Rachelle’s lips parted with a sigh. He traced the outline of that delectable mouth with the tip of his tongue, dreaming of the ecstasy of first entry. With a loud whimper, she locked her hands around his neck. Something more permanent than lust slammed inside him. By Odin’s eye, what was he doing? If he pursued this any further, he couldn’t be responsible for his own actions.
Wars weren’t strictly fought on battlefields. One raged below his waist right now.
Withdrawing slowly, he held her at arm’s length. “You nearly branded me the devil before.” His stomach lurched. “Woman, if I’m Satan’s offspring, you’re one of his prized jewels.”
She slapped his face. He deserved it, and let her go.
Damn the gods, there was more to him than animal lust. But there was no time to extend all the common courtesies he would have normally shown a virtuous girl. He nearly begged the gods to transform her into the whore he craved to satiate his desire and the freedom to ride her until every ounce of strength bled out of him. Deeply regretting his loss of control, he knew many women awaited his arrival at home. He’d find relief between their legs.
He shoved all feelings aside. “We’ve wasted precious time.”
She tucked a loose curl behind her right ear and nodded. Then she smoothed her dress as if nothing had happened, obviously afraid to look him in the eyes again.
An hour later, Tyr sucked in the brisk morning air as if it were his first breath outside his mother’s womb. It was considerably cooler on the coast. The mournful calls of the gulls made him smile inside. “We part ways here.”
There was no longer a need for pretenses. He dismounted. No obstacles stood between him and freedom. Staring eastward, he prayed to Odin. The sea made any Viking smile. Odin’s Eye, his swiftest ship, was anchored in a cove a mile up shore. Sadly, he had foreseen a possible defeat and left the vessel as a means of escape.
Rachelle slid off the horse, then walked to the edge of the water.
His gaze followed her. She looked out of place standing there alone, as if she were waiting for someone. Too much time with this wench might change his way of thinking. It was time to say goodbye. He strode a few feet. “Farewell fristerinne.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Is that what you call all the women you kiss?” She didn’t know what it meant, but the sound of it didn’t amuse her.
“No, you’re the first.”
Before she shot back, the sound of thundering hooves silenced him. Rotating on his heels, he eagle-eyed a red and gold banner flying above an English regiment. He swept Rachelle aside.
“Go,” he bellowed, stripping off his armor. He checked to see where she went. She stared at him dejectedly. He scanned her beautiful face one last time, then ran for the surf.
Rachelle’s mouth went dry as she watched the gray waves swallow Tyr. The sting of his last kiss was still fresh on her lips. With soldiers at his heels, what else could he do? They’d torture and kill him. The very thought of his glorious body being slowly destroyed made her cry out. She must purge her mind of any thoughts of him before the soldiers arrived. Any evidence of guilt on her face would endanger her.
She shouldn’t be ashamed for choosing kindness over fealty. Although she’d never spent time alone with a man, she knew she had exceeded the limits of her world by helping Tyr. Their association ended here. At the edge of the sea that separated their lands and lives. Some things were better left unexplored. God must have further use of her in England. She’d immerse herself in more charitable work. Continue to study the healing arts or cooking. Join a convent if that’s what it took to forget Tyr Sigurdsson.
She mentally scrambled to come up with a convincing story. What would she tell the guards? Foolish, misguided thoughts always spurred Rachelle to do as she pleased without considering the consequences. She didn’t fear Tyr. Childhood prayers were as binding as a blood oath. Why shouldn’t she believe he was a blessing? In eight long years, no one else had shown up. English or otherwise. She’d survived any way she could; suppressed her sorrow, smiled when she wanted to frown, and laughed when she wanted to weep.
Everywhere she turned reminded her of her family.
Someone grabbed her from behind. Wheeling around, her breath caught in her throat when she met those wide green eyes.
“Did you really think I’d let you get away so easily?” Tyr asked.
Words disintegrated in her mouth. In a split second her future could be altered. Uncle Henry’s memory held fast inside her heart. Her allegiance to him could never be questioned.
“I have further need of your talents. Will you come with me?”
He looked as mythical as one of Poseidon’s sons crawling from the depths of the ocean. Without giving her time to answer, he swept her off her feet, then carried her to the water. “Can you swim?”
She nodded mutely.
“Hang on,” he warned, bracing for the first wave. “We only need to go a short distance. There’s a fishing boat hidden further up the beach.”
Chapter 4
Condemnation
After lifting Rachelle into the arms of his man on deck, Tyr hoisted himself onboard. She swayed on her feet and leaned against the wood rail for support.
“The Jarl has returned,” the crew cheered.
She couldn’t blame Tyr for rejoicing in this warm reunion, yet her brows drew together with concern. Soon enough his crew would hear about the tragedies heaped on their nation by the English. Not wishing to draw more attention, she slid further down deck, away from the assembly.
Tyr unbuckled his weapon belt. It fell at his feet with a dull, wet thud. Next, he stripped off his boots and breeches without regard to her presence. Embarrassed to look, she turned her head. Having seen the drunk that nearly raped her, she sincerely believed it may have ruined any chance of being intrigued by another man’s form. However, temptation still prickled at her core. After all, Tyr was no ordinary man. Giving in to curiosity, she peeked. Her gaze raked over his powerful chest and arms, then dropped slowly to his narrow hips. She licked her lips, nearly breathless. Her gaze dropped lower, stopping on the mass of soft blond curls that crowned his manhood. Astonished by his flawless physique, her gaze flitted nervously to the guards, the benches where the oarsmen sat, then to the water. Struggle against her maidenly curiosity was clearly fruitless. She stared at him again—above the waist.
With Tyr facing her direction, she easily spotted the thick black vertical lines that started below each armpit and ran the length of his torso. Silvery barbs and knots were interlinked on the lines. His tattoos ended just above his navel, converging at the top of a war axe that spanned the width of his stomach. For the love of God, his body resembled a life-sized mural. Scarred and deeply bronzed and perfect. Such immodesty she had never witnessed in a man. She felt the heat of a flush on her cheeks. Apparently not all the legends she’d heard as a little girl were based on lies. These barbarians were larger than life.
Tyr gave an exaggerated stretch, accentuating the rippling muscles that formed his perfect body. She rolled her eyes. Pulling the length of her wet hair over her left shoulder, she squeezed the excess water from it. Did he enjoy making a spectacle of himself? He looked as proud as a male peacock preening his feathers. Is this what men did around each other? Strut naked . . .
Barely able to jump out of the way before a boy scampered by with a pile of clothes in his hands, Rachelle watched where he went. He halted beside Tyr, who winked lewdly as he shook out a pair of leather breeches. Surmising her own condition, her plain linen gown irreparable, she hoped the jarl would provide dry clothes. She scratched her arms. Salt water made her skin itchy. With his mischievous gaze still fixed on her, she wondered what he would do if she shed her gown. A dose of his own medicine would make him pay attention. She began to unlace her bodice. Somewhere between the beach and this deck, she had lost a shoe and her silver bracelet. Irritated, she kicked her lone boot off.
Before she loosened her dress completely, Tyr stalked ove
r. “What are you doing?”
“I thought if I stripped, another boy might appear with something warm for me to put on.” Her heart gave a terrible jolt at the audacity of her sarcasm.
“That’s absurd.”
“Why?” she asked. “While you’re busy enjoying yourself, I’m freezing my—”
“Straighten your bloody dress.”
The crew began to amass around them. Rachelle needed to vent some of her frustration. “Put on a shirt!”
He huffed, looking down at her feet. “Where are your blasted shoes?”
“One is at the bottom of the ocean.” She wiggled her toes.
“If you hadn’t kicked me in the shins when we were swimming—”
“If you hadn’t squeezed so hard—”
Reaching an impasse, the disagreement stopped abruptly. Of course she had never intended on fully disrobing. She hurriedly laced her dress. His reaction told her he cared. She breathed a sigh of relief in that knowledge. Few things had frightened her more than standing on the deck of a Viking longship surrounded by a crew of bearded heathens in the aftermath of a war that had decimated their army. Judging by their mirth, they didn’t know the truth yet. What would happen after they found out? How would they feel about having a Saxon on their vessel? She ground her teeth with fear.
With the drama over, the crew turned their attention elsewhere, bombarding Tyr with questions. He immediately silenced them with an unmistakably pained expression. Rachelle sensed the rage that simmered below the surface—she’d felt it before. A rumble of disappointment sounded, but she noted how quickly his men snapped their mouths shut after Tyr cast a stern look. The Viking obviously expected complete obedience and they obliged him.
Still anchored in the inlet surrounded by rugged gray cliffs, it was no wonder why they hadn’t been discovered. Tyr had chosen his hiding spot well. Looking about, she admired the craftsmanship of his vessel. The mast looked freshly polished. The hull was long and narrow and deep. The figurehead at the bow was a raven’s head and it boasted a curved tail at the stern. She recognized the design on the square sail. A strange hammer adorned the embroidered raven’s neck, the same one tattooed on Tyr’s abdomen. Such graven images were strictly forbidden by her holy book.
“Lower the oars. A fine wind’s blowing and I’ll be damned if we’ll spend another day here,” Tyr commanded.
The men sprang into action.
Forgetting her physical discomfort, an urgent realization dominated her thoughts. I’m standing on the deck of a longship bound for Norway. If she went with him, she’d never be reunited with Uncle Henry. Why did her mind keep playing tricks? Why couldn’t she keep track of a single thought?
If she was going to escape now, she needed to jump before they reached deeper water. Spotting a narrow strip of beach where she could hide, she inched closer to the railing. What would happen if she couldn’t swim that far? And if her uncle was looking for her and she drowned? All consideration stopped, as someone lifted her from behind.
“What’s going on inside that head of yours?” Tyr queried.
She preferred to keep her thoughts to herself. Looking over her shoulder she said, “Put me down.”
He did.
“Forget about leaping.” He grabbed her by the arms and gave her a firm shake.
How could he read her thoughts? Why did he ignore the fact that her teeth were chattering and she looked like a wet rat? Busy with their duties, the crew paid her no attention. Weren’t they interested, even in the slightest, to know what a female was doing on their ship? Embarrassed and a bit enraged by his neglect, she raised her hand.
Tyr snatched her by the wrist. “You’d strike me in front of my men?” He showed no change in expression.
Even she didn’t know if that’s what she really intended to do. Thoughts whipped through her mind like the wind. She cleared her throat. Did she need to spell it out for him? “You took advantage of me by bringing me onto this ship.”
He crossed his arms over his sculpted chest. “If that’s your honest assessment, I must disagree. I question who took advantage of whom.”
Shrill whistles sounded from behind. Maybe Tyr’s men were covertly watching after all. Rachelle twisted around and glared at the handful of sailors who stood within earshot. She’d be damned if she was going to provide more entertainment for these cretins. Biting her tongue, she flung her hands on her hips. “Who would believe that?”
“One look at you and my men would fully understand the challenges I faced.”
Laughter and humiliation were her newest companions. Ones she refused to live with. She gestured at the water. “I’ll jump.”
Anger flashed across his face. “If I can’t trust you to stay onboard, I’ll tie you to one of those benches.” He pointed to an empty space between two rowers.
Both men stood, revealing large symmetrical bodies. One patted the crudely made pew with his hand. His salacious grin made her insides squirm. Pouting, she pivoted on shaky legs. Empty threats hadn’t inspired Tyr to be kinder or forced him to be honest with her. Why was she here?
Turning back, she stared at him unflinching. Nothing about this arrangement made any sense. She’d escorted him to the beach and watched him swim. What had brought him back? She intended to find out. For now, fearing he’d follow through with his threat to strap her down, she decided to apologize. Uncle Henry often advised her to pick her battles wisely.
“I’ll do whatever you ask,” she said.
For now.
“Good.” He latched onto her arm. “Your lovely backside would have gone numb sitting beside Wulfgar and Onetooth for a solid week.”
All the same, he dragged her to the designated seat. Prepared to find Onetooth’s mouth in a terrible state when he smiled, she unexpectedly discovered a perfect set of teeth. Much to her surprise, he was missing his left eye instead. She gasped.
Humored, the mature Viking said in English, “My nickname has the same effect on women everywhere.”
“I see—” She covered her mouth, ashamed she made any reference to seeing anything.
Onetooth chuckled. “Laugh at my expense.” He scooted over to make room for her. “Sit. I kept it warm for you.”
Unsure about his easy acceptance, she still plopped down next to him.
An hour after lifting anchor, the ship rocked rhythmically on the waves and lulled Tyr into a half dream, in which he openly mourned his brother and countrymen. How many of Odin’s Berserkers had perished? These legendary warriors fought audaciously—with all-consuming bloodlust and blind fury. Allfather depended on them to guard the old ways. With depleted numbers, a new generation would need to be chosen and trained. Until then, who would defend the old religion?
The answer came. He’d have to realign his priorities and play a bigger role in regional politics. Something he didn’t want to do. His heart pounded. Unlike his father, Tyr preferred privacy. Although he was a seasoned diplomat and actively participated at the Thing every year, he still valued solitude.
Stretching, he sat up. Destiny had cast her net wide and caught King Hardrada. Now, everyone would suffer the consequences. Snapping his fingers, a thrall appeared seconds later, holding a white linen shirt. He stood and dressed. Damn Hardrada’s black soul—the after effects of this defeat would be felt for decades.
Sharp instincts gave Tyr a distinct advantage in war and politics. But it set him at odds with the royal family and drove a wedge between him and his father. His sire, the legendary Jarl Randvior Sigurdsson, commanded by Odin to abandon his lands and establish a new home, had complied without question. Tyr believed the gods should be beholden to a greater power—they too deserved to be tested. A man’s future was his own. And blind faith in any deity represented one of two things, fear or mental incapacity.
Now, a woman’s fate . . . Tyr’s gaze swept the deck. Watching her enjoy the company of another man provoked him, even if it was his oldest friend, Onetooth.
Should he try to distance himself
from further relations with Rachelle? A female’s life depended on the men who protected her; his possession of her confirmed it. Comforting her went against everything he’d been taught by his elders in Norway. Regardless of his bloodline, a man's beliefs were the foundation of his judgment—the core of his intellectual capabilities. He’d known that all his life. Wisdom was more valuable than gold.
Temporarily forgetting his annoyance, he made rounds. By now, the vessel had cleared the cove and moved swiftly in open water.
“It’s too late for the last harvest celebration, but we’ll arrive in time for the celebration of Winternights and Álfablót, the winter sacrifice. And perhaps a hunt before the snow comes.” His words were meant to keep his men diligent.
Indulgences overdue, he licked his lips in the promise of his pleasure. A harem of females lived at his steading, with a flock of children running loose behind them. Not known as the sort of lord to forbid his men from enjoying the pleasures his household offered, the parentage of some of these offspring remained unknown. Still, he loved them all. Variety was his greatest pleasure in life. He lived by that belief, whether it pertained to statecraft or the bedchamber.
Blind Mercy Page 5
