Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (2 page)

Her small frame heaved with labored breath. Berry-red lips parted as she gasped for air. Her wide eyes darted desperately, searching for a way to escape, but they found none. At last, those large eyes settled on him, and his sharp inhale had naught to do with the chase he’d just given her.

Deep pools of liquid amber held him, begging silently for release. Her golden eyes were set off all the more dramatically by her auburn-red hair.

This wild forest spirit was the red blur he’d seen earlier. But she wasn’t a spirit. Nei, she was a flesh-and-blood woman.

Slowly, Alaric lowered his sword and shield. A quick glance at her lithe form and empty hands told him she bore no weapons. At his movement, slow though it was, she started and tried to take another step back. But her heels were flush against the lapping river and she was forced to remain in place.

His gaze once again slid over her, and despite himself, Alaric’s blood stirred with lust.

Her ragged breathing caused her breasts to press against the finely made woolen tunic she wore. The garment was elaborately adorned with delicate needlework along the collar, wrists, and hem, which fell to her booted ankles.

Her slim waist was belted with a braided leather band that had a pouch dangling from it. With her legs braced apart in preparation to flee, he could make out the outline of her gently curved hips and slim but shapely legs. Her delicate yet womanly form caused something primal to twist deep in Alaric’s belly.

Suddenly, shouts sounded in the forest behind him. His crew was closing in on them. A look of utter horror stole over the young woman’s face, and all at once he was drowning again in her amber eyes as they pleaded with him wordlessly.

“Go,” he said, choosing the Northumbrian tongue. He had no idea if this girl would understand, but based on the look of terror she’d given him, she certainly wouldn’t be familiar with the Northland tongue.

Impossibly, her eyes widened even more as disbelief and comprehension warred over her soft features. So she
did
understand him.

Alaric glanced over his shoulder to gauge how far away his crew was. When he turned back, the girl had already darted away. He watched as she dashed along the sandy shoreline, then slipped into the trees.

Why in Hel’s realm had he let her go? He needed answers—about the charred bones, about her presence in these woods, and if there were others.

But something about the desperate fear in those enthralling amber eyes had been his undoing. She might have died of fright if she’d seen forty armed Northmen explode from the forest behind him. Even still, he cursed himself for losing an opportunity to question her.

“What in Odin’s name—” Madrena crashed through the underbrush, sword raised and breathing heavily. When her eyes landed on Alaric, unharmed and with his blade and shield lowered, she stilled.

“’Twas a woman,” Alaric said, loud enough for the others to hear as they caught up with Madrena.

“And she got away?” Madrena snapped, her eyes flaring in outrage.

“I let her go.”

“Alaric, why in—”

He held up a hand to silence his sister. His gaze roamed once more to where the auburn-haired beauty had stood a moment before. Her small boot prints trailed through the sandy riverbank, then cut into the shadowed forest.

Alaric gritted his teeth. He had a responsibility to Eirik, his crew, and all those counting on him back in Dalgaard.

“We’ll follow her. If there are others who live in these woods…well, we’d better introduce ourselves.”

Elisead dared to risk another glance over her shoulder. Even though there were no sounds of pursuit, she would never trust a band of wild Northmen.

Especially not their golden leader.

Her already hammering heart squeezed painfully. She stumbled to a halt, her legs no longer able to keep up her frantic flight.

Elisead leaned against a rowan tree as she struggled to catch her breath. By all the gods, old and new, what had just happened?

She’d slipped from her father’s fortress in the wee hours of the morning. As she had done countless times in the last few years, she’d let herself wander the dense woods unperturbed. How peaceful they’d been that morning. The birds seemed to be relishing the sunshine and fresh air. The leaves and boughs overhead had rustled softly in the gentle breeze blowing in from the North Sea.

Elisead had inhaled a deep breath of the salty air and had decided to make her way toward the bay where the river met the sea. When she’d crested a rise to get a better view, however, it was as if she’d stepped into a waking nightmare.

Two rectangular red and white sails had torn the perfect blue sky. Those long, dragon-prowed ships sliced through the water like knives. And then a horde of Northmen had spilled forth into the water and onto the beach.

She’d been frozen in place, the air turning to ice in her lungs. But then one of the Northmen, the first to jump into the water, had looked upward and pinned her with his eyes. Even from a distance Elisead could see that they were vibrant green. His golden hair had ruffled past his shoulders, his square jaw dusted with dark gold stubble.

He was huge—tall and broad with muscle. And he moved like death itself.

After what felt like a sickening eternity, she’d sucked in a breath and bolted. The fastest way to get back to the fortress was to follow the river. But that had meant traveling past the site that still haunted her sleep.

She’d vowed never to return to that horrible spot where the Northmen’s bones still lay. Even though she knew her mind was playing tricks on her, she’d imagined the stench of burning flesh clinging to her as she’d skirted that terrible place.

But the Northmen came again.

They moved like wolves along the river, a deadly pack bristling with swords and shields. And the golden Northman, the one with the sparkling green eyes, had seen her once more.

As he’d hunted her through the forest, she considered simply laying down and letting him slash her open with the shining sword he wielded. What chance did she truly have in outrunning a Northman, hardened by battle and honed for killing?

But that old spark inside wouldn’t let her give up. If he was going to slaughter her, he’d have to catch her first.

And he had.

But then he’d let her go.

And he’d spoken in a thickly accented Northumbrian tongue. None of it made any sense. Northmen were unpredictable in how they doled out their terror and death. Her people had learned that last time, which was why she had to send up an alarm.

Elisead pushed herself away from the rowan tree she’d been leaning on and forced her legs back into a sprint. As she reached the outskirts of the village, she gasped for a deep breath.

“Northmen!” she shouted. “To the fortress!”

Even though her lungs burned, her cry was enough. Those moving calmly about the village immediately stopped what they were doing. Some dove inside their thatched huts to gather their loved ones, while others simply bolted toward the fortress.

Elisead tore through the village and propelled herself up the sloping hillside upon which her father’s fortress sat. The high stone walls towered overhead as she ran alongside the other villagers.

One of the guards standing watch on the wall must have seen the frantic stream of villagers making their way toward the fortress, for Elisead could hear the creak of the wooden gate being opened from the inside and the groan of the iron grille as it was ratcheted up.

Nay, it will not be like last time.

Fear threatened to steal what little breath she had, but she forced herself onward. She had given the warning, which was far more than they’d had seven years ago. All would be safe—at least she prayed so.

At last she crested the hill. Only the flattened expanse of soft grass at the top of the hill stood between her and the fort. She pushed herself harder until finally she slipped under the iron grille and between the gates along with the others.

She was safe—for now. She slowed her burning legs and gasped for breath. But she only allowed herself a few pants as the grille was lowered and the gates closed tight behind her. She had to warn her father.

Elisead made her way through the throngs of panicked villagers now filling the open yard between the high stone walls and the great hall. Her father must have heard the commotion, for just then he emerged from the great hall, his mouth turned down behind his red-gray beard.

“Father!” Elisead plowed through the frightened villagers.

“What has happened?” Maelcon’s brows lowered as his gaze locked on her. She must look a fright. She’d fled so swiftly and recklessly from the Northmen that she’d torn her tunic in several places. Her hair was a tangled mess atop her head, and she had no doubt there were leaves and twigs knotted in it.

“Northmen,” Elisead breathed. Those around them who’d overheard gasped and cried out in fear.

Her father’s eyes rounded. “Into the great hall.” He grabbed Elisead’s elbow and dragged her into the dim wooden structure, villagers streaming in behind her.

“Triple the guard on the wall,” Maelcon said over his shoulder as he strode swiftly across the open hall and toward the small chamber he used to hold meetings in private. Drostan, her father’s best warrior, nodded at his chieftain’s order and departed for the wall.

“We are safe here,” Maelcon said loudly, turning to the terrified villagers who’d followed them inside. “Our walls are impenetrable and our warriors strong. Rest easy while I learn more from my daughter.”

With that, he continued on to the corridor at the back of the hall where the smaller chamber sat, all the while gripping Elisead’s elbow.

“Now, tell me what you saw,” Maelcon snapped as he closed the heavy wooden door behind them.

“Northmen,” Elisead panted again. “Two ships. They sailed into the bay, then began making their way upriver on foot.”

Maelcon cursed and brought a fist to his mouth. “How many?”

“Perhaps two score.”

Elisead squeezed her eyes shut under her father’s string of curses. When Northmen had landed on their shores seven years ago, there had been half that many. And even though they had managed to beat them back, it had come at a terrible cost.

Maelcon began pacing before her, his limp a subtle reminder of that nightmare seven years ago.

At last her father’s cursing and pacing halted. Elisead looked up to find him staring hard at her.

“What were you doing out there, Elisead?” he snapped.

“I…”

She was saved from fumbling for an answer by a swift rap at the door. Drostan let himself in without waiting for a reply. The warrior and her father frequently used this room, furnished only with a few chairs and a table, to discuss the village’s safety.

“The wall has been fortified, Chief,” Drostan said. The man’s deep brown eyes quickly scanned Elisead. “What do we face?”

“My daughter has seen forty Northmen approaching from the bay,” Maelcon said, seeming to gather his wits in the presence of his right-hand man.

Drostan’s fists reflexively clenched at his sides. “We must strike swiftly, Chief. Else—”

Elisead swallowed hard. Seven years ago, she’d been little more than a girl, but she remembered vividly how the golden giants from the north had set upon them like wolves on a flock of lambs.

Before that terrible time, she’d heard whispers of the scourge from the north, but their little village was isolated here in the heart of Pictland. None had truly believed the Northland destroyers would reach them. But when they had, she’d seen Hell with her own eyes.

“We are safe within the walls,” Maelcon said firmly.

“But if we were to attack, and attack now, before they’ve gotten their bearings—”

“They speak the Northumbrian tongue,” Elisead blurted out.

Both Maelcon and Drostan rounded on her, Drostan’s eyebrows shooting up and her father’s mouth falling open.

“What say you?” Maelcon asked.

“They spoke—or one of them did. They may not be strangers to this land. They may have planned to land here, to strike the fortress.”

The thought sent a shiver of fear down her spine, but it was information her father and his most trusted warrior needed to have. Even in these remote parts, almost everyone could speak both the Pictish tongue and the Northumbrian one. They’d been at war with their neighbors to the south too long not to have learned their language.

“
You were close enough to hear them speak?
” Her father closed the distance between them and was suddenly shaking her hard. “Foolish girl!” he roared. “What have you done?”

Drostan stepped to Maelcon’s side and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “Now isn’t the time,” he said simply.

Drostan had long known of Elisead’s propensity to slip from the village and wander the woods. She knew that if her father had ordered him to, Drostan would have followed her at all times, even though such a task would have been an insult for the clan’s greatest warrior. Even still, Drostan knew well the private struggle for freedom between the chieftain and his daughter.

Maelcon’s grip on Elisead’s arms eased. “Tell me the whole of it. What did you see and hear, girl?”

Before she could speak, a second knock sounded at the door. Another of her father’s warriors stuck his head inside.

“Forgive the intrusion, Chief, but one of the lookouts has spotted a band of warriors approaching—Northmen.”

Her father cursed again. Drostan’s jaw clenched.

Elisead felt like she was going to be sick. At least the villagers had made it behind the walls. Even still, the nightmare from seven years ago was threatening to start all over again.

Maelcon strode out of the chamber, leaving Drostan and Elisead to trail after him. He made his way through the great hall, not bothering to address the villagers gathered there. Elisead broke into a run to reach his side as he crossed out of the great hall and into the yard.

“They saw the site of the pyre for their people,” she said hurriedly. “Perhaps they don’t mean to stay, now that they know we’ve bested their kind before.”

Her father didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard her as he began ascending the crude stairs made of stacked stones along the inside of the wall. No one knew who had originally built this stronghold, for it had been passed down through generations of Pictish chieftains. Now it was all that stood between them and the approaching Northmen.

Elisead followed after her father, knowing that the extra stones mortared to the top of the wall would provide her cover. Drostan followed as well, though he gave Elisead a disapproving look. She shouldn’t have been up there with them, but her father was too distracted to send her back to the relative safety of the great hall.

When she peeked over the lip of stone behind which she crouched, her heart flew to her throat. A horde of Northmen had broken the tree line and were weaving through the still and empty huts at the base of the hill.

Strange, Elisead thought distantly. When the Northmen had come before, they’d attacked the village mercilessly until naught had been left of it but burning rubble and broken bodies. Those behind the walls had been forced to watch helplessly until at last the Northmen had run out of ways to desecrate her people’s homes.

But these Northlanders didn’t seem to have any interest in the empty huts. Perhaps it was because there was no one down there upon whom to sate their blood lust.

Just then, she caught sight of the leader, the golden Northman who’d held her with his emerald gaze and then inexplicably let her go.

Her breath caught in her lungs. He moved with deadly grace, every inch of him hard and honed for battle. He walked at the front of the group, sword drawn and shield at the ready, his eyes trained on the fortress.

She ducked her head back behind the stones, letting out a shaky exhale. Something about his elegant lethality shook her to the core.

Her father and Drostan stood, their heads and shoulders exposed as they took in the sight before them.

“Hail, fortress!”

Was that the leader, the golden-haired giant? The voice was the same deep timbre and heavily accented Northumbrian as the one word he’d spoken to her.

Both Drostan and Maelcon seemed taken aback at first. But her father recovered quickly from the sound of the Northumbrian tongue in a Northman’s mouth. From where she crouched, she looked up at his face, which was set hard and unyielding like the chieftain he was.

“Hail…warriors,” Maelcon called back in Northumbrian. “I am Maelcon mac Lorcan, Chief of this village and this land.”