Blind Allegiance (Viking Romance) (The Blind Series)

by Rand, Violetta

  Hundreds of women, maybe thousands—her toes curled with envy. She eyed the gold bracelet around her wrist apathetically, and swallowed the thought down like a bitter draught. If jealousy consumed her, she might go to him full of reckless accusations. If she wanted to win his heart and protect her family’s honor, she must set herself apart from other women. Fornication had its price and her need for a husband gave her purpose.

  Randvior hadn’t discussed his womanizing past. But she knew in his masculine world, a man would never be considered complete if he didn’t bed as many women as possible. Dozens of attractive females lived and worked under the Viking’s roof. She smiled warily. But it was only she he pursued right now . . . was it not?

  This problem required a precise solution. Noelle formulated a plan and walked to the table. She splashed water on her face and scrubbed her hands. If she wasn’t going to escape in the foreseeable future, she certainly couldn’t risk losing her position. Randvior had mistakenly told her she possessed the necessary charms to tempt a priest, which meant she could easily gain rule over him.

  She dressed with only one goal in mind—capturing Randvior’s undivided attention. If he wouldn’t publicly claim her, she’d force his hand. She selected a richly embroidered gown with a plunging neckline. It was her most provocative dress, accentuating the delicate curve of her breasts perfectly. Katherine swept the sides of her hair off her face and braided it, letting the bulk of her tresses fall loosely down her back. Noelle removed the bracelet Randvior had given her and put it away. I’ll give him something to think about. She chose a gold choker as her only adornment. Katherine stepped back and admired her.

  “If this is how a woman begs for a man’s favor,” Katherine crooned, “I’d ask for the moon and the stars, too.”

  Noelle blushed and opened the door.

  Aud awaited and heaved a dismal sigh the moment he saw her. He offered his arm and she accepted it.

  The burly captain halted at the top stair. “I know you’ve suffered these past weeks,” he said. “Try to understand the predicament my master was in. The gods tortured him with visions of you—on more than one occasion. What can you possibly accomplish wearing that dress?” He drove home his point by eyeing her from head to toe. “Please, change your gown. Judging by that look on your face, which I’ve seen on my own daughters, you’ll regret it. Your point is sufficiently made. This is not an English court; and this is no way to test our jarl. I swear to report your displeasure to him.”

  Surprised by his insightfulness and elegance, she smiled. Leave it to providence to place a voice of reason in the bulky body of a bloodthirsty warrior before she dared to tempt her lover.

  She squeezed his hand appreciatively. “How else am I to secure my place in this house? His mother hates me, and I am neither a slave nor his betrothed. I am caught between two worlds and left to my own devices and shall use what the good Lord has seen fit to give me.” The matter was closed.

  Randvior nearly choked in mid-conversation when Noelle appeared. Many rumors had circulated over the last days concerning the stranger he’d brought home from England. His intention had been to share her in small doses, this night being the first opportunity to introduce her to his extended family and neighbors. As his eyes struggled to focus on her, they blurred and cleared again. An animalistic growl escaped him as his guests followed the direction of his unblinking stare. Noelle’s pearly flesh glowed tantalizingly in the candlelight. The gown left little to a man’s imagination.

  His jaw locked. Jarl Fald Ovesen, his closest ally, patted him sympathetically on the back.

  “You’ve been bitten by the most dangerous creature in the world,” the old man mused.

  “Aye,” Randvior agreed. “By a heartless viper.”

  The vixen had the audacity to greet him with a casual smile, then simply continue on her trajectory to the table where Brandon waited. The Scotsman stood and bowed. He kissed Noelle’s hand. Damn protocol! It demanded Randvior remain indifferent in certain situations. And since he had never formally announced his betrothal to her, although they were lovers, the law offered him no protection. She possessed all the freedoms of an unmarried woman in his court. Perhaps he should have listened to his mother and put an iron collar around her neck, instead of a gold trinket on her wrist!

  He focused on the men standing with him near the high table. Black emotions paralyzed him, keeping his attention dangerously split between politics and Noelle. He couldn’t avoid the inevitable, but he could prepare for it. Whatever game the wench played would be revealed as the night progressed.

  Lauga drifted into the room behind the servants, directing them where to place platters of food and drink. Randvior’s gaze followed hers, swept the room as sharply as a hawk’s, and stopped on the girl. The gown had a negative effect on her, too. She gasped in astonishment and headed for the table where Noelle sat. He smirked as indistinguishable words passed between the women. Noelle deserved a bit of harassment for wearing that bedgown. Men rarely intervened in disputes between women, but he knew Brandon couldn’t resist an opportunity to ruffle Lauga’s peacock feathers. The Scot chased her away in a huff.

  Randvior gulped down a glass of wine. Noelle looked like an angel with her hair cascading down her back and her slender neck adorned with a thick circlet of gold. His mother stalked her, openly hated her. His stomach roiled. She had every reason to poison Noelle. By Odin, he needn’t look any further to find the culprit—she was under his nose the whole time. If proven guilty, he’d punish her, severely.

  Guests settled at the tables. Randvior’s cousin handed him an ale horn overflowing with beer. He raised it in salutation. “Let the celebration begin!”

  Chapter 12

  Questions of Allegiance

  “Just what is an oath of allegiance?” Noelle queried, hanging on Brandon’s every word.

  “Similar to pledging fealty to a king.”

  Brandon seemed eager to provide the answers she needed to understand Norse customs. “Jarls are considered as distinguished as princes in these lands. Admired and deeply loved because they don’t rule from lofty places, but live amongst their people. This country is without an heir, and the men you see sitting at Rand’s high table are tasked with enforcing the laws that unify the Trondelag. Your master is an integral part of the future of this territory . . .”

  She didn’t like thinking of Randvior as her master.

  Brandon continued, “And if Norway wishes to remain independent, a king will need to be anointed. There are ambitious men living beyond these borders, competing for control of our lands. A kingless territory is an attractive temptation for any man trying to leave his mark on the world.” His face darkened. “War is inevitable.”

  She understood, having grown up in a country crippled by countless rebellions. If Randvior faced half the challenges her father had, she knew what to expect. And ships were the most coveted luxuries of the age. Randvior’s vessels carried merchandise from exotic lands back to his country. Taxable goods and high tariffs, if imposed, meant great wealth for any ruler. She fixed her gaze on Randvior. He was the type of man any zealous king would seek as an ally.

  But no matter how influential or experienced Randvior appeared, someone needed to instruct him on how to treat a lady. She felt too hot and aware of everything about him, including his stubborn refusal to marry her. An innocent flirtation with a stranger should wake him up.

  A perfectly amiable male specimen sitting three tables away gave her hope. Young and potent, he shared similar physical characteristics with Randvior. Brilliant eyes met hers. He smiled and she diverted her eyes. Then she looked back.

  He patted the bench next to him. She shook her head. Brandon stared at her, then looked his direction.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Noelle fussed with the necklace about her throat. H
er eyes fluttered closed, then opened to focus on a glass of wine on the table.

  Brandon dismissed the boy with a flick of his wrist. “Give me credit,” he winked. “I know a thing or two about wooing the fairer sex.”

  Noelle managed a pale smile. Uncomfortable with Brandon’s intrusion, she searched the room silently. Thralls were shuffling furniture. Much to her amazement, the ten soldiers Randvior commandeered from her father marched into the room and lined up along the west wall. They appeared well nourished and were dressed in clean shirts and breeches. Her cheeks flushed. She had convinced herself that Randvior intended them for hard labor. Or even worse. Again, her chest tightened with guilt.

  Forgive me for doubting you . . .

  Her spirit soared as they greeted her—all smiles. Samuel and Henry were especially enthused.

  Randvior stood and signaled for silence. He looked as dominant as a bull. Noelle sat forward and stared. She could see the rigid muscle all over his body through the layers of wool and leather he wore. The broadsword sheathed at his hip and war axe strapped across his back lent an appealing savagery to his appearance. He resembled a bloodthirsty god.

  Brandon snorted. “Perhaps your roving eye is cured?” He cast a sidewise glance at Randvior. “He’s a man deserving respect from everyone. And I believe he desires an heir.”

  Heat rose on her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. Despite her misguided attempt to make Randvior jealous, she found herself incapable of following through with it. And now Brandon was on to her.

  “Ah . . .” He wagged his finger. “And what do you think he’s doing when he makes love to you lass, playing house?”

  She hated the clandestine nature of their relationship. Everyone knew what was going on. Only she refused to admit it. Patience gone, she scowled at Brandon. Noelle didn’t appreciate his impertinence—at all. Oh, that lousy Scot had a way of getting under her skin. Fortunately, their conversation was cut short.

  Randvior stared down at her. Heat jetted from his eyes. “With gratitude we offer thanks to father Odin for bringing us home again. My wealth has increased in Iceland, Scotland, and the Orkneys. We raised shelters, established trading rights, and left behind enough men to protect Sigurdsson holdings until next season. Before returning, we visited Durham . . .”

  “An heir.” Brandon whispered tauntingly.

  She refused to give birth to bastards!

  Moments later, after the toast, the guests mingled freely. Noelle tapped into her courage again and headed for the young man she singled out in the crowd before.

  Randvior snatched her arm and swung her back into her chair. He didn’t have to say a word; she read everything in his eyes.

  “I want you to stay where I can see you,” he seethed. A sadistic smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “Nothing escapes my eyes, Noelle.”

  Randvior reclaimed his throne. He couldn’t shake his combative feelings or the growing doubt in his mind. Had he treated her so unkindly that she needed to solicit her feminine charms to attract another suitor? Did she think her bad behavior would go unchecked? Or that he wouldn’t notice the newly appointed rival tripping over his own tongue to get close to her?

  The hall echoed with celebration. The clamor of heavy boots stomping and weapons hitting tabletops made the floorboards quiver. The chanting began.

  Randvior, Randvior, Randvior

  Numerous men recounted his accomplishments. The unprecedented success of his western expeditions, his continued dedication to safeguarding trading routes and honoring treaties with rival kingdoms, and his influence amongst the Varangians benefited nearly every man in western Norway. These men gathered to renew alliances and swear oaths of protection. His home would be well defended next season. Jarls, both great and humble, arrived with conscripts from their personal huskarlar, warriors they would leave behind as testament to their loyalty.

  Dozens of men came forward and kneeled at his feet. Some would accompany Randvior on his next expedition and serve in his comitatus as members of his prestigious war band. His gold sword lay across his knees with hundreds of gold and silver oath rings set in the pommel. One by one, each man stood. They latched onto the hilt with one hand and grasped the oath rings with the other and swore on Odin’s countenance to protect him.

  “By seizing this sword I pledge my life in service to Jarl Randvior Sigurdsson and his captains. Defying all others.”

  Once sworn, they lined up behind the high table. Sixty-seven warriors swore oaths of protection. Afterward, the English soldiers were offered the same opportunity. They pledged their lives in service. Anything promised greater reward than slavery.

  Everyone drank. Even the slaves were allowed to celebrate as long as the master’s cup was kept full. Thralls provided an endless supply of ale and wine. Randvior wanted to get pissed—filthy stinking drunk. He needed to forget everything before he took his frustrations out on an innocent man. He slammed three servings of ale and called for another as he urged a voluptuous thrall onto his lap. She giggled and held the horn to his lips.

  He teased, prodded her arse, and pinched her nipples, his eyes coolly fastened on Noelle’s astonished face. Let her feel the depth of my bitterness before she ever considers flirting with another man again. He knew drink and wenches were a volatile combination. And Noelle was definitely not the kind of lady to sit timidly and watch him indulge in the pleasures of another woman’s body. She bent over Brandon and whispered something in his ear. Brandon shook his head, adamantly. Noelle shrugged and disappeared.

  Randvior’s lips curled malevolently. He brushed the woman from his lap and staggered to Brandon’s table.

  “What did she say?”

  A haughty grin split Brandon’s face. “She asked for my assistance to restore her family’s honor. She asked me to marry her.”

  Randvior wanted to slap the egoistical look off his face.

  “Are you of a mind to accept?”

  “You’d consider me a damnable liar if I denied any attraction for the girl.”

  Randvior grabbed a glass of wine off the table and choked it down. He wiped his mouth dry. “If you were any other man, I’d kill you for that admission.”

  “Aye,” the Scotsman agreed. “And if I weren’t your friend, I’d conveniently forget to tell you to take that enchanting girl as your wife before another man does.”

  Randvior grunted and shot him an appreciative look. “I intend to.”

  Desperate to escape the humiliation of Randvior’s drunken display, Noelle bolted outside. The only place she felt safe was in the bathhouse, shielded from inquiring minds. She shivered, finding herself once again poorly equipped for the cold. Shelter stood only a few yards away. She hurried and nearly lost her footing as her silk slippers skated across the ice.

  She slammed the bathhouse door shut behind her. Randvior’s unpredictability and his mother’s conniving and interference were driving her crazy. She had lost too many people she loved to simply accept her precarious position is this household. But it seemed futile to resist Randvior. She sat on a chair near the large fire pit, warmed her hands, then rested her head on the table.

  After a while, a noise pulled her from her racing thoughts. The door opened suddenly and she jerked. Half expecting to find Randvior leaning against the doorjamb, she gasped at finding the young man she had flirted with instead. A beatific smile lit his mouth.

  “Mistress Noelle.” A head of dark hair, tied back in a tail, framed a handsome face. Mischievous blue eyes appraised her leisurely.

  “Remember me?”

  As if I could forget a face like yours. “Yes,” she answered.

  “Dimwitted fool . . .” she mumbled self-deprecatingly. The object of her teasing had taken her attention more seriously than she had intended. His unnatural good looks were rivaled only by R
andvior. She caught her breath as he came closer. He knelt. Maybe if she ignored him he’d go away.

  “My father is Jarl Fald Ovesen, our steading only a day’s ride north,” he informed, not offering his name. “He sat at Randvior’s right side during the feast.”

  “Yes.” She remembered the stocky warrior very well. “It is an honor to sit at the jarl’s high table. I am sure your family deserves this privilege.”

  He smiled and plopped down in the chair across from her. “I am greatly encouraged by your favor this evening.” He leaned forward and took her hand. “Should I consider myself the most fortunate man on earth to capture the eye of the loveliest woman at the feast?”

  Warning sounded in Noelle’s head. Extraordinary sensations titillated and punished her body all at once. I’m absolutely devoted to Randvior, her heart spoke—but she didn’t understand.

  “Stjernene blek i sammenligning.”

  Bloody heathen tongue. She scooted away.

  The stranger rubbed his chin and grinned rakishly. He spread his legs, the outline of his engorged shaft visible through his leather breeches. She must concentrate on other thoughts. Were all Norsemen concupiscent swine oblivious to rejection? If she screamed, Lauga would blame her, and she refused to give that woman another reason to find fault in her. If she ran away, he’d chase her. She didn’t possess the strength to look up and instead rose to her feet, hoping to discourage further advances. It didn’t have the desired effect. Rather . . . encouraged it. He leapt and gathered Noelle in a tight embrace.

  “My dreams are answered,” he petted her head. “Could it be that you remain unblemished by any man?” Amusement tinged his voice.

  “Let me go.”