Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (119 page)

Her brows knit. “A
kirken
?”

“A church.”

Elienor snorted. “A heathen church!”

“Nei, Elienor, not a heathen church... a Christian church.” He was silent a long moment, weighing his words, and then continued. “You will discover it soon enough... mine brother has taken your faith.”

Her eyes widened at the revelation, though she seemed to recover herself at once and inquired, “Your brother? Not you?”

Alarik grunted. “He was converted by a soothsayer in the Scilly Isles,” he explained, “and confirmed with the English king Ethelred as his godfather.” His eyes seemed to smolder as he looked down upon her, assessing her reaction to his disclosure.

“I see,” she said stiffly, raising her brows. “Am I supposed to feel at ease now that you’ve revealed this to me? Because I do not! You’ve taken me far from everyone I’ve loved, everything I—”

“So you loved Count Phillipe?” he asked sharply, his eyes piercing her through the shadows.

“Nay,” Elienor snapped, glaring back at him. She shrugged. “How could I? I did not know him long enough to love him. You saw fit to that!”

Sensing that further interrogation would gain him naught and stir up much discord, Alarik decided to forego further questioning. Instead, he informed her of Brother Vernay and the holy writ to be copied for Olav. Elienor was so astounded by the request to aid the monk that she remained speechless, gawking at him, her lovely face flustered.

“You wish me to copy for you?”

“For Olav,” Alarik amended. “Do you know how?”

“Aye,” she murmured softly. “But...”

“Should you agree to the request, then you’ll spend the majority of each day with Brother Vernay... at the
kirken
,” he revealed. “The rest of the time you will spend with me, tending mine needs.”

Elienor’s chin lifted, heartened by the knowledge that he could argue all day it was God’s will, but if she chose not to assist Brother Vernay, then he could never force her. Mayhap Alarik had spared Clarisse, but she could not forget Stefan. “And if I do not agree?”

His lips twisted wryly. “Then you’ll spend the majority of each waking day tending me, instead.”

Elienor quivered. “Then I shall be delighted to assist Brother Vernay!” she relented at once, choking on her pride. “May it never be said I resisted God’s will,” she ceded ruefully.

“’Tis settled then. You shall begin in the morning,” he told her. Something about his tone made her feel that he was somehow displeased with her reply... yet he’d gotten what he wished of her, hadn’t he? He withdrew her ring from about his neck, his look sullen. “You’ll be wanting this back, I think,” he said, offering it to her.

When Elienor merely stared at it, stupefied, he dropped it over her head and watched as it settled at her bosom. Her fingers went to it at once. “Did your uncle give it to you?”

Elienor closed her fist about it, her eyes locking with his. “Aye,” she murmured.

“An acknowledgment of your kinship?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She glanced down at the ring in question. “For my eyes alone, for I can never be acknowledged as my father’s issue.” She glanced up, assessing his expression.

“Why?”

“Because I was disinherited at the age of four in the eyes of both church and state—my mother as well—so that my father might take to wife an heiress more suitable to his needs.”

Her lashes lowered, black as midnight against her pale flesh, and once again Alarik wondered that one so dark could be so fair.

At her forlorn expression, Alarik felt an overwhelming compassion for her, a kinship even, separate from any carnal emotions he’d possessed before; yet he couldn’t afford those sentiments and so he dismissed them, severing the moment abruptly.

“You should go back to sleep,” he suggested, commencing to undress at once. “’Tis late.” He lifted his tunic up over his head and tossed it upon a coffer and then began to unlace his breeches.

Elienor gasped, averting her eyes. “Where shall you slee...”

The aversion in her voice twisted his gut. “Atop you if you don’t move yourself over!” he said impatiently, and his stomach turned as she propelled herself to the far side of the bed, going so far as to place the pup between them.

I
n her dream Elienor endured Phillipe’s sloppy kiss. It was her duty, she told herself. Her body grew taut, and she endeavored not to cry out in disgust, counting herself fortunate that he never did more than this. Still, it sickened her and she worried how she would abide it when they were wed. She’d find a way, she was determined.

She’d find a way...

It was a long befuddled moment before she could rouse herself sufficiently to realize it was not a human tongue at all, for it was much too large—and wet!

Her eyes flew open to find an eager pink tongue lapping at her face. Sputtering in surprise, she sprang upward, grappling with the clumsy animal that seemed suddenly all the more determined to devour her face!

A soft chuckle reached her ears. “I wondered how long it would take you to rouse,” a husky voice remarked.

Elienor’s eyes found him at once, leaning casually, arms crossed, against the chamber door. To her alarm her first emotion was relief—relief that it was him, and not Count Phillipe.

Yet that was ludicrous, was it not?

He was dressed, though scarcely, wearing mere linen breeches and a tunic thrown over one shoulder, and she caught her breath at the sight of his bare chest, so immense. Seeing him thus was unsettling, to say the least.

An arrogant smile curved his lips as he noted the direction of her gaze, and his silver eyes gleamed. The thought of him standing there, scrutinizing her in sleep while she was entirely unaware of it, unnerved her. Elienor nudged the pup aside peevishly. “Why didn’t you simply waken me?”

“Because you needed rest.”

Elienor’s brows knit. How was she supposed to continue to loathe him when he said such things? Worse, how was she supposed to forget her nightmares? Though she couldn’t be certain the dream was prophecy, she reminded herself. Self-preservation kept her silent. The memory of her mother’s persecution, for so much less, plagued her.

She met his gaze boldly, trying to seem unaffected by him. “I’d have thought you’d have better things to do with your time, my lord Viking,” she said with easy defiance, “than to watch your prisoners slumber?”

“The name is Alarik,” he asserted, his sensuous lips curling as though on the edge of laughter. “And nei, I’ve naught better to do at present, Elienor... though you do.”

He broke into a smile at her confused expression, but said only, “I’ve arranged for a bath.”

Elienor tried not to notice the bridled power in his arms. “A bath?” Against her will, her eyes returned to his bared chest, and she swallowed, feeling a new wash of shame as she stared at the satiny smooth flesh there. She swallowed, trying to speak past the lump in her throat. “I... I would very much appreciate a bath.”

Amusement flickered in the eyes that met hers. “Come,” he demanded softly, shoving away from the door abruptly.

Had Elienor any choice but to obey? As she thrust away the covers and stepped out of the bed, he opened a small coffer, lifting out a crimson mantle. “You’ll be needing something more than your kyrtle,” he disclosed, wrapping it about her shoulders. And then without bothering to cloak himself, he snatched her by the elbow, leading her out of the bedchamber and through the
skali
.

To her surprise, he led her outside, and from there to a small outbuilding where smoke drifted up through the rooftop. He opened the door revealing a well-lit chamber within and an immense sunken tub in its center, grand enough for at least six people to sit and bathe. Eight flickering torches, each set in beautiful ornate iron braces, illuminated the chamber. On the right wall, two torches flanked an enormous hearth, and dancing beneath the smoke-blackened kettle in its gaping mouth burned a torrid fire. Elienor surmised the kettle was there to warm the bath water. Additionally, luxuriant furs were strewn about the floor and fresh drying rags were stacked upon a single wooden stool.

Elienor shook her head, awestruck by the sight. “I have never seen the like!” she whispered, forgetting for an instant that they were supposed to be bitter foes. She knelt by the tub, shrugging the cloak off and thrusting her hand within the water to test it. As she suspected, it was heated. Turning to catch Alarik’s amused expression, she told him, “In the priory we did not bathe...”

His tawny brows shot up in surprise.

“Oh aye, but we did!” Elienor amended, “though not in such luxury!” She flushed suddenly, chagrined by her impetuousness. “The church does not sanction such... opulence.” She glanced down hastily into the misty water, swaying softly, blaming her sudden dizziness on the heat of the chamber and not the way he stared at her.

His eyes glowed with a savage inner fire as intense as that within the hearth. “A private bathing chamber is also an extravagance in the Northland,” he assured her. “The design is merely one of many I’ve encountered in mine voyages to the east. In fact, most steadings do have but a single bathhouse for all to share... but then, this is not most steadings... it is mine.”

Elienor inhaled deeply in an attempt to harness the fluttering in her breast. “I see,” she replied, swallowing the lump in her throat. Suddenly anxious to be within the cleansing water, she straightened her shoulders and waved a hand toward the door. “Now that you’ve enlightened me, you may leave. Certainly, I can manage adequately!”

Alarik’s good humor spread clear into his lively silver eyes.

“I see naught so amusing!” Elienor replied at once, her hackles rising.

To her dismay, he merely chuckled softly. “Wench. You’re bold to order me out of mine own bath chamber,” he remarked blithely.

Elienor stiffened, bracing herself for the upcoming confrontation.

“You never cease to amaze me, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes,” he said, huskiness deepening his tone.

Elienor merely glared at him, unnerved by the way he said her name, with so much dark promise. “Surely you realize, my lord...” She repressed the epithet that by now came automatically to her lips, determined to master her tongue for once. “Surely, you realize that I cannot bathe with you present?”

Once again he chuckled, the sound wholly disarming. “Oh, but you can,” he disagreed softly, “and you shall, for I plan to stay.”

Alarik watched with unconcealed amusement as her eyes widened abruptly. ‘Trust me, Elienor—” He averted his eyes momentarily, but his gaze returned with startling intensity. “I made you a vow,” he continued grimly, “and I shall keep it.”

Elienor lifted her chin, emboldened by the shred of guilt she detected in his countenance. “Aye, but you’ve made me vows a’fore,” she reminded him, “and you’ve broken them as easily!”

He flinched visibly, his jaw taut. “I said I’d not touch you… unless you desire it to be so?”

Elienor snorted, rising abruptly to her feet. As dirty as she knew she must be after so long at sea with no bath, and wearing the same garments as she had, she refused to bathe in his presence! He’d have to force her. “You are the last thing I would ever desire!”

Liar! her conscience accused her.

“Regardless!” Alarik thundered, losing his composure for the briefest instant. He took a moment, tempering his tone, if not his words. “I told you last eve I would require your services, and I’ll not forego that dictate simply because you’re too squeamish to undress in mine presence. If you wish not to, then simply do not, but assist me, you will,” he avowed. “Within the tub,” he explained. “Alas, it is your gown to ruin if you please.”

With that declaration, he jerked the tunic from his shoulders, tossing it atop a stack of towels upon the stool. The force of the impact toppled the heap to the furs. His gaze piercing her, he said, “At any rate, ’tis not as though I’ve not seen you unclothed, is it my little Fransk? Nor is it likely you would have been spared this task, even had you wed your precious count. As mistress to Brouillard,” he reasoned, “would you not have been expected to bathe your lord’s guests?” His eyes glittered coldly. “Think of this just so.”

Elienor took a step backward even before he took his first forward, sensing his determination. She knew without a doubt that arguing her point would gain her little. The demon before her would simply do as he pleased and naught less—yet she could not in all good conscience simply disrobe and bathe before him! Nor could she bear the thought of looking upon his intimidating nakedness—regardless that it was a duty she readily would have embraced as mistress of Brouillard.

Retreating another step as he unlaced his breeches, she stumbled backward into the tub.

He chuckled deeply, his eyes shimmering like molten silver. “Does the sight of me affect you so?”

Elienor straightened. “The sight of you does naught but offend me,” she countered. But her face heated with the lie. About her limbs the water was fiery, yet she dared not extract herself from the bath. Lifting her skirts as much as she dared in a futile attempt to save them from ruin, she raised her chin proudly. To her dismay, he continued to disrobe, discarding his breeches with conviction and ease, his silver eyes sharp and confidant.