Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (12 page)

It was too much.

The hall was too crowded. The air suddenly felt hot and cloying. So many sets of eyes bored into her.

The great hall seemed to swirl and bend around her. Elisead couldn’t tell if the room was tilting or if she was.

Suddenly she felt Alaric’s warm, strong hand on her back, steadying her. Instinctively, she leaned into him, drawing on his solid strength.

Even as the dizziness ebbed, mutters rose around her. Elisead’s gaze landed on Domnall mac Causantín. Her betrothed.

The man’s otherwise handsome face darkened as he took in the sight of Elisead leaning against Alaric, his arm wrapped around her protectively.

Domnall took a swift step forward so that he stood on the edge of the dais, towering head and shoulders above everyone in the hall. Just as quickly as it had arrived, Alaric’s hand disappeared from her back. Though there was now an expanse of air between them, Elisead could sense how rigidly he held his body.

“This must be the barbarian Northman Maelcon mac Lorcan has told me so much about,” Domnall said, his voice commanding but tight.

“Alaric Hamarsson, captain and second in command to Eirik the Steady, son of Arud, Jarl of Dalgaard,” Alaric said smoothly.

Elisead felt her eyes widen slightly at his string of titles. His voice was hard and authoritative, with not a hint of the gentleness he so often showed toward her.

“And you are Domnall mac…what was it again? Mac Castration?”

Several of Domnall’s men rumbled in shock at Alaric’s overt insult to their leader. Madrena, who stood behind Elisead, snorted loudly.

“I am Domnall mac
Causantín
, heir to the Kingship of Dál Riata and son of Causantín mac Fergusa, King of Fortriu and all the Picts.”

Domnall’s dark brown eyes burned into Alaric with open disdain, but Alaric seemed not to notice or care.

“Ah, my mistake,” he said casually. His eyes glinted with green fire to match Domnall’s gaze, though.

“And this,” her father said, stepping to her side, “is your bride, Domnall. May I present my daughter, Elisead.”

Maelcon took Elisead by the arm and pulled her away from Alaric. Though her father had a smile plastered on his face, the tension in the room was palpable—and his tight grip on her upper arm told of her father’s unease.

Maelcon halted at the base of the dais and released Elisead’s arm. Slipping into the familiar role of chieftain’s obedient daughter, Elisead lowered her head and dipped into a curtsy.

When she straightened, some of the tautness in Domnall’s face had eased.

“Your father’s tales of your beauty did not do you justice,” Domnall said, bending from the dais and capturing Elisead’s hand in his. He raised it to his mouth and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. All the while, his eyes roamed over her.

Elisead repressed a shiver. Alaric had looked at her in a similar way, yet for some reason the glint of possession in Domnall’s dark brown eyes sent tendrils of unease climbing up her spine.

“Thank you,” she managed. Domnall raised his head from her hand but kept it firmly in his grip.

“Come,” Domnall said, sweeping his free hand toward the long table and chairs on the dais as if the great hall were his. “We all have much to discuss.”

Elisead glimpsed the downward twitch of her father’s mouth before Domnall tugged on her hand, drawing her attention back to him.

Without asking, Domnall grabbed Elisead around the waist and simply lifted her up onto the dais by his side. Some of the men in the hall chuckled at their leader’s bold display.

As Domnall pulled her toward one of the chairs, she darted a glance over her shoulder. A muscle ticked along Alaric’s jaw, his eyes riveted on her—or more precisely, on where Domnall’s large hand wrapped around her wrist.

Madrena gave him a nudge toward the steps leading up to the dais. When at last he tore his gaze away from her, he followed Maelcon, Madrena, and Rúnin up the stairs.

Domnall tugged Elisead into a seat next to his at the head of the table. The others settled in the remaining chairs, with Maelcon at the table’s foot and Alaric across from Elisead.

“I must apologize again for this unplanned visit,” Domnall said to Maelcon. “But my father sent me to check on the progress being made on my fortress in Dál Riata. To travel from his stronghold in Torridon to mine in Dál Riata, I must pass through these lands anyway.” Domnall shrugged. “And I was eager to meet the bride I am to claim in a few moons’ time.”

“No need to apologize,” Maelcon said quickly. “You are always welcome here.”

“Though it seems I have come at a…delicate time.” Domnall shifted in his seat so that he could pin Alaric with his gaze. “Or perhaps it is the perfect time.”

“I suppose that depends,” Alaric said levelly. “Do you plan on interfering with Maelcon and my peaceful negotiations, or will you allow us to continue unimpeded?”

Domnall stiffened at Alaric’s blunt words. His fingers, which were still wrapped around Elisead’s wrist, dug in painfully.

Alaric must have noticed her flinch, for his emerald eyes darted to her, then narrowed on Domnall.

Purposefully ignoring Alaric, Domnall turned to Maelcon. “I suppose you hope to yolk the might of these Northland barbarians in the service of your own protection, Maelcon.”

At her father’s jerking nod, Domnall stroked the dark, trimmed beard on his chin as if considering. “Aye, we’ve all heard tales of their skill and ruthlessness in battle. In fact, didn’t you deal with a band of Northmen not so long ago?”

Domnall was toying with her father, Elisead knew. Of course Domnall was well aware of what had transpired seven years ago—news of the Northmen’s vicious attack, and the Picts’ narrow victory, had traveled far.

According to rumor, Causantín had publicly praised Maelcon for his triumph over their invaders. But the King never sent aid during those terrible months following the attack when Maelcon lay bedridden from the nigh life-ending wound he’d received in his leg and their people struggled to put their lives back together.

“You were injured in that confrontation, were you not?” Domnall asked idly, as if picking up on Elisead’s thoughts. “Most fortunate that you survived.”

What was Domnall playing at? In bringing up the battle seven years ago, he was only reaffirming the reasons why her father would wish to form an alliance with the Northmen rather than fall into open hostilities again. But Domnall eyed Alaric with such venom that Elisead couldn’t imagine her betrothed wished for negotiations to continue.

“In truth, I don’t see the need for an alliance with these savages,” Domnall went on, waving dismissively toward Alaric, Madrena, and Rúnin. “With my marriage to your daughter, you won’t need the protection of a band of barbarians—you’ll have my forces, and my father’s, at your disposal.”

There was his true motive. In bringing up Maelcon’s past encounter with Northmen, Domnall only wished to remind him of his vulnerability—the King of the Picts and his son could grant protection, or they could take it away, depending on whether or not Maelcon did as they wished.

Elisead looked down at Domnall’s hand where it wrapped around her wrist. Her fingers had lost sensation, so tight was his grip. His knuckles were white, even though he kept his features even.

Perhaps there was something else afoot behind Domnall’s smooth smile and subtly worded threats.

Though he’d been speaking casually to Maelcon, his dark gaze kept tugging back to Alaric.

Alaric stared back boldly, a defiant gleam in his green eyes. Domnall’s fingers tightened even more on her.

Was Domnall’s barely concealed hostility toward Alaric and the other Northlanders more than mere passing concern for his betrothed’s father and his holdings? Elisead silently cursed the fact that she knew so little of the man she was to marry at the end of summer.

But even without prior knowledge of the man’s character, it was clear that possessiveness flashed in his brown eyes when he looked at her, and hot hatred bubbled just below his smooth exterior when his gaze landed on Alaric.

What dangerous game was Domnall now silently playing with Alaric? And what would become of Elisead, trapped in the middle?

Alaric clenched his fists under the table until they throbbed in agony.

The pain was clarifying, though. It gave him something to focus on rather than the sight of Domnall’s fingers digging into Elisead’s pale, soft flesh. It gave him something to do with his hands rather than wrap them around Domnall’s neck for causing the look of fear in Elisead’s shimmering eyes.

Madrena’s quick tap on one of his fists under the table was just enough to bring him out of his murderous thoughts.

So, Domnall was against negotiations between the Northmen and the Picts. Alaric yet again reminded himself to ask Elisead what exactly had happened in Maelcon’s first encounter with Northlanders. The burned bones along the riverbank not far from his camp were proof enough that the Northlanders had been defeated, but something about Domnall’s tone told Alaric there was more to the story.

Alaric flicked his gaze to Maelcon to gauge his reaction to Domnall’s subtle warning against their negotiations.

Maelcon shifted in his seat. He tugged his graying beard, a habit Alaric was coming to know as a delaying tactic on Maelcon’s part.

“I am much pleased that you agreed to marry my daughter,” Maelcon began. “The son of a King, and the future King of Dál Riata, has many choices, yet you chose Elisead.”

Annoyance flitted across Domnall’s eyes at the flattery, but he said naught.

“Your wedding at harvest time will be celebrated throughout all of Pictland,” Maelcon went on carefully. “But that is still two moons away. And as you can see, these Northmen are here now.”

Surprise washed through Alaric. Though it raised his ire to be talked about as if he weren’t sitting between these two men, he waited for Maelcon to continue. He now knew that Maelcon didn’t fully trust Domnall, which meant that Alaric was in a better position to negotiate than he’d initially thought.

“And both Dál Riata and Torridon are many days’ journey from this remote corner of Pictland,” Maelcon went on. “We thought the hills would keep us sheltered from Northern invaders, but this is the second group to make their way to our gates. If a third band of invaders comes, we would require immediate protection from a large force, which could take more than a sennight to arrive if we had to wait on warriors from Torridon or Dál Riata.”

As Maelcon unfolded his respectful but subtly resistant response to Domnall’s veiled threats, Domnall’s mouth turned down behind his carefully manicured beard.

“And you believe that these Northmen have the necessary numbers to protect you?” Domnall asked, his voice nigh dripping with derision. It was plain to see that Domnall wasn’t used to being defied.

“We are a force of warriors two score strong,” Alaric said, raising an eyebrow at Domnall.

Alaric barely repressed a genuine grin at the ever-so-slight widening of Domnall’s eyes. Clearly he hadn’t expected Alaric’s crew to be so large. The man’s own retinue didn’t match Alaric’s in size. Even combining Maelcon’s forces with Domnall’s, they wouldn’t stand a chance at overpowering Alaric’s fierce warriors, for Alaric was confident that one Northman was worth at least two of any other warrior on the battlefield.

“And as I’m sure Maelcon informed you, we plan on making a settlement in this area,” Alaric went on. “Whether we have an alliance or not.” Though he preferred not to resort to his own barely-veiled threats, it seemed to be the only way to convey to Domnall that Alaric would not be bested.

“You are quite serious, aren’t you?” Domnall’s eyes narrowed on Alaric.

“Ja. And I think it is in everyone’s best interest for my negotiations with Maelcon to continue—unimpeded.”

Domnall played with an imaginary crumb on the wooden table’s surface as he considered.

At last, he straightened in his chair. “Then perhaps I should pay a visit to your camp. Maelcon tells me you have been quite busy. Besides,” he said, casting a glance over Elisead, “I wish to ensure that my betrothed is being well cared for. Her…
safety
is of utmost importance to me.”

Alaric squeezed his fists under the table once more as he saw Domnall’s hand tighten around Elisead’s wrist yet again. A flicker of satisfaction crossed Domnall’s eyes. Alaric had erred in giving away his rage at seeing Domnall touch Elisead. Now Domnall was enjoying tweaking Alaric’s anger at Elisead’s expense.

Domnall stood suddenly, pulling Elisead with him. “I’ll have my men escort us to the camp.”

Alaric rose slowly, forcing his hands to unclench. “There is no need for that. You will be safe among my crew.”

Domnall snorted. “Forgive me for not trusting you, Northman, but I have only just met you.” A few chuckles rose below the dais from Domnall’s men.

“It is not a matter of trust,” Alaric replied, smiling wolfishly. “It is a matter of what I wish. If I had wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.”

Madrena and Rúnin scraped their chairs back and stood, both wearing the same deadly smile as Alaric. It was a bold claim, and yet Alaric didn’t doubt his ability to take on Domnall’s thirty men with Madrena and Rúnin at his back—especially with the hot rage coursing through his veins at the sight of Domnall’s hands on Elisead.

“But if you are afraid of my Northmen warriors, by all means, bring your little retinue.” He kept his voice light, but the insult clearly landed true.

Domnall met their grins with a smile of his own, but it looked more like a bare-toothed sneer. “Do you wish to join us, Maelcon, and see the savages in whose hands you have placed your daughter—and my future wife?”

Maelcon rose. “Very well,” he said, tugging again on his beard.

Alaric motioned for Domnall to precede him down from the dais and out of the great hall. At last, Domnall released Elisead’s wrist. But instead of letting her go, he took her arm and tucked it within his.

“Shall we, my bride?”

Alaric bit his tongue until he tasted blood.