Free Viking's Prize by Tanya Anne Crosby

mother’s, not the kind old abbess’s,
not Count Phillipe’s, nor Stefan’s, nor Clarisse’s... but his .
    She tried to look toward the helm, to plead for
help, but abruptly the world spun away.
     
    Accustomed to frequent heated matches amongst his
bored crewmen whilst at sea, Alarik had paid the sudden upheaval little mind,
until he heard the scream. He turned in time to see her collapse to the
planking.
    With a hoarse cry, he hastened to her side,
lifting her face up. Her blood flowed freely into his hands from a gash at her
temple. He turned his wrath upon Red-Hrolf, who was the only one near enough to
have inflicted the mighty blow. “What need was there for this?”
    “She’s mad!” Red-Hrolf defended, his expression
indignant. And then uneasy over the way Alarik glared at him, he insisted, “She’s
mad, I tell you! and the other is afflicted!” His face reddened under Alarik’s
censure, but as he caught an assertive nod from Bjorn, he dared to speak up
once more. “Anyway, why should you object to what I’ve done to the whore, jarl?
She’s just a filthy Fransk! We ought to toss them both overboard and be done!”
    As though the Gods of Asgard held their breath for
Alarik’s response, even the winds abated in that instant, and the uncanny hush
that followed Red-Hrolf’s inquiry taunted him. In truth, It was a question he’d
asked of himself already. Though as yet there was no answer. Still, he’d not
have the wench mistreated, and the vehemence with which he said his next words
stunned himself more than it did his men.
    “I care!” he snarled, “because she is mine!” He
slammed a fist against his chest and shot his brother a contemptuous scowl,
cautioning Bjorn to take care, for he’d not missed the encouraging look his
brother had given Red-Hrolf.
    Bjorn’s eyes widened in startle, and when Alarik
was satisfied that his warning had been interpreted correctly, he turned to all
within plain view and reiterated. “The Fransk is mine to do with as I will! I
dare any who thinks otherwise to defy me!”
    Again he met each of their gazes; one by one heads
shook in negation, shrinking from the challenge.
    No one dared even to speak.
    Feeling the warmth of her blood flow over his
hands, Alarik glanced down, and with his salt-sprayed tunic, he swiped at the
blood streaming so swiftly from the wound, baring the flesh of her temple only
momentarily before another rush of her blood covered the open gash. As he’d
feared, there was a fairly deep laceration just below the temple, a very
delicate spot, he knew. And concerned by the gravity of her injury, he scanned
the storm-tossed waters.
    The wind was rising once more, but there was
little choice to be made if he wished to aid the wench. He was the best
navigator aboard, but in light of the circumstances, he felt he could trust no
one to minister to the Fransk.
    Sigurd, he thought, could skillfully guide the
ship in foul clime... It was just that he preferred to sail himself at such
times. Why did he always feel the need to do everything himself?
    No matter, those were his choices; to sail himself
and let the woman die, or minister to her and possibly kill them all in the
process.
    In that instant the Goldenhawk pitched to one
side. With a muttered curse, Alarik braced himself, but he was too late. He was
flung down upon her.
    So small.
    She was so small beneath him.
    He couldn’t let her die. His hands tangled in her
bloody hair. Nay, he wouldn’t let her die!
    As long as he lived he’d never comprehend the pull
she seemed to have over him, but he made his insane vow nonetheless—to
save her life at all cost, even at the risk of his own, and those of his men.
Why he would make such a treacherous pact with himself was beyond
comprehension. He only knew that something beyond his power of reasoning
compelled him unto it.
    As the drakken turned its prow into the whitecaps
once more, he peeled his body from hers, his gaze slicing through the sea-spray
and