Heart of a Viking (23 page)

He didn’t respond. They stood on the blustery cliff top for many long moments until his movements stilled and she felt his chest rise as he drew in a deep breath. Alrek dropped one hand and the other, before easing back. Ilisa gulped and her insides felt as though they were filled with stone and yet tangled in excitement. The weight from knowing nothing could happen, the excitement from just looking at him. This wild, savage Viking whose blue gaze tenderly sketched her form.

“Come now, let us return. You have weaving to do, do you not? And I fear some more rain shall be along soon. I’d intended to patch up the holes in your roof.”

“You had?” She pressed a palm to her chest as the ache grew.

“Aye.”

“Alrek, I—Thank you.” To her dismay, her eyes seared with tears and she swiped at them.

Alrek offered her a hand and she took it. Their hands fit so perfectly together and she admired the contrast of their skin. Ilisa peeked sideways at him, knowing she likely looked at him as if he were one of the gods he always spoke of. Alrek caught her look, offered her a tilted smile that was haunted with uncertainty.

She squeezed his hand in a bid to reassure him. Did Galan concern him? Or something else? Did he think her angry with him? How could she hold him responsible for other’s actions? Alrek had proved himself time and again in such a short period of time. How would she feel if someone judged her on other Picts’ behaviour—someone like Galan, who had little care for others?

Nay, she knew this Viking was no savage. In fact, he was probably the best man she had ever known.

The rain stayed away for several days, allowing Alrek to finish fixing Ilisa’s roof. He leaned back to admire his work and paused to listen to her singing as she weaved. He would never tire of hearing that sound. They had fallen into a perfect routine. They tended the sheep and fetched the water together, then she prepared their food while he washed. He would chop wood and she would clean up and wash. During the day, he worked to fix her home and rebuild the stone wall. She sang, weaved and cooked. In the evenings, they talked of their cultures—she of the old Pagan ways of the Picts and he of their gods and his homeland. His heart had slowly become etched into the soil of this land. Or maybe into Ilisa’s life.

But he held one thing back—his past. And while his desire for her refused to ebb, he refused to give into it. How could he when he had been little better than the Norse who had slain her husband and brother? How many innocent lives had he taken during raids? He couldn’t be sure. Blood lust had controlled his every move at that age. He’d been brought up to be a warrior, taught that to be anything else was weak. He wasn’t so sure now.

“Will you come down for some food?” Ilisa called, jarring him from his thoughts.

He swiped a hand across his brow and peered down at her. Hands propped on hips, she beamed at him. The last of the evening sun warmed her hair and silhouetted her figure. Alrek recognised the stirrings of desire in his blood. While he hoped a ship would turn up and relieve him from the torture that was being in such close confines with this siren, his stomach grew heavy with dread too. Would he be leaving her in danger?

“I will be just a moment.” He checked the straw one last time, drew in a breath and gathered himself before climbing down.

“Is it all done?”

“Aye, you should have no more problems for quite some time.”

“I thank you, Alrek. That roof has been neglected for too long.” She put a hand to his forearm. Her fingers singed his skin through the linen. Who would have thought such tiny hands could have that effect? “Now come and eat. You deserve a good meal after that.”

“Let me clean up. I am dirty after crawling around on the straw.”

Ilisa nodded and left him. The scent of cooked vegetables drifted from the door as she opened it and his stomach grumbled. Not only was Ilisa a beautiful woman, she was a fine cook. No wonder Galan wanted her for his own. His appetite diminished when he thought of the dark-haired Pict. Once Alrek left, would Galan force himself on Ilisa again? Or harm her? If he hadn’t interfered those few days ago, he imagined Galan might have pushed Ilisa to her death.

He should take her to Iceland. The thought prodded him again, playing in his mind incessantly. But would she leave her homeland? And be comfortable living amongst the people who had raided her country and nearly driven the Picts to extinction?

Alrek sighed and stalked over to the water tub. Sloshing cold water over his face and hands, he paused to eye his reflection. The gods had left him in peace recently. Did that mean he was on the right path? And what was that? To stay with Ilisa perhaps? The temptation to do so warred within. He had thought Iceland was his destiny but perhaps it was Ilisa.

He dashed the drops of water from his eyes and ducked into the cottage. Ilisa smiled, motioned for him to sit and shoved a bowl of steaming vegetables in front of him. Alrek wasted no time and shovelled them in, almost scalding his mouth and making Ilisa’s lips twist.

She seated herself opposite him and paused. “They will not run off your plate if you do not eat them you know?”

Alrek let slip a chuckle and blew on his next spoonful. “Are you sure? I’ve heard Pictish vegetables were the feistiest of them all.”

“Nay, Alrek, that is the women.”

Lowering his spoon, he studied her. “Aye, you are right. Pictish women are indeed feisty. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a woman like you.”

Ilisa’s teasing smile dropped and the smoky air grew stifling. He felt as though he were trying to breathe underwater. Their gazes locked, the world around darkened. Only Ilisa existed with her vibrant red hair and delicate face, with her beautiful voice and sweet sense of humour.

He coughed. “Of course, I have always been fond of Pictish women.”

Lashes dropping, Ilisa’s lips tightened. She gave a depreciating laugh. “Of course.” Her lashes lifted. “Whereas I have never been fond of Vikings.”

Her sharp response surprised him and made the tiniest pinprick in his heart. He had hurt her with his callous words. He’d meant to create some distance, but never hurt her. In truth, he would rather die than let Ilisa endure any hurt ever again. The idea of this women suffering in anyway struck him like a blade to the heart. Perhaps the idea of staying was not such a bad one. How else could he be sure she never came to harm?

On the morrow he would suggest staying.

And if she said aye, what then? Would he give into his desire for her? Ask her to be his wife? His heart warmed at the thought. Maybe he would do both.

“You are fond of
this
Viking though?” he prompted.

Her lips twisted and the sparkle returned to her eyes. “Oh, aye, fond enough.”

***

A wolf’s howl renting the air caused Alrek to bolt upright. He stared into the darkness and listened. They were close, likely going for the sheep again. He sighed. Ilisa couldn’t afford to lose many more. From his pallet on the floor, he listened to see if Ilisa had awoken too, but he was unable to even hear her soft breaths.

“Ilisa?” he whispered, unwilling to wake her if she really was asleep.

Nothing. Not even the tiniest whisper of air. He peered at her bed, trying to break the darkness. The fire had yet to go out fully but her bed was shrouded in shadows. Gradually her pallet became apparent as his vision adjusted. Alrek eyed the bedding, followed the bumps in the blanket until it came to where her head should have been.

“
Óðins skegg
!” On his feet, he stumbled over the pallet and snatched the torch from the wall next to the door. Mouth dry, heart thudding, Alrek shoved the torch into the glowing embers of the fire. “Light!” he demanded.

The torch flared and he uttered a thank you. Foregoing his boots and dressed in only a shirt, he took a last glance at her bed and his insides crumpled. Definitely not there. Another howl sent a tremor down his spine. He dashed outside, lifted the torch and squinted into the distance. A tiny flicker of light moved across the darkened hills.

Ilisa.

Foolish woman. Was she intending to scare off the wolves? Alrek fell into a sprint, dropping the torch when it became too much of a hindrance. A half-moon flickered through the clouds, enough to light the uneven ground. Fear drummed in his heart, horror curdled his stomach. What would he do if something happened to Ilisa? A scream echoed across the hills and struck his heart—a crippling pain that nearly sent him to his knees.

“Ilisa,” he called, the sound coarse. His lungs and thighs burned. The light had stopped moving up the hills but it swept from side to side.

As he got closer, he realised the wolves had surrounded her. Within moments, he came to her side and shoved her behind him. She cried out and he snatched the torch from her, swiping at the snarling beasts. They were hungry indeed to come out so far and show no fear of the fire.

The pack surrounded them, four animals snapped at their legs. Alrek used the torch to keep them at bay but how long it would work, he knew not. He had to get Ilisa to safety. He shouted at the beasts, swung again and dodged to the side as one made a jump for him. He caught the animal’s side with the flame and the wolf whimpered and backed away.

“Stay close to me,” he hissed. If she ran, they’d likely go after her.

Her eyes were wide under the moonlight. She gripped his arm. He returned the snarl of the wolves with one of his own. These beasts might be killers by nature but he was a Viking—a warrior bred to fight. And these animals wanted to harm the woman he loved. They would not succeed.

The leader of the pack lunged and Alrek landed a punch on the animal’s nose. The others appeared to take this as a sign to attack. One scratched his arm, the other nearly caught his leg in its jaws.

“Get back,” Ilisa cried and kicked the wolf going for his ankle in the head. It turned on her and swiped its claws across her leg, eliciting a yelp from her.

Alrek cursed, forced himself between her and the animal and kicked the wolf hard in the stomach as it dove again. With a yowl, it toppled back and the remaining wolves backed off. He swung the torch several more times, bellowing desperate curses and threats until his voice ran dry. The pack eased further back and finally turned away. Alrek closed his eyes for the briefest moment and drew in a breath.

He turned to Ilisa, dropped the torch and pulled her into his embrace. He clamped her head to his chest, against the pounding pressure of his heart.

“You foolish woman, what were you thinking?” he scolded quietly, his voice still hoarse.

“I wanted to save the sheep,” she snivelled. Her whole body trembled and she wrapped her arms about his waist.

All Alrek could think of was how close to losing her he had been, of her delicate body against his. The need to protect this woman burned in his chest. It was a need he didn’t think would ever extinguish. “They are not worth your life.”

“They’re all I have,” she sobbed.

“Nay, not anymore.” He loosened his hold and drew her chin up to view her. Tears shimmered in the moonlight, her beautiful features streaked with them. Thumbing them away, he glanced around for the torch, now doused on the ground somewhere. “Let us return to the cottage now. I do not wish to be out here while those beasts are around.”

She nodded and gulped audibly. He took the chance to stroke her cheek once more and released her. Alrek gave up on trying to spot the torch and took Ilisa’s hand. As they began down the hill, she let out a shallow hiss.

“What is wrong?”

“My leg.”

Alrek cursed under his breath. Of course, the wolf had swiped at her and he hadn’t even asked if she was well. In one movement, he scooped her into his arms.

“’Tis only a scratch,” she protested.

He didn’t care. One drop of her blood spilled was too much. Not to mention he didn’t mind having her in such a position. She weighed little and her supple form moulded perfectly to him. When she slipped her arms around his neck, he almost forgot they’d just been battling wolves.

By some miracle, Alrek made it down the hill at a quick pace without stumbling. Perhaps the knowledge that he held the most precious treasure of all in his arms drove him to step swift and sure. He pushed open the door with his back and didn’t release her until he had laid her on the bed. Using the dull fire to light a candle, he placed it on the table near the bed and urged Ilisa to lie back.

“Let me look,” he commanded.

“A mere scratch, Alrek,” she insisted but lifted her skirts.

Sure enough, several red streaks marred her milky skin. Alrek shook his head and dabbed it with the sleeve of his shirt. “It isn’t deep,” he observed, “but you should not have been hurt at all. I should have reacted sooner.”

“Alrek,” she said softly, a hand to his, “you saved my life. I was foolish, you were right, but you saved me from paying for my folly.”

He grimaced, unable to let go of the feeling of having failed her. “Now we are even,” he said mirthlessly.

“We are.”

He let his fingers remain on her calf as he eyed the laceration. It wasn’t deep and didn’t look to be bleeding any further. He would however need to clean it. “Do not move.” Straightening, he set about lighting the fire and fetched some cloths and water. Ilisa barely stifled a whimper while he cleaned the wound but her meek behaviour told him how ashamed she was of her rash decision.

The pounding of his heart began to slow, the fear ebbed away. Soft skin beneath his fingertips and the way she watched him seared his senses. Smoke whirled around them, mimicking the thickening of the air in his lungs. He glanced at her again and paused. Jaw clenched, he made a decision. He was staying.

He dropped the bowl and cloth on the floor and skimmed a finger over the soft curve of her calf, his gaze locked onto hers. Her eyes rounded, lips parted. A silent understanding ran between them and he saw everything he felt reflected in those pale eyes. Love, desire, desperation.

Alrek followed the line of her leg down to her foot and circled an ankle. Her pliant flesh and small frame made his muscles tense in restraint. The need to lose himself in her warred with longing to relish everything, to explore her body and show his love for her.

Leaving her ankle, he traced a path up the inside of her thigh. He groaned at the warmth of it and she sucked in a sharp breath. He shifted to sit on the bed beside her and he spotted the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His fingers pressed higher still, her heat beckoning to him. With his hand buried under her skirts, he leaned forward and she fell back, vibrant hair spilling over the pillow. Alrek drew in a heavy breath and put a hand to the side of her head so as to pause and admire her.

“You are such a beautiful Pict.”

“And you are a beautiful Viking,” she replied, her expression serious.

Her lack of a smile didn’t disturb him. He couldn’t bring himself to grin at being called beautiful, something no one else had ever called him. Handsome, aye, but never beautiful. The torrent of emotion pouring between them stole their usual humour. After this there would be no going back. Their two cultures, usually so opposed, would come together this night and even the gods would not stop them.