Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (13 page)

“I warned you to be careful.”

Madrena’s low voice barely cut through the fog of rage swirling in Alaric’s mind. His eyes burned on Domnall’s back. If his gaze was as sharp as the sword on his hip, Domnall’s head would be severed from his neck.

Elisead walked at Domnall’s side, her arm still tucked under his. She looked small and vulnerable next to the armored man, who rivaled Alaric in height and size.

“Ja, you did,” Alaric said through clenched teeth. “But like most everything a little sister might say to her big brother, it went unheeded.”

Madrena snorted. “You’re eight minutes older,
twin
brother,” she muttered. But then she turned serious once more. “It is obvious to all that you care for the girl. You only bring trouble on yourself, Alaric.”

“Don’t you think I’ve realized that?”

The best-case scenario ended with Alaric thwarted in his desire for Elisead. She would marry Domnall, and he would force himself to forget those honey eyes and cascading auburn locks. Forget her delicate yet callused fingers working stone like clay, shaping it into something new. Forget the sight of the salty wind whipping her tunic around her, making her look like the wild forest spirit she was meant to be.

And Alaric didn’t even want to think of the worst-case scenario. Breaking his word to Maelcon, himself, and the gods. Destroying the peaceful negotiations he’d worked so hard for. Falling into all-out war with the Picts. Losing Elisead forever.

Odin’s breath, why had he let his attraction for Elisead grow into something more?
Let
? Nei, it hardly felt like he let it happen—her gaze had arrested him, her delicate strength had enthralled him. She was his hostage, and yet now he was the one held in desire’s bindings.

Alaric snapped his gaze away from where Elisead and Domnall walked a few paces ahead. There was too much at stake to dwell on his lust for the Pictish woman.

“I’ll not put my mission in danger,” he said softly to Madrena. Though they spoke in their Northland tongue, Feitr walked with Maelcon and Drostan behind them. Maelcon had claimed that he wanted Feitr along as a servant, but Alaric suspected it was so that the chieftain would have a Northlander’s ears in the camp—and another set of eyes to gather information.

The entire group—Domnall and Elisead, Alaric, Madrena and Rúnin, and Maelcon, Drostan, and Feitr, made an odd precession through the village. Villagers peered out through shuttered windows at the curious sight of their chieftain ambling by with the son of a king, a slave, and the Northland warriors they so feared.

As they entered the woods separating the fortress from his camp, Alaric lowered his voice even more.

“An
accident
befell Elisead, though the consequences of her coming to harm seem too great to chalk it up to coincidence.”

He quickly explained how the donkey’s harness had been cut cleanly and a rock thrown at the animal to spook it.

“Feitr was the last to handle the cart,” Alaric said.

Madrena arched a pale eyebrow. “The slave? He slinks around Maelcon’s fortress like a whipped dog. You think him capable of such a plot?”

“I know not,” Alaric breathed. “He could be acting on his own, though why I’m not sure. He could also be following orders. Or he could be completely blameless.”

“The negotiations hinge on both hostages being safe and unharmed,” Rúnin said, bending his dark head toward Alaric and Madrena. “If someone is trying to hurt Elisead, they could just as easily set their sights on Madrena.”

“Has aught happened?” Alaric asked.

Madrena frowned. “From the first, Maelcon has asked me many questions about our plans. He seems keen to gather information, though I expect you have done the same with Elisead. That is the way of things when it comes to hostages—both sides try to learn about the other. It seemed only natural.”

“Ja,” Alaric said, his agitation growing. “But have any accidents befallen you? Or have you simply sensed something…off?”

Madrena hesitated, glancing between Alaric and Rúnin.

“What?” Rúnin said, his body suddenly taut.

“A few nights ago, I awoke to the sound of footsteps outside my chamber. Someone tried to open the door, but of course I had already repositioned the bed in front of it, as I have done every night.”

Relief bathed Alaric briefly. “You acted as any Northland warrior would in the midst of the enemy.”

His mind returned to Elisead’s surprise at the freedom Northwomen had and the fact that women could become warriors if they chose.  “These Picts underestimate you, likely because you are a woman. But whoever wishes these negotiations to disintegrate into war won’t misjudge you again.”

Madrena nodded, her face set in the hard lines of a warrior. “I’ll be more alert for any signs of a threat.”

“That is not enough,” Rúnin bit out. “’Tis too dangerous for you to remain in that viper’s den. Some plot is afoot, and I’ll not lose you to it.”

“I no more want to lose my sister to some Pictish schemer than you want to lose your mate, Rúnin,” Alaric hissed. “But there are greater stakes here. The fates and lives of everyone in Dalgaard could hang in the balance. Eirik is counting on this settlement for the future of our people.”

Madrena held up a hand. “You two can stop bickering about it, because it is
my
choice. And I choose to stay in the fortress.” She locked her pale gray eyes on Alaric. “I still believe these negotiations can work.”

“Ja, we just need to keep Domnall’s rutting nose out of it,” Alaric said, shooting the man another glare.

“And ferret out whoever is plotting against our settlement,” Rúnin added.

“And keep Elisead’s tunic in place when she is in your presence,” Madrena whispered only loud enough for Alaric.

He would have upbraided her for the impertinent remark if it weren’t so cursedly close to the truth. His desire for Elisead was becoming a dangerous liability.

Alaric’s crew of Northlanders stood tense and at the ready when their party broke through the tree line and stepped into the camp. Though his men’s preparedness eased some of his worries, Alaric still felt wound as tight inside as the Northmen looked.

“All is well,” Alaric said loudly to the Northlanders. “This man is Elisead’s betrothed. He and Chief Maelcon wished to see how we are faring.”

The Northmen slowly resumed what they had been doing before the party’s arrival. Some muttered under their breath and exchanged glances, though.

Domnall strolled through the camp as if he were inspecting a child’s game of Hnefatafl. His stride was arrogant, yet Alaric didn’t miss the man’s sharp gaze as he silently counted the tents and assessed the band of Northmen not so subtly staring him down.

Alaric made the barest of efforts to guide Maelcon, with Drostan and Feitr shadowing him, around the camp.

“Our ships are there.” Alaric pointed toward the bay’s shore. “And we have begun cultivating fields over there—but you already knew that.”

Maelcon eyed Alaric for a long moment, but he apparently decided that it wasn’t worth addressing Alaric’s barb about Feitr spying for him. He moved toward the bay where the longships were dragged up along the sandy shoreline.

The chieftain’s gaze settled on the carved and painted dragon prows butting onto the sand.

“There will be more ships arriving next summer, as soon as the seas are calm enough.”

Though Alaric could have turned the words into a threat, he kept his voice even and low instead. If Maelcon truly didn’t trust Domnall, as Alaric suspected, this could be the opening he’d been waiting for to push the chieftain toward an agreement.

Maelcon grunted, then ran a hand along the tightly fitted wooden slats comprising the hull. “Such a shallow draft,” he said, almost to himself.

“Ja. We could have gone farther up the river had we wished to. Right to your fortress.”

“Aye, I know what these ships are capable of.” Maelcon’s gaze drifted toward the water for a long moment, his amber eyes lost in memory.

Now was the time for Alaric to make his move.

“Imagine what an entire fleet could accomplish.”

“What they could destroy.”

“Or what they could defend against. What they could build.”

Maelcon’s eyes fixed on Alaric. Though the chieftain kept his face hard, he was clearly swayed by Alaric’s words.

“I’ve told you already, my people will settle here with or without your blessing. The fields we are cultivating should be proof enough of that. But we can both benefit from an alliance.”

“And what of my alliance with Domnall? Surely he is correct that with him as a son-in-law, I have no need of Northmen’s alliances.”

Alaric turned slightly from the bay and let his gaze drift over his crew. Some sparred nearby, their blades flashing in the midday sun. Others stood talking, their eyes on Domnall as he strolled past the fire pit. He held Elisead’s arm in place under his by pulling her close to his side, even though she was clearly trying to put distance between them.

“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

Maelcon’s eyes followed Alaric’s, and out of the corner of his vision he saw Maelcon’s mouth turn down in distaste.

Just as Alaric moved to guide Maelcon back into the camp, a ruffle of motion behind him snagged his eye.

Feitr stood knee-deep in the bay’s lapping waters, his hands skimming over one of the longships. A look of longing stole over his features, followed by a flash of pure hatred in his pale eyes directed at Maelcon’s back.

When Feitr’s gaze flicked to Alaric, the slave instantly dropped his hands from the longship and lowered his head, resuming the meek countenance he bore in Maelcon’s presence.

What in Thor’s name had Alaric just witnessed? Many slaves did not like their masters. Did the look in Feitr’s icy eyes rule out the possibility that he was doing Maelcon’s bidding in cutting the harness? Or did it indicate that Feitr’s hatred of Maelcon ran deep enough that he would cause the man’s daughter harm?

Naught about Feitr made sense. A knot pulled tight in the pit of Alaric’s stomach as he led Maelcon back toward the others. Drostan and Feitr followed silently, and Alaric couldn’t stop the hairs on the nape of his neck from rising.

Elisead jumped at the fire’s loud pop. She was pulled tighter than a hunter’s bowstring.

She kept thinking that the tension in the Northmen’s camp could not continue—surely a breaking point would be reached and either there would be overt aggression or a diffusion of energy.

Yet as the evening wore on, the pent hostility simmering between Domnall, Maelcon, Alaric, and the other Northlanders rose to nigh boiling.

It didn’t help that Domnall wouldn’t take his hands off her, despite her efforts to slip out of his grasp. But whenever she tried to move away or reclaim her arm, his grip would only tighten.

Domnall’s possessive hold on her had clearly not gone unnoticed by either Alaric or her father. Both eyed Domnall, Alaric with barely veiled antagonism and her father with resigned distaste.

For his part, Domnall’s arrogant aloofness was wearing thin, and he now wore a scowl behind his well-tended beard.

Talk around the fire pit had inevitably swung back to negotiations. With each of Maelcon’s carefully worded dodges, Domnall grew more sour.

Alaric was strangely quiet as Maelcon deflected Domnall’s increasingly insistent urgings not to ally with Northmen.

Just when Elisead feared she would jump out of her skin if the fire crackled one more time, Domnall stood, drawing her to her feet by her elbow.

“I can see that you would rather work your jaw endlessly than make a decision now, Maelcon,” he said. Though Elisead would never dare say so, it seemed that her father had already made a decision—it simply wasn’t the one Domnall desired.

Maelcon stood slowly. “Aye, perhaps the light of day will shed clarity on this situation,” he said. The sun had set but the trees were still filled with the blue glow of twilight.

Suddenly Alaric’s warm, large hand closed around her free arm.

“I’ll bring Elisead to the fortress tomorrow at first light, then,” Alaric said smoothly.

“I see no reason why she cannot return with me now,” Domnall replied, twisting his body slightly so that Elisead was pulled into his side.

Alaric instantly let go of her arm, else she be yanked between the two men.

“You would use your bride as a bit of rope in a tug-of-war?” Alaric said. Though his voice was still level, his eyes flashed green fire in the low light.

“Alaric.” Madrena’s tone held a warning, even as she and Rúnin rose from the fire and stood at his side.

“What say you, Maelcon?” Alaric said, turning to her father. “The terms of our negotiation involved the exchange of hostages. I have entrusted my sister’s safety to you, as you have your daughter’s. Do you wish to return the hostages and end our negotiations?”

Her father tugged on his beard. “Nay,” he said at last, his voice more assured than it had been all day. “Domnall, we will continue this in the morning. Until then, release my daughter into Alaric’s care.”

“Very well,” Domnall said at last, loosening his grip. Elisead immediately stepped away from him and toward Alaric. Domnall’s dark eyes narrowed on her as she did. “But at least show me where my betrothed sleeps at night. I would be assured of her innocence in this den of savages.”

Blessedly, most of the other Northmen had already moved away from the fire pit. Otherwise, Elisead feared she’d find herself in the middle of an insulted and armed band of warriors.

Alaric actually seemed to relax a hair’s breadth, perhaps because Domnall no longer pawed at her. And his departure was imminent, if only for the night.

“This was to be my tent,” Alaric said, striding toward the largest of the structures. “When Elisead arrived, she was given the best I have to offer.”

Domnall snorted in derision, but then eyed the tent. “And where do you sleep, then?”

“Here,” Alaric said, pointing at the closest tent to hers.

When they reached her tent, Alaric drew back the flap. It was strange to have Elisead’s little safe haven inspected by Domnall. Her stomach sank as she realized that as Domnall’s wife, this would be the norm. She waited outside the flap, praying for this ordeal to end quickly.

Domnall strode inside and turned in a circle, taking in the modest but comfortable accommodations. His dark eyes lingered on the raised mattress piled with furs.

Why did she get the feeling that he was trying to impugn her virtue? Was it just to get a rise out of Alaric, to rub his face in the fact that she was to become Domnall’s? Or was there more to his insistence on inspecting her sleeping quarters?

“What is that?” Domnall pointed to the partially carved stone taking up much of the floor space in the tent.

Maelcon slipped past Elisead to stand at Domnall’s side.

“Ah, you were not meant to see that until you were wed,” her father said in an overly jovial voice.

“What is it?” Domnall repeated.

“It is your bride gift. My daughter is quite the skilled carver. She’s been working on this stone for several months in preparation for the wedding. It will be quite the honor, if not a surprise, when she presents it to you come summer’s end, will it not?”

Now Elisead saw what her father was about. He hoped to smooth things over with Domnall even if he decided it was in his people’s best interest to continue talks with the Northmen.

Domnall’s eyebrows rose slightly as he surveyed the stone.

“Here is a depiction of the Virgin Mary,” Maelcon said quickly. “She represents my daughter’s purity as she comes to you. And there you can see the beginnings of an army of men. They represent the strength of the future King of Dál Riata.”

Domnall continued to eye the stone in the low light coming through the tent flap.

“And what is this?” He crouched suddenly at the base of the stone, his hand shooting out to trace the longship Elisead had begun carving.

Her stomach plummeted to the floor. “That is… It is incomplete.”

Her father, eager to keep Domnall placated, leaned over his shoulder and peered at Elisead’s latest addition.

“I’m sure it is just…” But the words died in Maelcon’s mouth as he continued to look upon the long, low ship, its rectangle sails so distinctive.

“Slave, bring me a torch,” Domnall snapped at Feitr, who stood outside the tent. Feitr leapt to do his bidding.

“’Tis naught,” Elisead said, but her voice sounded distant and strained in her ears. She felt Alaric’s searching gaze on her, but he remained silent as he stood holding the tent’s flap back.

Feitr hurried back bearing a thick stick whose end was aflame. The flickering fire cast leaping shadows through the tent as Feitr held the burning stick up at the doorway.

The shadows threw the Northman longship in starker relief, revealing Elisead’s careful work to bring the ship forth from the stone. Domnall’s face darkened, his fingers tracing the longship. Stabbing fear tore through her. She clutched her hands tightly so as not to ring them in panic.

“What is a Northman’s ship doing on my bride gift?” Domnall’s voice was low, yet the danger in his words only seemed heightened by his tone.

“I was just…” Elisead’s voice failed as she scrambled to explain herself.
I felt called to carve it. I am drawn to the Northmen in some inexplicable way. I sense my future lies with them.

What could she possibly say that would not end in disaster?

“Elisead.” Her father rounded on her, his eyes wide. “What have you done?”

Domnall rose slowly behind her father.

“You soiled my gift with a symbol of
them
?” He pointed toward Alaric, who stood rigid and focused on Domnall.

“I did not mean—”

“What else have you soiled,
Northman
?”

Elisead gasped, but before she could defend her innocence, Alaric moved like lightning. Suddenly he was inside the tent and a mere hand span away from Domnall.

“You will leave. Now.”

Everything seemed to freeze for a long moment. With Alaric dropping the tent flap, the tent’s interior fell into the obscured blue light of late evening. The torch’s warm glow filtered through the wool siding, but it felt as if Elisead, her father, Alaric, and Domnall were trapped in their own world. Feitr, Drostan, Madrena, and Rúnin might as well have been across the sea, though they only stood on the other side of the tent’s flaps.

Then everything sped up—horrifyingly so. Domnall’s fist drove through the air right at Alaric’s face. Maelcon stumbled backward from the two men, bumping into Elisead. Alaric’s hand flew up, blocking Domnall’s punch. The tent flaps were ripped back. Madrena, Rúnin, and Drostan plowed inside, their shouts colliding.

Elisead tumbled backward, landing on the bed Alaric had intended to sleep in himself. Her head spun in terror. Alaric and Domnall were locked together, Domnall’s fist in Alaric’s hand, neither man yielding.

“You have touched her, haven’t you, Northman?”

“Keep questioning her honor and mine, Pict. My sword has gone unbloodied for too long.”

“Enough!” Maelcon bellowed, regaining his footing.

But Domnall wasn’t done. He sneered into Alaric’s face. “I knew when word arrived warning me that you took Elisead as a hostage that my bride would be sullied by—”

“What?” Alaric’s eyes blazed. “Who sent word?”

“I said enough!” Maelcon wrenched himself between the two men, prying their hands apart.

“I will not lower myself with a used woman,” Domnall spat, eyeing Elisead on the bed.

“What are you saying?” Maelcon said, eyes widening.

“You had a chance to become the father-in-law of the King of Dál Riata. Instead you chose to ally yourselves with these filthy barbarians and whore out your daughter to appease them.” Domnall smoothed back his disheveled hair, trying to regain control of himself. But his words only enflamed Maelcon.

“It is
you
who have dishonored my daughter,” he snapped.

“Careful, Maelcon,” Domnall warned. “You do not wish to have me—or my father—as an enemy.”

Maelcon stiffened, his hands clenching at his sides. “As I already said, perhaps we should wait for the light of day to discuss all of this further. You have traveled far and are likely wearied—”

“My men and I will leave at first light,” Domnall bit out. “Clearly you do not wish to continue your alliance with me. Consider our union dissolved.” He cast one last look at Elisead, but then turned away. As he maneuvered past Alaric, he tilted his head and muttered something, but Elisead couldn’t make out the words.

“We will discuss this later,” her father hissed at her before shuffling after Domnall.

The four men who were returning to the fortress—Domnall, Maelcon, Drostan, and Feitr—gathered into an uneasy clump just outside the tent. Next to them, Madrena and Rúnin spoke sharp and low in their rolling language. At last their voices dropped off. Madrena fell in with the tense group of men and without a word, they moved off into the woods. Feitr’s torch grew dim as they drew farther away.

Rúnin stepped into the tent at last, taking in the sight of Elisead tumbled on the bed and Alaric standing taut, still staring at the place where Domnall had been.

At last, the nightmarish spell holding them all seemed to break.

“Are you well?” Alaric asked, coming to Elisead’s side. She sat up, but she didn’t trust her legs to stand.

“Aye, I am fine.” At least physically. But her mind swirled in horror at all that had transpired since first laying eyes on Domnall earlier that day.

Alaric stood before her for a long moment, seeming to be struggling to say something.

But her head was beginning to grow heavy and fogged as she waited. Too much had happened. Domnall’s arrival. The nigh strangling tension between Domnall, Maelcon, and Alaric. The discovery of the longship she’d carved. The dissolution of her engagement. It all threatened to wash her away on a wave of overpowering anguish.

Just as Alaric opened his mouth to speak, she held up a trembling hand. “I think I will turn in for the night. I…I cannot…”

Alaric jerked his head curtly and stepped back. “I understand. As your father said, things will be clearer in the light of day. Rest now.”

Rúnin stepped out of the tent, and Alaric followed. But just before he slipped through the flaps, he paused. “You are safe here, Elisead.”

She nodded wearily, but he continued to stare at her. His eyes glowed a dark green in the low light.

At last, he let the tent flaps drop. Elisead fell back on the bed, completely spent. Tears slipped through her lashes as she squeezed her eyes shut.

Alaric’s strong hand steadying her. His green eyes cutting into her. Domnall’s sneering insults. Her father’s anger at her for the carving. She didn’t know what she was crying for, only that she felt lost, unmoored on a storm-swept sea.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs. Tears racked her until she was swallowed by the dark oblivion of sleep.