Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (11 page)

Alaric had been watching Elisead’s tent all morning.

’Twas for the best that she didn’t emerge, he’d told himself when at last he accompanied a handful of his men to go hunting. Otherwise he’d be hard pressed to leave camp and see to his duties. The temptation would be too strong to stare upon the cascades of auburn hair, her honey eyes, those luscious lips, and each dangerously tempting curve.

When he’d returned from the hunt, one deer richer yet strung tight as his bowstring, he’d gone to her tent to invite her to visit the barley fields with him. The first shoots had sprouted, and the fields already promised to be bountiful.

But the tent had been empty.

Though he trusted without a shadow of a doubt that she was safe among his crew, ever since the cart accident—which was no accident at all—he didn’t like the idea of her wandering alone. He’d checked the river where she preferred to bathe, hoping selfishly that he might catch a glimpse of her slim, pale limbs in the cool water.

As he’d made his way back to camp with still no sight of her, worry set in. These were dangerous times, despite the fact that he strove to make her feel safe in his presence. He paced the camp as he considered where to look next, drawing the curious stares of his crew.

He didn’t have to wait long.

A rustle in the underbrush along the back side of the camp was his first warning.

Then he caught a flash of white-blond through the trees. By the time he spotted the coppery shimmer of Elisead’s hair behind it, his sword was already drawn.

And when he saw Feitr’s hand wrapped tightly around Elisead’s elbow, the blade moved as if it had a will of its own.

“
Take your hand off her
.”

His voice sounded distant in his ears as he let the blade settle into the hollow at the base of Feitr’s throat.

Slowly, Feitr’s fingers loosened around Elisead’s elbow. She stepped away from the pale-haired Northlander, eyes wide on Alaric.

“It is all right,” she said. “He was merely…escorting me back from the woods.”

“And he needed to grip you that hard to do so?” Alaric’s gaze remained fixed on Feitr. He tried to clear his mind, to think levelly, but he couldn’t remove the image of Feitr’s fingers digging into Elisead’s flesh.

Feitr had been the one to lead the donkey and cart toward Alaric. He’d been the last one to touch the tampered-with harness.

Feitr had found Elisead in the woods. He’d been alone with her. And he’d laid his hands on her.

And now he stood under Alaric’s blade.

A large hand clamped around his where he gripped his sword’s hilt.

“Don’t do aught rash, Alaric.” Rúnin spoke almost inaudibly in their Northland tongue, but by the flicker in Feitr’s ice-blue eyes, he’d heard the warning.

“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” Feitr said, his gaze never wavering from Alaric.

Alaric shook off Rúnin’s hand but lowered the blade from Feitr’s throat.

“Speak, slave.”

Feitr didn’t seem to mind Alaric’s acid tone. “Maelcon requests your presence once more.”

Alaric snorted as he re-sheathed his sword. “And he wants proof of his daughter’s wellbeing, I imagine. Is that why you so
carefully
guided her back to camp?”

“Ja, he wants to see his daughter,” Feitr said, ignoring Alaric’s barb. “Or rather, he wants his guest to see her.”

At Alaric’s sudden stiffening, Feitr smiled softly. “I am not authorized to say more—as you have pointed out, I am only a slave.”

Alaric repressed a curse. Feitr was clearly enjoying toying with him. “Very well. We’ll depart shortly.”

“I’d best not wait on you. I’ll tell my master you are on your way.” With no other preamble, Feitr gave Alaric his back and made his way into the woods once again.

“Maelcon has a guest?” Rúnin said once Feitr was out of sight.

Alaric shifted his gaze to Elisead, who stood wide-eyed and waiting for someone to explain what had just transpired.

It was rude of Alaric to continue speaking to Rúnin in their Northland language—and cruel to keep Elisead in the dark about his suspicions. But even after Feitr’s behavior today, Alaric didn’t fully trust his hunch that the Northland slave was behind the attempt to harm Elisead and thereby destroy negotiations between the Northlanders and the Picts.

“Your father wishes to speak again,” Alaric said in Northumbrian to Elisead.

“Aye, Feitr said the same to me.”

“We will head out as soon as you are ready.”

“I am ready now.”

Alaric nodded and motioned for her to stay put. He turned to those gathered in the camp and quickly explained that he, Rúnin, and Elisead were once again going to the Pict fortress. His crew seemed buoyed by the hope that another round of negotiations would bring them closer to a permanent settlement.

As Alaric turned back toward Elisead, Rúnin caught his arm.

“Who might Maelcon have as a guest? Are you sure this isn’t a trap?”

Alaric met his friend’s uneasy gaze. “I’m not sure of aught.”

Alaric forced his gaze to rest calmly on the gates as a warrior watching them atop the stone wall motioned for them to be opened.

The iron grille protecting the wood was ratcheted up, then the gates began to slowly swing open with a groan.

No horde of warriors poured out. No battle cry went up. No flash of metal was visible to give warning of an attack.

Nevertheless, the hairs on Alaric’s nape stirred. He’d longed to bring his entire force of two score Northland warriors with him, but doing so would only shatter the fragile peace that existed between himself and Maelcon mac Lorcan.

Instead, he stood with Elisead between himself and Rúnin, feeling completely exposed.

Who was Maelcon’s guest? And why had Feitr gotten so much enjoyment from taunting Alaric by withholding the information?

At last the gates were opened wide enough for him to see the yard within. But rather than an army of war-ready Picts, Maelcon himself waited on the grassy expanse. His right-hand man, Drostan, stood like an ever-present shadow at his side.

Maelcon motioned the three forward. Doing his best to hide his unease, Alaric forced his mouth into a smile and stepped through the gates.

“I was glad to receive word from your man that you wished to meet again,” Alaric said. His gaze skipped around the yard. A few warriors stood at their posts along the wall, but the yard was empty besides their two little groups.

The villagers at last seemed to trust that Alaric and his Northmen wouldn’t lay waste to their huts, so the village had been quiet but full when they’d passed it. The villagers’ absence from the fortress made it seem all the more quiet.

Maelcon’s gaze immediately sought his daughter. At her calm if wide-eyed appearance, Maelcon seemed to relax a hair’s breadth, but then he turned back to Alaric.

“I am less than pleased to hear of your latest venture in
my
woods,” he said, narrowing his amber eyes, so like Elisead’s, on Alaric.

Alaric resisted the urge to clench his fists. So, Feitr had been doing more than just delivering Elisead from her wanderings. He’d been sent to gather information for Maelcon. And apparently the Northman slave had found the barley fields.

“We cannot wait forever for you to come to your senses and agree to my terms,” Alaric said, plastering a wolfish smile on his face even as he narrowed his gaze on Maelcon.

“My senses, eh?” Maelcon said, mirroring Alaric’s fake smile. “Perhaps my position has changed at last. Or perhaps yours has.”

Alaric didn’t like the warning couched in Maelcon’s words.

The mystery guest.
Did Maelcon now think himself above the need to negotiation with Alaric? Was Alaric’s hope for a peaceful union of their peoples to be dashed after nigh a fortnight of these games?

Before Alaric could demand an answer from Maelcon, the Pictish chief turned to his daughter.

“You are well?”

“Aye, Father.”

“Feitr said he found you in a tree. Alone.” Maelcon shot Alaric a scathing glare. “You gave your word to keep her safe.”

Alaric had yet to hear Elisead’s explanation of where she’d wandered off to and how Feitr had found her. He kept his features smooth.

“Elisead is still within my care, and therefore she is safe. I knew where she was. The only danger she might have faced would have been from your slave’s handling of her.”

It was a dangerous line to pursue, but Alaric couldn’t resist probing Maelcon. Just how involved was Feitr? If he was responsible for a plot against Elisead, was he acting alone or on Maelcon’s orders?

Alaric felt Elisead’s questioning gaze fall on him, but he didn’t turn. The fact that he’d pulled his weapon on Feitr and demanded an explanation proved that he hadn’t known where she’d gone. Somehow, though, he trusted that Elisead wouldn’t expose his lie.

Maelcon’s eyes narrowed even more. “My daughter has naught to fear from me or my people. Feitr is no threat to anyone.”

The denial was expected. Nevertheless, Alaric had thrown the first stone. If Maelcon was responsible for the cut harness, he’d now been warned that Alaric was suspicious of him.

“Speaking of being a threat,” Alaric said smoothly. “Where is my sister?”

Maelcon motioned for Drostan to open the doors to the great hall behind him. As Drostan pulled open one of the thick wooden doors, Alaric caught a glimpse of the interior.

Feitr stood, white head bowed in obsequiousness just inside the door. He faced the hall—which was filled with armored men.

Alaric went rigid. He’d been wrong. It was a trap.

Just then, Madrena slipped from the hall and Drostan shut the door behind her, blocking Alaric’s view of the warriors gathered inside.

Madrena walked forward calmly, head level and gaze fixed on the group standing in the middle of the yard. But instead of greeting Rúnin with a hearty kiss as Alaric would have expected, she went straight to Alaric and took him in a stiff hug.

“There are at least a score of Pict warriors in the hall, possibly closer to thirty,” she whispered in their language into his ear. “I know not why they are here or what they have planned.”

Alaric gave her a reassuring squeeze even as the blood hammered in his veins. Both he and Rúnin had been allowed to enter with their swords strapped to their hips. Alaric had a seax tucked into his boot, and Rúnin likely had one as well. But Madrena was unarmed, and Elisead would be completely vulnerable if a battle broke out.

Before he could speak to Madrena, Maelcon cut in.

“Come, I have some news.” A smile played under his red-gray beard. “We have a visitor, a most honored guest. I am sure he would like to meet you. And you, Elisead.”

Alaric’s body hummed with the need to fight, to take action. He would fight to the death if he had to for this mission. But he would not be the one to destroy their peace. Let Maelcon launch the first blow.

Maelcon motioned them forward, and Drostan once again opened one of the wooden double doors leading into the great hall.

Alaric got a more complete view of the hall, which was filled with warriors. They were dressed in the same fashion as Maelcon’s men, but the brightly colored woven fabric under their chainmail was a different pattern.

It took all of Alaric’s willpower not to pull his sword free of its scabbard. Instead, he stepped forward and walked through the door. The warriors turned silently, watching him with hateful eyes.

A solitary man was on the raised dais at the back of the hall. At Alaric’s entrance, he stood from his chair slowly. He was covered in the same chainmail tunic as the others, but a sword with a gem-encrusted hilt rested on his hip.

Alaric was vaguely aware that the others had entered behind him. Drostan closed the door, dropping the hall into a dimness only cut by the torches resting in their sconces along the walls. The fire pit next to the dais was unlit.

He sensed Elisead step next to him, but he didn’t dare take his gaze from the man standing on the dais. His dark brown hair was tied away from his face, which was partially obscured by a trimmed beard.

The beard, along with the ornate sword hilt and his position on the dais, gave the man an air of authority, but he appeared to be of an age with Alaric. Judging from his build, the sword on his hip wasn’t mere ornament—he held himself like a warrior. Or a leader of warriors.

“Father,” Elisead breathed by Alaric’s side. “Is that not…”

“Aye, daughter,” Maelcon said, his voice dripping with smugness. “It is Domnall mac Causantín.”

“Who?” Alaric said, his gaze burning into the man towering over all the others in the hall.

Elisead’s voice was barely a whisper. “My betrothed.”