Her gaze reverted to his suddenly, her eyes shimmering violet fire. “Release me, barbarian!”
Triumph, that forbidden prideful emotion, flooded through her when he winced at her words. It was a victory, no matter how small, and she savored it fully. And then his expression turned utterly violent.
Sweet Jesu, but she was in peril of losing all self-control did he not release her soon. She could not withstand his scrutiny, or his touch, much longer. “Aye!” she spat at once, feeling suddenly weak and vulnerable in the face of his fury. “Aye! We are understood! Release me now,” she cried.
He complied at once. She collapsed to her knees. With a last shriveling glance and a disgusted shake of his head, he turned to leave.
Kneading the soreness from her arms, Elienor whimpered softly, cursing him for the heartless heathen that he was. As much as she loathed him—and aye, feared him, even—she could not allow him to go without requesting aid for Clarisse. ‘The maid is ill!” she shouted, her voice trembling.
She prayed for strength.
The Viking stopped abruptly, pivoting to face her, his gaze as deadly as his sword.
With the last vestiges of her pride, Elienor raised her chin. “I would aid her, but have need of water—”
Without a word, he lifted his skin from his belt and flung it at her, then turned and stalked away. Elienor had no choice but to catch it, for it landed squarely at her breast, snatching her breath away—not from the impact, but because she’d not expected to gain it so easily.
She watched him go without another word, lest he change his mind and seize it away from her. Her gaze fell suddenly to where Clarisse lay. The girl’s eyes, focused upon the jarl’s massive back, were wide with fright, her cheeks tear stained. Her gaze reverted to Elienor.
“M-M’lady, I... I fear ’tis unwise to provoke him!” she fretted. Her eyes closed suddenly and her face contorted with pain.
Desperate to aid her, Elienor knelt beside her, brushing the damp hair away from her forehead. “Your fever rises, Clarisse...”
Clarisse groaned pitifully. “Aye, m’lady, aye... but... but—oh, the light!” she exclaimed. ‘The light... p-pains mine eyes!”
Elienor’s brow’s furrowed. “What of the wound?” She wet her skirt with water from the skin, then wiped Clarisse’s brow with it, soothing her. “Where does it pain you most?”
Clarisse shook her head fitfully. “Mine neck... and... and mine eyes... the light, m’lady! ’Tis the light!”
Elienor offered Clarisse the skin of water to drink by.
Clarisse shook her head, refusing it.
Elienor’s own mouth felt dryer than sun-dried wool, and her tongue too large for her mouth, but she held the skin out resolutely for Clarisse to take. “I have no thirst just now,” she lied without pause. But God forgive her, she knew the girl would not accept it and knowingly deprive her in order to quench her own thirst. Clarisse’s station, regardless that here among enemies they were equal, was not so easily forgotten. Still Clarisse would not accept it. “Go on,” Elienor prompted. “I would that you drank from it first.”
Still Clarisse hesitated. Elienor nodded encouragement, her eyes pleading. “Take it!”
At last Clarisse reached for it, her lean fingers quivering as she lifted it eagerly to her sun-parched lips. She drank deeply, and with desperation, and then finally lowered it from her lips, giving Elienor a look of utmost gratitude.
Elienor set it aside for the time being.
“Why do they not simply kill us and be done with it!” Clarisse cried suddenly.
Elienor wondered the same. She shrugged. “Clarisse... would you turn for me that I might cleanse the wound?”
Their eyes met and held. Elienor knew she requested the girl’s trust unjustly, for she’d failed Stefan, yet for answer Clarisse nodded, rolling slowly to show her back, moaning with misery.
Elienor’s eyes were drawn again to the helm, never more full of anguish. Whatever it required of her, she vowed, she would not let them harm Clarisse! She refused to accept that she had not the power to prevent it. Whatever was required of her, she would do. She could not bear yet another death upon her conscience.
As he took a hefty swig from a second flagon, Alarik watched the little Fransk offer the skin he’d given her to the ailing girl. He could clearly see the longing in her own eyes, yet she refused it when the girl offered it back.
With a muttered oath, he recapped his own skin. Why had he not left her in Francia? He should have, he acknowledged with a scowl. What madness had possessed him to take her? What could he have been thinking? It would serve her right did she die from lack of water!
And what should he care?
He had the urge to go to her, force the shrew to drink.
Casting an irate glance at Red-Hrolf, he cursed her again. His men would see such a gesture as a weakness in him, especially after their previous confrontation, and that was the one thing he could not afford. In his world, strength alone ruled, now more than ever, for there was much unrest in the Northlands.
It did not help matters that his brother, Olav, would force the people’s hearts where they would not turn. With his own eyes he’d witnessed the iron hand his brother wielded. In anger that one of his own men would not take the faith, Olav had offered him to Odin before the rest of his men, cut like a sacrificial beast upon the altar stone, making of him an example.
His gaze was drawn again to the girl. She was no more than a thrall, he reminded himself, not worth risking the loyalty of his men for, and with that he turned his attention to the skies.
The wind filled the Goldenhawk’s sails for the moment, but It was only a matter of time before the weather turned foul. Hopefully they’d be well on their way north by then... mayhap even within sight of Friesland’s broken coastline.
By the Norns, he cared not a whit for the Frenchwoman, he avowed. He’d taken her only to avenge himself against the count.
Yet the wench had mettle enough for a league of Northmen. As intrigued as he was by that fact, it also rankled, for just as surely as the termagant sat there glaring at him, he knew she would bring him grief.
Though if he to do it all over again... he would take her again.
And that admission made him scowl. For he knew that, in truth, his decision to take her had little to do with Phillipe of Brouillard. Plainly and simply and with an intensity he’d never conceived possible...
He wanted her.
CHAPTER 7
By late afternoon, Elienor could no longer feel the sun’s heat upon her flesh, though its glaring brightness assured her it had not fled. With a groan, she glanced at Clarisse and found her sleeping fitfully. It was good that she slept, for she seemed only miserable when awake.
Above them, the sails rippled noisily. But down below, where they lay, the air was stagnant, humid, and strangely peaceful, making Elienor feel oddly sedated and dazed. To begin with, it had been colder upon the sea than it had been on land, but now that her body was sun-scorched, she couldn’t feel anything but heat. The salt air stung her eyes, and she squeezed them shut to ward away the burn. Still, though she felt a desperation to, she could not succumb to the slumber that beckoned; her thirst was too fierce, her face too burned, her throat too raw, her worry for Clarisse too great. With a sigh, she lay as near to Clarisse as possible, dosing her eyes to rest them, and somehow, she dozed.
She slept no longer than an hour when she awoke abruptly to the ungodly sound of the sea shattering against the vessel. In such short time the weather had turned foul. Salt water dashed over the gunwales, the mist spraying her flaming cheeks, easing the burn fleetingly until the moisture evaporated, and then her skin blazed twice as tender as the salt cured her flesh.
With a groan of misery, she turned to give one side of her face respite from the scorching sun and blistering wind and whimpered as her abused flesh met with sea-drenched wood. Sweet Jesu! To her dismay, in that instant her eyes met Red-Hrolf’s, and the look he directed upon her
was sheer malevolence.
Cold fingers flew down her spine as he continued to glare. Hatred, unbridled and fierce, glittered in his Nordic blue eyes. He would kill her, she knew, were the choice his own. Thank heaven above, it was not!
Fear twisting her heart, she glanced hastily away, shocked to find herself thanking God in that instant for the Viking jarl’s protection. And though she shuddered at the notion, she recognized the truth of it, and conceded to it. He was the lesser of evils—much as she loathed to acknowledge it.
Beside her, Clarisse moaned pitifully. Instinctively, Elienor sought the skin of water to give to her. Never taking her eyes from Red-Hrolf, she took two greedy sips for herself, then forced herself to stop. Using as little water as possible, she moistened her skirt, then used it to cool Clarisse’s face once more. That done, she lifted Clarisse’s head to her lap, and without avail, tried to part the girl’s lips to feed her the water. To her dismay the water merely trickled down Clarisse’s chin. With a heavy heart, Elienor conceded defeat, recapping the skin, and tucking it beneath her to conserve for later.
Clarisse awoke in that instant, a pained expression on her pale face.
“Clarisse?”
“Aye, m’lady,” she croaked.
Elienor brushed black damp wisps of hair from Clarisse’s sickly pale face. “Art better?”
Clarisse’s voice was weaker this time, almost a whisper. “Aye, m’lady.” She grimaced as another wave struck the ship, pitching it violently. “The light,” she croaked pitifully. “’Tis the light..
Elienor glanced up at the sun and with all her heart wished it away.
Darkness came without warning, spreading shadows over the sea like an enormous black veil, and with it came an unbearable chill that settled into the bones.
The winds grew progressively stronger the further north they sailed, and to Elienor it seemed that in the darkness demons railed at them.
No matter how she lay, she was ill at ease and found herself shifting every so often to find a new position. No doubt he felt perfectly at ease in this infernal clime—fiend that he was!
Not for the first time, her gaze was drawn to the helm.
Only two of the Vikings were left awake, the leader and the nude one. Nay, he was not nude now, but Elienor would always see him as she had that first time, nude and dancing merrily over the dead. She blinked away a vision of Gaston prone beneath him.
Both Vikings were staring out over the dark waters, their enormous bodies silhouetted by the immense moon. Soft murmurs came to her ears, but she didn’t bother trying to eavesdrop, knowing naught of their heathen tongue.
Feeling the woman’s overwhelming presence, not for the first time this eve, Alarik turned to slice his rapier gaze through the thick sea mist.
She glanced away the instant his eyes found hers.
Unobserved by his slumbering men, he watched as she curled close to the other girl, laying her head gently upon the overlapping planking. When she still could not find a suitable position, he watched as she gathered up the length of her dark hair, her movements graceful and sensual despite the stiffening cold, and attempted to employ it as a pillow. His body hardened as he watched her cozy into that glorious mane.
What would it feel like to share that silky pillow along with her?
Recalling the softness of the tresses he’d caressed within the chapel, he craved the feel of it, yet he resisted the urge to walk the distance separating them.
He’d find out soon enough, he told himself—the very instant their feet were on solid ground. And with that resolution, he resumed his vigil over the fickle sea, banishing thoughts of the girl from his mind once and for all.
It served no purpose to think of her.
The fact that she found it difficult to rest upon the hard planking told him much, for while she’d not complained, neither did she appear at ease with the lot she’d been given. She was no maidservant, he surmised, leading him again to the conclusion that she was, in truth, the count’s—what? Whore? Wife?
A light draft ruffled his cloak, rifled through his hair, as he again glanced at the woman, watching her slumber.
She was shivering.
He continued to stare, his body disobeying as he told himself he was unmoved. By Odin’s lost eye, who wasn’t shivering? The night air was frigid! Why should he concern himself over one measly wench?
He elbowed Sigurd suddenly. “Take the tiller,” he charged, and then he stalked away without another word.
He picked his way over the slumbering bodies of his crewmen, halting next to the woman, his hands at his hips.
It surprised him to discover she’d found her way back to sleep for he’d braced himself for another confrontation. Or had he hoped?
Without giving himself time to consider either his actions or his thoughts, he removed his cloak, covering her with it, tucking the ends carefully beneath her. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that for the moment the sea held Sigurd’s undivided attention.
Sigurd Thorgoodson was Alarik’s sworn man, had been with him longer than any. He trusted Sigurd with his life, but he had no wish to be spied this moment, even by one so loyal. Sigurd seemed to understand that, and for his deference Alarik was grateful.
The rest of his crew slept on, and knowing this he was unable to stay his hand. The need to touch her was insuppressible. Lifting a loose strand of her hair to his lips, as though to taste of it, he then brought it to his nostrils, breathing deeply of its exhilarating scent: roses, sea, wind. They shouldn’t have mixed so well together, but they did.
Exquisitely.
Once again a vision of her standing atop the tower, silhouetted by the heathery moon, her hair fluttering wild and free behind her, appeared to him, and he shivered with anticipation. Never had he craved home more than he did this instant. The anticipation was almost intolerable.
“What hold have you upon me, little Fransk:?” he whispered.
She roused an alien emotion in his hardened heart.
Somehow... when he’d stared into that ethereal face of hers for the first time... It was as though he’d lost something of himself.
And then, when he had slain the boy, and she’d looked at him with such accusing eyes, he’d had absolutely no notion why he’d felt the need to defend himself. He had taken his first life long before his twelfth year—so had many others, for that matter, but the look in her eyes had drawn a defense from his lips nevertheless.
“’Tis but lust!” he swore emphatically, lifting her hair to his nostrils once more. He inhaled the essence of her, and it held him spellbound a full instant.
When she didn’t stir, his gaze wandered down the length of her, and abruptly, another vision assailed him… of her lying prone beneath him, with long shapely legs wrapped about his waist. His body hardened painfully, and he shifted for comfort, cursing softly when he found none. With a muttered curse, he cast aside the lock of her hair as he surged to his feet.
Hel and damnation! It was lust and no more, he assured himself, and swore again, for even as he made his way back to the helm, the lie followed him.
CHAPTER 8
The skies remained downcast the entire next day. And the next, as well, though fortunately it didn’t rain.
Late in the eve of the fourth day the wind suddenly began to gale as they moved past a string of large islands. In the rising tempest, the ship thrust forward so swiftly that the islands soon vanished in their wake.
Elienor had not eaten at all that first day. On the second she’d been given measly portions of dried fish and water. Clarisse had not eaten a bite, had grown progressively worse, though thankfully, she had sipped some water. At the moment Elienor was not hungry, despite the fact that she’d eaten nothing yet today. They’d given her more of the dried salmon an hour past, but she’d not eaten it. Instead, she had saved it for Clarisse, in hopes that the girl would try it when she awoke this time. Fervently, she prayed that the storm would abate and the waters would calm, but to her dism
ay, the storm only intensified.
Willing away her fear, her thoughts focused upon a happier time. The month she’d spent in her uncle’s court had been all too brief. For the first time in her life she’d felt a part of something, even if her relation to Robert, King of Francia, was known only by a select few.
As she remembered, her fingers skimmed the ring that lay hidden beneath the neckline of her bliaut. If her life before the priory ever seemed unreal, distant, or if she ever doubted the vague memories she had of her noble sire and gentle mother, she needed only to look upon the ring that bore her family crest, the royal crest of Francia. Her uncle had given it to her, the grandest of gifts, for the ring had once belonged to her father.
She cherished it.
With bittersweet memories she recalled the moment her uncle Robert had bestowed it upon her—the day he’d taken her from the Abbey.
Having been summoned to the chapel, she’d found him humming softly, the Latin words too soft to make out. At the sound of her footfalls upon the hollow wood floor, he’d turned from staring at the cross above the altar, and the humming ceased abruptly. He cleared his throat. “You’ve the look of your mother, child,” he’d said.
“Aye,” Elienor answered. “So I have been told, my lord.” She was helpless to keep the bitterness from her tone. “But as you can see, I am a child no longer.”
“Aye... truly... and your father would have been proud.”
He must have sensed her longing at his words, for afterward, once they had talked awhile, he removed the ring from his finger. “Take it, Elienor, for it belonged to your sire...”
Elienor hesitated.
“I understand should you choose not to... yet you are as much entitled to it as I.”
Still she hesitated.
“Try not to condemn him, Elienor. Your father was—as I have been—naught but a pawn in the politics of matrimony.”
At last, she took the ring from his grasp. “As am I,” she reminded him.
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