Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (14 page)

This isn’t over.

Domnall’s hissed words, meant only for Alaric’s ears, tumbled endlessly through his mind.

Domnall was a fool, but worse, he was a fool with power. What did his threat mean? Would he seek vengeance against Maelcon for not cutting off negotiations with the Northmen? Or would he take it out on Elisead?

Alaric could admit that the thought of Domnall ending his betrothal with Elisead gave him a vicious satisfaction. But he didn’t trust that Domnall was done with Elisead, Maelcon, or himself just yet.

When at last the tension had drained from the camp and his men turned in for the night, Alaric hadn’t bothered seeking his bed on Rúnin’s floor. Nei, he would not be sleeping this night. Instead, he’d taken up position outside Elisead’s tent.

Her muffled sobs had clawed through his chest and torn straight to his heart. Over and over again, he cursed Domnall for his cruel treatment of her. The man had roughened her with his hands, but worse, he’d sullied her with claims against her innocence.

Alaric stifled a curse directed at himself. Though he’d nigh seen red at Domnall’s insults, hot shame branded him.

He
had
touched Elisead, even though he’d staked his honor on not doing so. Memories of their kiss heated his blood and sent his manhood aching. The truth, the one he didn’t want to admit, was that Domnall had been right—at least partially.

Elisead had done naught wrong. But Alaric had broken his word and threatened his mission with that kiss. He’d dishonored himself and Elisead by letting even a shadow of doubt fall upon her.

Now Maelcon’s alliance with Domnall was crumbling, but that only renewed Alaric’s determination to settle the terms of their negotiation and move forward in peace with the Pictish chieftain.

A seed of an idea was beginning to sprout. Domnall had discarded Elisead and cast shame upon her, leaving Maelcon vulnerable and Elisead dishonored. But there was a way to shore up Alaric’s alliance with Maelcon and bring Elisead under his protection fully. Dare he consider it?

Elisead’s scream brought his head snapping up.

He bolted to his feet on instinct. His sword was partially drawn and glowing blue in the moonlight before his mind caught up to his body. Of course she was safe—he’d been couching outside her tent all night to ensure it.

Rúnin’s dark head shot out of his tent. Alaric quickly re-sheathed his sword and held up a hand to halt Rúnin.

“All is well,” he said softly. “She likely just had a nightmare, but I will check on her.”

Rúnin nodded and withdrew back into his tent with a barely audible grunt of relief.

Alaric ducked his head into Elisead’s darkened tent. He paused to let his eyes adjust, but another cry of fear rose from the shadowed bed.

Careful to avoid the enormous stone on the ground, he moved to where Elisead lay. In the low light, her pale skin glowed like the moon itself. She tossed her head against the downy mattress, her brows drawn together. Muttered words, spiked with fear, drifted from her lips.

“Elisead,” he whispered. Gently, he took her shoulders in hand and gave her a little shake. “Elisead, wake up.”

She cried out, her hands clawing at him in panic. He gave her another shake, and blessedly this time her eyes popped open.

“It is Alaric,” he said quickly. “You were having a nightmare.”

“Alaric?” Her breaths were coming fast, her voice still laced with fear.

“Ja,” he replied, lowering himself so that he sat on the edge of the wooden frame that lifted the mattress off the ground.

She heaved a sigh of relief, but he could still feel her trembles where he held her shoulders.

“It was the bones again and…and Domnall was taking me away, and—”

“Shhh,” he soothed. “’Tis over now.” He ran his hands up and down her arms. His touch seemed to calm her, but still she clutched the front of his tunic.

“Alaric…” she faltered, “don’t…don’t go. Stay and comfort me for another moment.”

Though a warning bell rang distantly in the back of his mind, he was beyond helping himself. Her scent, of the woods and her sweet skin, rose up and enveloped him. Her eyes were depthless pools in the darkness, but he knew she gazed up at him pleadingly.

As if under the spell of the forest spirit that lived within her, he lowered himself onto the mattress by her side. His arms slid around her, pulling her into his chest.

She was greedy for his touch, for she pressed the full length of herself against him, nuzzling her head onto his shoulder and holding him close by his tunic.

His blood suddenly flashed hot. It hammered through his veins and roared in his ears. Against all he knew to be right, his manhood surged at the feel of her soft body melting into his hard one.

But was this not right? It felt like the most right thing he’d ever done, as if his whole life had been leading up to this moment when he could hold Elisead in his embrace.

She gave a soft sigh as if she felt it too. Her warm breath fanned against his collarbone where his tunic opened at his neck. Even the touch of her breath sent a shudder through him.

“Alaric…?” Though her body was limply draped over his, her voice was hesitant and anxious.

“Ja?”

“What Domnall said…about the two of us…”

Anger sliced through the fog of lust clouding his thoughts. “That whoreson had no right to impugn your honor.”

“But…but it wasn’t just him. I saw the look in my father’s eyes when he beheld the Northman’s longship on the stone. He suspects it too.”

Alaric let out a slow exhale through his teeth. “Ja, so do Madrena and Rúnin.”

“They all assume that something has passed between us, that something…” She shook her head against his shoulder.

“Ja,” he said again, longing mingling with resignation. “But naught can happen.”

His words hung for a long moment in the darkness of the tent. He cursed himself for his own hypocrisy, for even as he spoke them, he tightened his arms around her, unwilling to let her go.

“I made a promise to your father, and to my people. Even though you are no longer engaged to Domnall, I cannot dishonor myself by breaking my word, nor can I turn my back on my mission. I cannot—”

“I know,” she breathed.

With every shred of willpower he possessed, Alaric forced himself to loosen his hold on Elisead and sit up.

“You should try to get back to sleep,” he said, his voice huskier than he’d intended.

She nodded, but he saw the subtle motion of her throat bob as she swallowed. Her eyes shimmered in the low light with unspoken emotion.

Alaric tore his gaze away, lest his willpower fail him against his surging desire to claim her mouth—claim her in every way, right here on this bed. Make her his, for all eternity.

He jerked to his feet and strode quickly to the tent’s door, not letting himself look back at her where she lay splayed on his bed. With a sharp inhale, he dragged in the cool, salty night air. But the darkness couldn’t hide the truth.

By every god in all the realms, he wanted her—
needed
her.

He paced one length of the tent, then turned and paced the other so that he circled her like a prowling animal. But he was not the predator—nei, his desire for her hunted him as if
he
was its powerless prey.

At last he crouched at the tent’s far end so that he faced the forest. He dragged his fingers through his hair. He was only a man. What chance did he stand against a longing so strong?

His swirling thoughts once again returned to the idea that had begun to sprout just before he’d heard Elisead’s cry. Could he still control his own fate and make Elisead his at the same time?

A twig snapped far off in the woods beyond where Alaric knelt, ripping his attention from his own tortured thoughts.

His whole being went taut. A soft wind whispered across his skin, stirring the dark trees and making the forest look alive.

Alaric sniffed the air, but the breeze was coming off the bay behind him. Besides the rustling of the leaves and pine boughs, all was quiet. Those in the camp had long ago turned in, with the fire reduced to a low smolder.

Another twig snapped. That was not a coincidence. Either an animal stalked the woods just beyond the camp, or someone lurked there.

Alaric pursed his lips and whistled softly. It was a particular bird call that Rúnin had taught him. Breath stilled and eyes alert on the forest, he waited for Rúnin’s response to drift from the tent next to Elisead’s.

But before Rúnin’s returned whistle, the woods exploded in movement and noise.

“Attack!” Alaric bellowed, hoping his men would make sense of his warning shouted in the Northland tongue.

Just as his sword slid free of its scabbard, a swarm of armored warriors poured forth from the trees. They had drawn so close, unnoticed under the cover of night, that they would have swallowed the camp unimpeded had Alaric not sounded an alarm.

The camp sprang to life just as three warriors fell on Alaric, swinging their swords all at once at his head.

Alaric’s mind went quiet as his instincts took over. He blocked a blow meant to separate his head from his neck even as he twisted away from a second blade. The third sliced his shoulder, and he felt warmth flow down his left arm.

But instead of dulling his reflexes and slowing his mind, the feel of his own hot blood being spilled sent pure, white energy through Alaric.

A battle cry ripped from his throat as he spun, slicing his first attacker across the stomach. The man’s chainmail prevented the blow from being lethal, but he fell back nevertheless.

Alaric’s blade continued through the air, tilting downward toward his second attacker. This time, his sword found the gap where the man’s helmet met his chainmail. Blood sprayed across Alaric’s face as the man toppled before him, nigh decapitated.

Just as Alaric met the third attacker, the first one regained his footing and charged. But suddenly Rúnin was at his side, bellowing his own battle cry. Like a deadly serpent, Rúnin dodged the attack and spun, ramming his sword into the back of the man’s neck. Alaric didn’t have time to thank his friend, however, for he was engaged in delivering a deadly blow of his own.

Shrieks of victory and death filled the camp. Distantly, Alaric hoped that none of his crew had been set upon without hearing his warning. If any of them fell under a Pictish blade, he prayed it would be with a weapon in hand so as to be welcomed into Valhalla.

More warriors poured from the night-darkened woods. Time slowed as Alaric and Rúnin met them side by side in a deadly dance. Blood pounded in Alaric’s veins and flowed over his skin. He lost himself in the motion of blocks and blows, his body melding with his sword.

But then a terrified scream ripped through the fog of battle.

Elisead
.

Blood-chilling screams tore Elisead from sleep’s embrace.

For a moment, she feared she was still caught in her own nightmares, and this time, Alaric wasn’t there to soothe her. But the sounds were too real, too near, to be of the dream world.

She bolted upright as the noises of death and clanging metal barraged her.

Panic froze her. The camp was under attack. And the battle raged mere feet from her.

Her head spun and sickness welled in her throat. Nay, she could not get washed away in the overwhelming fear and cacophony now. She had to keep her wits about her.

With her heart pounding an erratic beat, she slipped from the mattress and crawled on her hands and knees toward the closed tent flaps. Partway there, though, she hesitated. What good would it do to leave the tent only to crawl into the middle of the battle?

A savage scream sent her jumping. She had to clap a hand over her mouth to prevent from crying out, though she distantly doubted one more scream would matter now.

Was she safe inside the tent? Was she safe anywhere? Her whole body began to shake.

“Stop it,” she whispered to herself. “Hold yourself together.”

Crawl under the wooden platform that holds the mattress off the ground
, a little voice said. A trickle of strength began to flow within her. She could do this. She would survive.

She pawed her way back toward the bed, forcing her limbs to move even as someone fell into the tent, tugging the woolen siding for a moment.

But just as she began wedging herself under the wooden bed frame, the whole tent reverberated again. Weak moonlight suddenly fell upon her. Someone had yanked back the flaps at the front of the tent.

Elisead jammed herself under the bed, but she wasn’t fast enough. A hard hand caught her ankle and pulled, dragging her across the floor.

Unadulterated terror seized her. A high scream ripped from her throat as she clawed desperately at the ground, but her attacker was too strong.

“You whore.”

Impossibly, her horror hitched higher at the voice.

Domnall
.

“You think I would let your defilement with the Northman go unpunished?”

Domnall dragged her toward the tent flap. As she twisted on the ground, she slammed into the stone that was to be her bride gift to Domnall. Her shoulder went numb, but where she’d made contact with her head, she felt a sudden liquid warmth. Her vision darkened for a long moment and the world spun.

Elisead blinked fiercely, desperate to regain her sight. The darkness lessened slightly, and the sudden breeze made her realize she was outside.

At last, Domnall released her ankle. He loomed over her, a black shadow against the night sky. Then she saw the dull glint of a blade. Domnall drew his sword over his head, the slivered moon sliding along its sharp edge.

Time ground to a halt. Elisead inhaled, but distantly she knew she wouldn’t have time to scream again before Domnall’s blade cleaved her. The salty air burned her throat. She would die a heartbeat from now.

The sword began its torturously slow descent. Though she longed to escape at least for one breath to the safety of darkness behind her eyelids, she could not look away. The blade arced toward her, its path unstoppable.

But then suddenly it
did
stop. Domnall’s blade froze in midair, clanging so hard against another sword that both vibrated even as they locked together.

Elisead’s gaze traveled up the length of the sword to the golden warrior who held it.
Alaric
.

Though she knew it was him, he looked utterly savage. Blood splattered his face and clothes. His eyes danced wildly, filled with unfettered bloodlust. He crouched next to her, his sword jutting across her to protect her body from Domnall’s blade.

Domnall’s dark eyes flashed in the moonlight. He pushed down on his blade with all his might.

Alaric bared his teeth but held fast under Domnall’s weight. As if he had transformed from a mere warrior into a pagan god, Alaric began not just resisting Domnall’s attack, but pushing back. He rose onto one knee as he drove Domnall’s sword upward and away from Elisead an inch at a time.

Now it was Domnall’s turn to bare his teeth. He grunted in exertion and rage as Alaric continued to gain ground. With a sudden burst of energy, Alaric shoved to his feet, flinging Domnall’s blade back.

Elisead scrambled backward on the ground, her eyes fixed on the two men as they prepared to launch themselves at each other.

But then more shouts sounded from the woods beyond where the Northmen were still locked in combat with Domnall’s men.

Including a woman’s battle cry.

More warriors were suddenly streaming from the forest. Her father’s men! And Elisead spotted Madrena by her flowing ice-blonde hair. The warrior woman wielded a sword like the others, hacking her way through Domnall’s men.

Alaric and Domnall froze, both taking in the sight of Maelcon’s forces coming to the aid of the Northmen.

“You’ll die this night,” Alaric vowed, raising his sword at Domnall once more.

“Halt!”

Maelcon charged through the camp on his enormous steed bred for battle. He reined in hard as he reached the two men.

Alaric froze in mid-attack, but he didn’t lower his weapon. Domnall darted his gaze between Alaric and Maelcon.

“Why do you stop me from killing this whoreson?” Alaric snapped, his eyes still burning on Domnall.

“Because he and his men are already defeated,” Maelcon panted from atop the warhorse. “And I want him to deliver a message.”

Alaric considered Maelcon’s words for a moment, still holding Domnall motionless under the point of his blade. At last, he raised his fingers to his lips and brought forth a piercing whistle.

Behind her, the shouting and clanging of metal suddenly halted.

“Drop your sword,” Alaric bit out to Domnall.

Domnall actually dared to hesitate. “So you can kill me dishonorably in front of my men?” he sneered.

“Nay, you fool,” Maelcon snapped. “So that you can run to your father and tell him he has a new enemy.”

Alaric whistled again, and suddenly the Northmen were herding Domnall’s remaining men in a circle. Seeing them, Maelcon’s warriors joined the effort. They rounded up Domnall’s bleeding and diminished force into a tight ball.

“Do I have to tell you again?” Alaric narrowed his eyes on Domnall, still looking more like a wild and fearsome animal than a man.

Finally, Domnall’s arrogant sneer faltered. His eyes flickered to where the remains of his men huddled under both the Northmen’s and Maelcon’s warriors’ blades. Slowly, he lowered his sword, dropping the tip into the churned dirt at his feet.

Her father straightened in his saddle, raising his voice for all to hear. “You’ll return to Torridon and tell your father, King Causantín mac Fergusa, that the marriage alliance between himself and my people is severed. You’ll also tell him that you were defeated, and that you and his army will give my lands a wide berth from now on.”

One last spark of defiance lit Domnall’s dark eyes. “Nay, for I am to go to Dál Riata, not Torridon.”

“Very well,” Maelcon snapped. “Go to Dál Riata instead, and wait until your father summons you for an explanation when your wedding doesn’t occur come harvest time.”

Domnall gritted his teeth, but at last he nodded his understanding. “Someone get me my horse.”

Elisead’s searching gaze landed on a large, well-bred steed near her tent where Domnall must have dismounted to attack her. Drostan, who stood at her father’s horse’s side, retrieved the animal and handed the reins to Domnall.

Just as Domnall mounted and reined his steed toward the dark woods, Alaric’s voice cut through the silence.

“And tell your King that more Northmen are coming—so many that he will never be able to beat us all back. And we are here to stay.”

Domnall’s gaze seared into Alaric, but he said naught. With one hand, Domnall waved for his men to fall in behind him as he spurred his horse into motion. The group, now little more than half the size it had originally been, limped away into the forest headed southwest.

“Follow them—from a distance—to make sure they leave my lands,” Maelcon said quietly to Drostan. The warrior nodded and gathered a few others for the task.

Elisead turned her gaze on Alaric, who still stood with his blade gripped in his hand. As his eyes fell on her where she sprawled on the ground, the wildfire finally seemed to bank within him.

He re-sheathed his sword in one fluid motion and was suddenly crouching over her.

“Are you hurt?”

Alaric’s sudden rush toward her drew her father’s eye as well. “Elisead!” he blurted, swinging down awkwardly from his horse.

Elisead sat upright, touching her head where her blood flowed. “I will be fine,” she said, even as the camp swirled slightly.

“You’ll return to the fort with me,” her father said, crouching as well as he could given his old leg injury.

Alaric stiffened, but before he could interject, Maelcon went on.

“You’ll
all
return to the fort,” he said loudly. “This camp isn’t safe, at least not while Domnall is still nearby.”

“He never stood a chance of overpowering us,” Alaric said flatly.

“Aye, well, even still, I’ll not have my daughter sleeping on top of a battle field tonight,” Maelcon said. “And you and your men are welcome within my walls.”

Elisead could hardly believe her ears. Did that mean that her father and Alaric were finally coming to terms?

“Very well,” Alaric said with a nod. Murmurs rose among his men, but none defied their leader.

Alaric reached for Elisead, scooping her up as if she weighed next to naught. But when she slipped her arms around his shoulders, he flinched and grunted.

Suddenly Madrena was at her brother’s side. “Are you well?”

“Ja,” he said. “We can see to our injured once we reach the fortress.”

Within the warm safety of Alaric’s arms, Elisead dared to let her eyes scan the camp. Bodies littered the ground, broken and bloodied. Moonlight glinted dully off Domnall’s fallen warriors’ chainmail. In fact, almost all the bodies were armored. How had the Northmen survived such an attack nigh unscathed?

Alaric’s crew filtered to their tents quietly, reemerging with a few items and weapons in their arms. At last, the Northmen, followed by her father’s warriors, began making their way toward the fortress farther up the river. The two groups fell into an eerie silence as they drew away.

Elisead buried her face in Alaric’s neck. Even though the night had been filled with terror and death, she knew she was safe in his embrace.