still.
Sweet
Jesu! Surely it was only her imagination.
It was
true she oft talked to herself—but never like this! “Dear God! I am mad!”
she exclaimed a little hysterically. Eyeing the blanket she’d discarded upon
the pallet, she felt acutely the crispness of the air. If she stayed in this
tent another moment, the madness would be irrevocable. If she didn’t freeze to
death first—and It was all his fault!
“Truly,
I am mad!” she whispered again. Jesu, but it was cold! She started for the
blanket suddenly, intending to wrap it about her shoulders. “Mad, mad, mad!”
“I’m
inclined to agree.”
Elienor
practically leapt out of her stockinged feet. She spun about to face the tent
opening where Alarik, the demon, stood watching her, his arms crossed, his lips
twisted with ill-concealed amusement. A grin suddenly overtook his features...
those sensuous lips twisting devilishly. “Who can argue with truth?” he said,
his eyes sparkling with rare humor. “Without question, you’re unusual, Elienor
of Baume-les-Nonnes.”
Elienor
shot him a look of contempt, forcing her gaze from his lips.
Unusual?
Precisely what was he implying? Unusual, indeed! She dared not ask, lest he
accuse her of witchery again. “Beg pardon if I offend thee, my lord Viking!”
“Alarik.”
Elienor’s
eyes narrowed belligerently. “Pardon again! Alarik, the demon,” she countered,
daring to use her own epithet for him. And emboldened by his silence, she dared
even further. “Mighty Norseman, slayer of innocents!”
He
stiffened as though she’d physically struck him.
Her
voice rose in renewed anger over Clarisse’s senseless death. “Alarik, the
executioner!”
“Enough!”
He snarled at last, his eyes warning her. “Lest you wish to join your friend.”
Elienor
snorted to cover her instant of fear. “You would!” she continued carelessly.
Let him do what he wished to her! She refused to forget her pride ever again.
A
muscle ticked at his jaw. “Aye, wench, I would... never doubt it!” His eyes
glittered dangerously.
Yet he
did nothing of the sort, Elienor noticed. He simply stood glaring at her.
Tossing
her head back, she eyed him with cold triumph, daring to challenge him with
every fiber of her being. Only the longer he stood, the darker his look became,
and the more ominous he seemed, and Elienor began to truly doubt her sanity.
What
was wrong with her that she would goad him so?
He said
absolutely nothing, merely stood there, his eyes glittering with barely
restrained fury, and then he flung her dry kyrtle at her.
Elienor
gasped as the garment cuffed her in the face. She fumbled for it, missed it,
and then fumbled for it again as it fluttered to the planking. She stared down
at it numbly, glancing up in astonishment.
He was
gone.
That
was it?
She’d
pushed and pushed, yet that was all he would do in retaliation? She felt giddy
with relief. For a befuddled instant, she stood there gazing down at her
saltwater-stained garment, illuminated suddenly by a dazzling shaft of
sunlight, and wondered in horror how she could have forgotten what she was
wearing—or rather what she was not wearing! At once, she fell to her
knees, seizing up her bliaut, her face burning crimson with shame, and then
again glanced at the tent opening.
Sunlight
shone onto her face, and she shielded her eyes, amazed at how much light he
kept from the tarpaulin when he stood in the doorway. With his departure the
shelter was again awash with light.
Which
led her to wonder just how she’d not sensed him standing there.
Worse,
how long had he stood there before making his presence known?
“The
cur!” she said, and promptly drew the ruined gown over her head, smoothing it
over her undertunic.
The man
was impossibly arrogant!
Still
she couldn’t believe he’d done naught more than swat her with her gown.
Leaving
her so she could dress, Alarik vowed to stay clear of her—vicious wench
that she was! So much for
Sweet
Jesu! Surely it was only her imagination.
It was
true she oft talked to herself—but never like this! “Dear God! I am mad!”
she exclaimed a little hysterically. Eyeing the blanket she’d discarded upon
the pallet, she felt acutely the crispness of the air. If she stayed in this
tent another moment, the madness would be irrevocable. If she didn’t freeze to
death first—and It was all his fault!
“Truly,
I am mad!” she whispered again. Jesu, but it was cold! She started for the
blanket suddenly, intending to wrap it about her shoulders. “Mad, mad, mad!”
“I’m
inclined to agree.”
Elienor
practically leapt out of her stockinged feet. She spun about to face the tent
opening where Alarik, the demon, stood watching her, his arms crossed, his lips
twisted with ill-concealed amusement. A grin suddenly overtook his features...
those sensuous lips twisting devilishly. “Who can argue with truth?” he said,
his eyes sparkling with rare humor. “Without question, you’re unusual, Elienor
of Baume-les-Nonnes.”
Elienor
shot him a look of contempt, forcing her gaze from his lips.
Unusual?
Precisely what was he implying? Unusual, indeed! She dared not ask, lest he
accuse her of witchery again. “Beg pardon if I offend thee, my lord Viking!”
“Alarik.”
Elienor’s
eyes narrowed belligerently. “Pardon again! Alarik, the demon,” she countered,
daring to use her own epithet for him. And emboldened by his silence, she dared
even further. “Mighty Norseman, slayer of innocents!”
He
stiffened as though she’d physically struck him.
Her
voice rose in renewed anger over Clarisse’s senseless death. “Alarik, the
executioner!”
“Enough!”
He snarled at last, his eyes warning her. “Lest you wish to join your friend.”
Elienor
snorted to cover her instant of fear. “You would!” she continued carelessly.
Let him do what he wished to her! She refused to forget her pride ever again.
A
muscle ticked at his jaw. “Aye, wench, I would... never doubt it!” His eyes
glittered dangerously.
Yet he
did nothing of the sort, Elienor noticed. He simply stood glaring at her.
Tossing
her head back, she eyed him with cold triumph, daring to challenge him with
every fiber of her being. Only the longer he stood, the darker his look became,
and the more ominous he seemed, and Elienor began to truly doubt her sanity.
What
was wrong with her that she would goad him so?
He said
absolutely nothing, merely stood there, his eyes glittering with barely
restrained fury, and then he flung her dry kyrtle at her.
Elienor
gasped as the garment cuffed her in the face. She fumbled for it, missed it,
and then fumbled for it again as it fluttered to the planking. She stared down
at it numbly, glancing up in astonishment.
He was
gone.
That
was it?
She’d
pushed and pushed, yet that was all he would do in retaliation? She felt giddy
with relief. For a befuddled instant, she stood there gazing down at her
saltwater-stained garment, illuminated suddenly by a dazzling shaft of
sunlight, and wondered in horror how she could have forgotten what she was
wearing—or rather what she was not wearing! At once, she fell to her
knees, seizing up her bliaut, her face burning crimson with shame, and then
again glanced at the tent opening.
Sunlight
shone onto her face, and she shielded her eyes, amazed at how much light he
kept from the tarpaulin when he stood in the doorway. With his departure the
shelter was again awash with light.
Which
led her to wonder just how she’d not sensed him standing there.
Worse,
how long had he stood there before making his presence known?
“The
cur!” she said, and promptly drew the ruined gown over her head, smoothing it
over her undertunic.
The man
was impossibly arrogant!
Still
she couldn’t believe he’d done naught more than swat her with her gown.
Leaving
her so she could dress, Alarik vowed to stay clear of her—vicious wench
that she was! So much for
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