Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (15 page)

“His only hope was to catch us by surprise, but I took that from him a moment before he attacked. Even if I hadn’t sounded the alarm, he was outnumbered.”

Alaric sat in a heavy wooden chair in the small chamber that Maelcon used for private meetings. Maelcon sat across from him, his bad leg jutting out to the side.

Though Alaric had noticed the chieftain’s slight limp the first time he’d laid eyes on him, the old wound seemed to bother Maelcon more than usual after a night on horseback.

Maelcon grunted. “I knew Domnall was arrogant, but I didn’t realize how great a fool he was.”

“And how did he and his nigh thirty men slip out of your fortress unnoticed?”

Maelcon stiffened. “He didn’t go unnoticed, or have you forgotten that we came to your aid only a few moments behind him?”

Alaric crossed his arms, ignoring the pinch in his shoulder. He’d stitched it closed in the wee hours of the morning in the great hall. The wound wasn’t serious, thank Odin. Nor had there been many severe injuries. They’d only lost three warriors in Domnall’s surprise attack and taken about a dozen of the bastard’s men in return.

Pushing aside the mild pain, Alaric remained silent, pinning Maelcon with a hard look.

Maelcon exhaled through his nose slowly. “I fear…I fear he had help. From inside the fortress.”

That was what Alaric had suspected, but to hear it from the proud chieftain sent ice into his belly.

“I have already questioned the guards stationed on the wall and at the gate,” Maelcon went on. “Domnall told a few of them that he and his men weren’t going to wait until first light to leave.” Maelcon shook his head. “Blessedly, one of my guards thought such behavior was strange and alerted me, but Domnall was already on his way to you by then.”

Alaric rubbed the stubble along his jaw, considering Maelcon. He’d suspected the man to be behind the attempt to harm Elisead and set upon Madrena in the night. And if Maelcon hadn’t sullied his own hands, then Alaric had guessed the chieftain might have given the order to someone like Feitr.

But based on Maelcon’s souring toward Domnall, who could have just as easily destroyed their negotiations, and his obvious protectiveness of his daughter, Alaric was willing to take a chance and trust him. At least partially.

“I believe you have more to worry about than some gullible guards. What did Domnall mean when he said last eve that he’d received word of my presence here?”

Maelcon shook his head. “When Domnall arrived yesterday morn, he said he was merely passing through. He was eager to see Elisead, but I chalked that up to a groom anxious to confirm his bride’s beauty. I know not what he meant about being sent for.”

“More foul play,” Alaric muttered. He would reveal no more to Maelcon for the time being. At least the chieftain was finally starting to be more forthcoming with Alaric. “And do you think Domnall will come back?”

Maelcon tugged on his beard, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. “I know not.”

Alaric arched an eyebrow at him. “Tell me the truth, Maelcon. You fear he will return, which is why you invited my Northmen into your fortress. You hope that your walls, combined with my force, will be enough to ward off Domnall and his father’s army if it comes to that.”

Again, Maelcon exhaled long and slow. “I doubt they will bother. We are a small and remote band, hardly worth the King of Pict’s attention. Causantín might be swayed if Domnall makes a big enough fuss over the broken engagement, but the King is already granting his son reign over Dál Riata. Causantín has larger things to worry about—the Northumbrians are a constant nuisance, and as you said, more Northmen arrive every summer.”

“Then if your Pict King is so uninterested in you, why did you seek to make a marriage alliance with his son? And why have you resisted my offer of alliance?”

Alaric tried not to let his annoyance color his voice, but he’d lost patience for Maelcon’s games and delays. True, the chieftain had aided his men last night and had at last invited them into the fortress. But the man still seemed to cling to a misplaced hope that Alaric wasn’t serious about staying.

Maelcon shifted in his chair, repositioning his stiff leg. “Before Causantín, there was no King of the Picts. Aye, we had Kings of various territories, and chieftains of smaller areas and groups of people beneath them. But Causantín brought all of Pictland under his reign. Of course, he’s kept us largely safe from Northumbrian encroachment. And he brought together the smaller Kings through alliance and trade. But a few remote corners have remained harder to secure.”

“And this is one such corner,” Alaric said. “So your desire for protection from enemies and Northlanders alike was only part of your reasoning.”

“Aye. I have long resisted living under a distant King’s thumb—or any man’s thumb for that matter.”

That explained why Maelcon bucked at Alaric’s arrival and declaration that he and his people would be staying. “You hoped to leverage some degree of power—or at least independence—by marrying your daughter to Causantín’s son.”

Maelcon nodded. “But it seems that independence in this new world is vanishing, just like the lesser Kings of Pictland were swallowed by Causantín.”

“The same is happening elsewhere. The Northlands have long been ruled by Jarls, but now Kings are claiming control over both the Jarls and all their lands. Power is being consolidated. Only the bold—and the strong—will have a chance of breaking away.”

Maelcon eyed Alaric across the small space separating their chairs. “And which are you—bold or strong?”

Alaric lifted his lips in a grim smile. “I am both. I promised you your daughter would have my protection while she was my hostage, and I have kept that promise. I also told you that with our peoples united, you would have the might of my Northland warriors at your back—last night I proved that as well.”

And yet, Maelcon hesitated.

“But if you are still unsure of my seriousness,” Alaric said carefully. “I have another suggestion for how to knit our interests together and assure our mutual benefit in the alliance I propose.”

Maelcon leaned forward, guarded interest on his face. Alaric had claimed to be bold, and now was the time to prove it. His heart hammered in his chest as he opened his mouth to form the words.

Suddenly the door to the small chamber burst open. “Forgive me, Chief,” Drostan said quickly, taking in the sight of Alaric seated across from Maelcon. “I thought you were alone.”

Maelcon waved his warrior in. “What is it?”

“We followed Domnall and his men as far as the mountains. They continued southwest toward Dál Riata.”

“Good,” Maelcon said, his face hardening.

“I’ll send some of my men back to the camp today,” Alaric said. “They can dispose of the bodies and secure our supplies—if we are to stay here in the fortress, that is.”

Maelcon nodded to Alaric, meeting his eyes. Though satisfaction swelled within Alaric at his victory, it was short lived, for he still needed to tell Maelcon his next plan.

With another wave from Maelcon, Drostan silently departed, closing the door behind him.

“Now, what is your proposal to sweeten this alliance?”

Alaric felt like an untested lad entering his first battle. But he was a Northman—he didn’t cower or flee from conflict, he faced it. He rose from his chair, planting his feet wide and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I would wed Elisead.”

Elisead had been lingering in her chamber long enough. It had been a trying night, aye, but she could tell from the bustle from the great hall echoing down the corridor outside her chamber that others had found a way to face the day.

She’d barely slept, but if she was honest with herself, it wasn’t because the shadows threatened or nightmares loomed. Nay, it was because the memory of Alaric’s arms cradling her sent her limbs tingling. His scent, of sweat and battle but also of his skin, lingered around her.

Her chamber had felt strangely empty compared to the tent she’d been sleeping in for over a fortnight. She hadn’t realized it, but she’d become used to the knowledge that Alaric slept only a few feet away from her in the nearest tent.

Madrena had vacated Elisead’s chamber quickly upon their arrival back at the fortress. She’d slept with Rúnin and the others on the floor of the great hall. Madrena’s open and fierce affection toward Rúnin made Elisead blush. For some reason, the Northwoman’s unapologetic desire for her mate sent Elisead’s thoughts into dangerous territory—not the territory of a virgin daughter of a Pictish chieftain.

As her father had hustled her to her chamber last night, she’d caught a glimpse of Alaric with the others in the great hall. He was carefully peeling off his bloodied tunic to inspect his injured shoulder.

He’d looked every inch the fearsome Northern warrior. His body was all hard lines and ridges. She would have thrown herself into his muscular arms, dirt, blood, and all if she had been the free forest spirit he called her.

Instead, she’d walked dutifully by her father’s side toward her chamber, allowing him to close the door tightly behind her. Yet in the darkness of her room, her thoughts were her own—and they had run wild.

But now it was time to face the light of day. Elisead had washed as best she could in her small basin and dressed carefully. She’d plaited her hair with fumbling fingers. Her fate awaited her beyond her chamber door. It was a fate that no longer involved Domnall, thank God. But what it
did
include, she was unsure.

Elisead pushed herself out of her chamber and forced her feet to carry her toward the great hall. Her steps faltered as she heard the bang of a wooden door ahead.

“Out!”

She hurried forward at the sound of her father’s angry shout. Just ahead in the corridor, she saw Alaric stride out of her father’s private chamber and into the great hall. Maelcon was on his heels, his face red with anger. She dashed ahead but came to a skidding halt when she reached the great hall.

“When you calm yourself, you’ll see that—”

“My daughter? Marry a Northman? You insult us both, yet you have the audacity to tell me to calm down!”

A strangled gasp cut through the air. Elisead realized belatedly that the noise had come from her throat. Both Alaric and her father turned toward her, Alaric’s eyes penetrating while Maelcon’s were clouded with rage.

“You…you wish to marry me?”

All at once, her vision filled with an imagined future as Alaric’s wife. Her whole body nigh hummed as if the spirits themselves desired such a fate.

Before Alaric could answer, Maelcon interjected.

“It is out of the question.”

“When you are done blustering, you’ll see the mutual benefit. We already share an interest in her wellbeing. She would be the tie between our people, ensuring that both parties seek what is best for all,” Alaric snapped back at him.

Elisead’s belly twisted painfully. The vision of the future and the humming in her body vanished as one. Bitterness surged in the back of her throat. Aye, Alaric wanted to marry her—for the “mutual benefit” he and her father would reap.

“In my lands,” Alaric went on, shifting his gaze back to Elisead, “a woman gets a say in her own fate. Perhaps you should consult your daughter before you decide for her.”

Maelcon opened his mouth to protest, but Alaric held up a hand, shooting him a glare fierce enough to stay his protests for a moment.

“I…” Elisead shook her head a little, trying to clear her thoughts and unknot her twisting innards. “I do not know.”

Suddenly it was all too much. She spun on her heels and bolted for the doors leading from the great hall to the yard. She needed air, else she would faint like a silly, weak girl.

Just as she pushed one of the double doors open, a warm, callused hand came down gently on top of hers.

“Let me explain myself to you, Elisead,” Alaric said softly.

“Nay, I need…I need to think. I need air.”

“Where will you go?”

“Anywhere!” she blurted. But she forced herself to take a calming breath. “To the woods.”

Alaric looked down at her, his golden head bowed toward her. His strong, handsome features darkened slightly. “It isn’t safe. I’ll accompany you.”

How was she supposed to think clearly with Alaric’s large, muscular frame looming over her, his scent, washed clean of the battle last night, clinging to her?

She felt fragile in Alaric’s presence, but it was different than when she became overwhelmed by too many competing sensations. Aye, she felt suddenly more aware of every breath of air against her skin, every shade of green in his searching eyes.

But this time she did not wish to shift her gaze away, curl in a ball, and wait for the storm of sensations to pass.

“Let me explain,” he repeated softly.

She didn’t believe for a moment that she’d be able to clear her mind with Alaric speaking to her of the practical reasons and political advantages for their marriage. But she also saw the set of his jaw. He would not be swayed.

“Very well.”

Maelcon made a noise behind them as if to object, but neither paid him any heed. Elisead strode into the yard and called for the gates to be opened. She and Alaric walked out into the midday sun, her heart hitching strangely.

“Tell me, Northman,” she said when they’d passed the village and entered the woods. “Why should I marry you?”

*   *   *

He watched as Elisead and Alaric made their way past the gates and through the village. Though he longed to curse aloud, he resisted the urge. He’d waited so long and worked too hard to give up his composure now.

As he so often did, he’d gone unnoticed in the great hall. Lingering in the shadows had afforded him the opportunity to witness Maelcon’s outburst and Alaric’s persistence in seeking a marriage with Elisead.

It only made sense that the man would want to marry the chieftain’s daughter. Alaric’s desire for Elisead had always been obvious.

Indeed, he himself had long lusted after the girl. Though he’d detested the thought of her marrying Domnall, the arrogant fool, he’d forced himself to accept his fate to always wait, watch from the outside, and never taste the sweeter spoils in life.

But the chieftain had gone too far this time.

He’d always thought he’d had no true power, but when he realized that if he could thwart Alaric and Maelcon’s negotiations,
his
hand would be the one guiding fate.

His first move, to cut the donkey’s harness and set Elisead in harm’s way, had been ill conceived and foolish. While having the girl take a tumble and perhaps even break a bone would have surely halted negotiations and flared tensions between Maelcon and Alaric, his true aim wasn’t to harm Elisead, for he had other plans for her.

The attempt to stab Alaric’s sister in the middle of the night was a much wiser maneuver. She was expendable, and given Alaric’s protectiveness, it would have surely led to an all-out war.

But the bitch had blocked the door, and ever since then, she’d been alert and watchful. He hadn’t been able to get her alone, and he wasn’t ready to make a move out in the open yet.

Secretly sending word to Domnall should have been enough. Yet even Domnall couldn’t set things to right. It had been a mistake to hope the spoiled bastard could help. It would have required sacrificing Elisead to the preening future King, yet he could have accepted it if it had meant Alaric would be thwarted in his plans. While Domnall’s egotistical possessiveness would have served his purposes, the arrogant fool was too rash to be controlled.

And now Domnall was long gone. Time was running out. Maelcon was foolish enough to advance negotiations with Alaric, and the Northman’s every action proved that he meant to stay. If Maelcon permitted Alaric to wed Elisead, no amount of underhanded scheming would stop this nightmare.

It was time to act. It wasn’t his way to work in the open, though. He had one last hope of avoiding disaster. But if a marriage went forward, all would be lost—unless he stopped it.

He knew what he was capable of if it came to that—he was born to be a killer, a warrior. Could he also be a leader?

He slipped away from the fortress walls, uneasy at being so visible. One more chance. And then he’d be forced to expose his plan at last.