Deirdre by Linda Windsor Page B

I want has nothing to do with talking,” the other man announced, eliciting a squeal of delight.
    “Not here, silly boy I’d not have the eyes of your men watching us.”
    “Go on, Gunnar,” Alric conceded. “Take the cover. All I need is a blanket of stars and the moonlight for my pillow.” Now that the Saxon prince waxed poetic, Deirdre knew the captain’s friend was not the only one with an ale-sodden tongue.
    They stumbled over the grate, shadows fluttering like Deirdre’s chest through the light above. Someone fell with a loud thud.
    “Frig’s breath, man,” Alric said. “Must I put you into bed and tuck you in?”
    “Whoa, derling!” The woman giggled. “Get up now.”
    “A mane of fire, this one,” Gunnar mumbled in drunken admiration of his lady friend.
    “Just a few more steps, Gunnar,” Alric encouraged.
    “He won’t last long,” Red observed. “Then perhaps you and I—”
    “Tempting as you are, lovely Raeda, the coin I gave you is for a full night with my friend. I have given him my promise, and he shall have it … even if he sleeps it away.”
    The Saxon prince dissolved into undignified amusement. Several bumps, scrapes, and grunts later, the sound of a single set of footsteps approached the grate.
    Deirdre held her breath as they staggered, first forward, then back two, then forward three. All she had to do was wait. Gunnar and the woman were no threat. As for the captain, surely it was just a matter of time before the fool keeled over, senses dead to the world.
    Something crashed loudly, as if the mast itself had fallen over. Deirdre gasped in spite of herself, staring overhead at the checkered openings in the grate. The fool prince had keeled over sure enough, blocking out all but a sliver of light above her—and with it, all hope of her escape.

S EVEN
    M ove out, you drunken sot!”
    A booming voice snatched Alric from the dreamless world in which he drifted with the speed of an assassin’s blade. Towering above him, the mast with its trimmed sail loomed like one of those cloth-draped Christian crosses against the overbright sky. Frig’s mercy, was he dead?
    “Is
this
the fierce hero who captured this ship to his father’s pride?” The voice boomed again, shaking the very rafters of his mind.
    Whether in heaven or a heroes’ hall, no one had the right to assail him so. Alric leaped to his feet, fist clenched, and swung at the bullish intruder. “Who dares—” His fists encountered only thin air as the man danced away with a speed that belied his size and erupted in laughter a safe distance away, the blinding light of the sun obliterating his face.
    Alric’s surroundings seemed to circle and close in upon him. He fought to keep his rebellious stomach down. Nay, he could not be dead, for no such agony plagued a spirit.
    “Drink the tavern dry again, Brother?” another man, tall and thin compared to the robust build and paunch of the first, taunted.
    Alric recognized his half brother’s voice. Ricbert. Now Alric knew he wasn’t dead. Unless this was the pit of torment Christians feared.
    “’Twas well deserved,” the larger of the two countered in Alric’s defense.
    And their father. Frig’s mercy, what hour was it?
    “The sun’s halfway to its zenith, Son,” Lambert answered, clearly reading the confusion on Alric’s face, “and I could wait no longer to see our prize.”
    “Good thing we meant no harm to you,” Ricbert observed dryly.
    “The guards would have stopped you.”
    Alric’s voice was strangled, as if his tongue were swollen and stuffed like a filthy stocking down his throat. He tried to swallow, but the acridtaste of stale beer refused to budge. Staggering, he made his unsteady way to a water barrel and dunked his head in up to his neck. The shock whipped his scrambled senses into an overwhelming state of awareness. A myriad of accusing voices thundered in his brain. What had he done to himself?
    With a loud growl, Alric straightened and shook