was, he wasn’t certain, but his curiosity was piqued now.

  Tightening his hold upon the woman’s hair, he rose from his stooped position, hauling her up against him as he came to his feet, and the feel of her soft body hardened his more fully. He noted briefly that there were no grunts or moans against the pain he knew he inflicted; and he could only admire her mettle. “Who is he, then?” he demanded, his tone as menacing as the gleaming blade of his axe.

  The woman wet her lips. “He... Stefan is but a boy... please—leave him be!”

  His lips broke into a slow grin as he pressed closer, savoring the feel of her high, round breasts against his chest. Bending to whisper in her ear, his lips brushed her lobe. “You wish me to leave him be?”

  She nodded frantically.

  “And what will you pledge me if I do?”

  She closed her eyes, yet he would not be swayed. The feel of her against him so warm and soft and firm in all the right places drove him to shift his pelvis for comfort. Stirring into her, he stifled a groan of pleasure and demanded, “What do you pledge me?”

  Chapter 5

  Elienor swallowed convulsively, for the look in
the Viking’s eyes left no doubt as to what he wanted of her. Mother Heloise, in preparing her for Count Phillipe, had enlightened her to the needs of men, and it was that need she sensed the Viking sought to quench just now. But that he would barter for it seemed out of sorts with these men who were so willing to take without mercy.

  “I—”

  Stefan stirred, moaning. Elienor’s gaze flew to him at once. Forgetting that her hair was raveled so tightly about the giant’s fist, she hurled herself at Stefan, as though to shield him with her body, and with a wounded gasp halted her dive to the floor, turning again to look into the Viking’s smoldering silver eyes.

  Tears brimmed as once again she locked gazes with the Viking. Hysteria welled within her. For the first time in her life she was well and truly at a loss for words. For what could she say? Barbarian, sir, could you be so kind as to release my hair so that I may warn this kind boy against you? Hah! Likely he’d laugh in her face before plunging his sword into Stefan’s heart... and then mayhap into her own. Yet, whatever he would do to her, she could not allow him to harm Stefan. At any cost she would save the boy.

  Her eyes closed. She swallowed. “I... I have naught of value,” she said bitterly. “Please...”

  The Viking grinned, his teeth flashing white in the shadows, and then he laughed outright.

  Elienor shivered at the wicked sound of it. “Naught save myself,” she told him honestly. Her eyes misted traitorously, but she held herself rigid and proud.

  So she knew how to cry after all?

  Alarik’s brow lifted as her eyes filled with telltale tears. His lips twisted sardonically.

  Again he pondered what bond she and the boy shared that she would protect him so fiercely—even so far as to offer him her body in payment to save him. Did she always offer herself so freely? The possibility rankled, though he knew not why it should.

  He said more sharply than he’d intended, “Why would I bother to haggle for that which I already possess?”

  Alarm flared in her blue eyes, and that too, rankled—that she would find the thought of him so repulsive. Yet what else would she feel for him? And why should it matter? As he gazed into the misty, violet-blue pools of her eyes, he was compelled to release the hold he had upon her hair.

  At once she fell to her knees over the boy—and it was a boy, he saw, for now he could discern the whiskerless face.

  A quiver sped through him as the long, dark strands of her hair wove their way out of his callused fingers like silk. The pleasing sensation sent a surge of familiar heat rushing through his veins and a smile curved his lips as he imagined that whispery length tangled about his bare thighs. In that instant, he craved her more even than he did revenge over the spineless count, and the realization jarred him. More than that, he wanted to know her—that barely subdued passion he could see with such clarity in her eyes. He wanted her acquiescent—and so consumed with desire that she would whimper and sigh beneath him.

  “You have yourself a bargain, my little Fransk.”

  Startled, the woman glanced up at him, her expression confused and he smiled darkly. “Your compliance for the boy’s life.”

  He felt no need to point out that he had no intention of harming the lad anyway. He had no taste for slaughtering children, though it would serve him well if she thought he might.

  She swallowed visibly, and shuddered, but nodded agreement before returning her attention to the boy. With a quick flip of her hand she removed the length of her dark hair from the boy’s pale face.

  Feeling a sudden rush of heat and anticipation, Alarik stepped forward to better observe the pair. The woman’s nondescript kyrtle covered her form completely, yet even in such a shapeless garment her generous curves were more than apparent, and he felt the burn of his loins intensify.

  Never, in all his days, had he seen her equal—hair as dark as the Byzantine, yet skin and features as fair as the Norse—and he found himself mentally disrobing her, drawing up a luscious picture in his mind. For the first time ever he was sorely tempted to lie a wench flat and ride her against her will. But he would not. He abhorred such weakness in his men—though now, for once, he could comprehend what drove them to such ends.

  He watched in silence as she gently lifted up the boy’s dirt-smudged face for her scrutiny.

  With her eyes, Elienor warned Stefan to remain silent. With her heart, she prayed he would understand.

  “My lady,” Stefan moaned, wincing. “What have you done to me?”

  Tears pricked at Elienor’s eyes as she envisaged the outcome of the battle in her mind. “’Tis over, Stefan.” She swallowed. “There is naught to be done now.”

  Stefan moaned pitifully. “Then I am shamed!” he said, lifting himself up and thrust his head into her lap to hide the moistness gathering in his eyes. Elienor felt the telltale wetness even through her layers of clothing.

  Tears of frustration came to her own eyes as she searched for the words to ease the boy’s conscience, but before she could utter another sound, the Viking suddenly gave a fearsome growl of displeasure and lifted her up into his arms, over his hefty shoulder, pinning her there. She gasped, startled. Blood rushed to her head as he swooped down yet again to yank Stefan up, as well.

  Startled, Stefan struggled to gain his feet.

  With scarcely an effort, the Viking hauled them both outside into the clear light of the moon.

  As she watched Stefan struggle, Elienor’s heart went out to the boy, and she vowed in that instant that she would die trying to save him if she must. Furious that he would be treated so harshly when they’d already effected a bargain, she demanded at once, “Release him!”

  The Viking said naught, merely kept his pace, and Elienor pounded his back with all her might. “Beast! You made me a bargain!” she reminded him fiercely.

  Stefan was suddenly dropped to the ground, though almost as swiftly as he was released, the Viking caught him by the back of his tunic and began to drag him across the empty yard behind them, like a dog by its lead rope.

  Elienor’s anger intensified. “Is force the only way of your people?” she shouted. “Barbarian!”

  Abruptly, the Viking lifted Stefan to his feet, urging him to walk, but Stefan only stumbled to his knees. The giant hauled him up once more, then shoved him forward.

  “Walk!” he snarled, “Or you will find yourself without legs to walk with!”

  Thankfully, Stefan did as he was told without balking, though his knees wobbled visibly all the way into the donjon. Elienor’s heart ached for him. As they approached the now brightly lit hall, her nostrils flared with the overwhelming stench of blood. Her eyes widened at the gruesome sight that greeted them; a horde of Vikings frolicked about the hall, partaking of ale and whatever else they encountered. One man, his writhing form as naked as the oak in winter, danced merrily over the body of the dead sentry, Gaston. She cried out, clutching the giant’s tunic lest she fall with the wave of nausea that assailed her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to block the sight of it from her mind.

  Cheers resounded the moment they were spied coming into the hall. Viking voices hailed them—no doubt praising the barbarian that had carted her in. The din threatened to burst her eardrums, and she knew in that moment that the shoulders she’d been irreverently slung over belonged to none other than the leader, himself.

  “Jarl! Jarl! Jarl!” they bellowed, each man louder than the one before.

  One bedraggled beast with hair the color of the noonday sun came to stand behind Elienor’s captor. Roughly, he jerked her up by the hair to see her better. Heathen! What she wouldn’t give to slap his face just now, not for herself, but for all the terror they had wreaked upon these people! For Stefan! For the way that he’d been treated! Bon dieu, were she not such a peace-loving soul she’d strike the heinous smirk from his face but good!

  Unable to stay her hand, Elienor’s palm cracked along the side of his face.

  Abruptly, the hall went silent, and one by one, every pair of ey
es turned toward them.

  The flame-haired’s gaze narrowed upon her, his eyes sparking with fury.

  Her palm stung. Still, she held it in midair, poised to strike again. She peered up fearfully to see a welt beginning to form upon the flame-haired’s cheek.

  “Jesu!” she whispered hysterically. Seeing the ire in his eyes, she regretted her rashness at once, despite the fact that he deserved worse.

  Beneath her, the Viking’s shoulders began to quiver, then shake, and then rumble, and she found to her dismay that he was laughing.

  Laughing?

  How dare he!

  The fiend she’d slapped, on the other hand, glared at her. Though to her immense relief he responded only by gurgling his ale in her face. When he finished swooshing it, he grinned, letting the sudsy, amber liquid seep from between rotting and missing teeth. She winced as a sprinkling caught her full upon the brow, and resisted the urge to swipe the revolting droplet away.

  Beneath her, the golden one’s shoulders shook ferociously with his mirth. Bracing her palms against her captor’s back for support, Elienor willed him to perdition and beyond! Though even as she struggled for balance and blasphemed him, his husky laughter filled her senses, riveted her, and only belatedly did she realize that Flame Hair had taken another hearty swig from his tankard. He swooshed it again, puffing his cheeks to spew it upon her. Fie! No doubt all would burst into fits of hilarity this time. Uncouth savages! She squeezed her lids closed and braced herself for the deluge.

  It never came.

  The metallic hiss of a sword being drawn caught every ear. Stefan’s voice resounded off the stone walls, flying upward into the tower. “Leave her be!”

  Elienor’s eyes flew wide as he charged at the leaders back.

  Her mouth formed a scream that never materialized, for what happened next happened so quickly that she would never be entirely certain of the chain of events; Stefan came at them with blood lust in his eyes, his sword rising up. One instant, the Viking leader was empty handed. In the next he held his sword and was facing Stefan, ready to strike. With astounding ease, he’d also managed to snatch her down to hold her by the waist before him. Next she knew, Stefan lay skewered by his sword.