Blind Mercy

by Violetta Rand

He broke eye contact and shrugged. “Skari.”

  It had a pleasant enough ring. “Why do you dislike your name so much?”

  “My mother named me after the seagulls.”

  Rachelle couldn’t contain her laughter. “Aren’t they ruthless predators?”

  He gaped at her as if she’d lost her mind. “No, they’re cursed scavengers.” For such a formidable man, he possessed a child’s manner.

  “Thank you for confiding in me. I shall always address you as Onetooth in public.” She returned the weapon.

  He hung it up, then faced her again. “Now, we must discuss my real purpose for seeking you out.”

  Her heart dropped in her chest. “Has something happened?”

  “No, but I have implicit instructions. You may disagree with them, but you must swear to obey them.”

  She didn’t like the look on his face.

  “My master has his reasons and I believe they are to protect you. You will be quartered in a room on the third floor of this house. No one else stays there. I’ll move into the chamber across from yours. Never leave your suite unless accompanied by Tyr or myself. You will eat and speak only with me. A maid, who has been instructed not to discuss private affairs with you, will attend you in the morning and before bed.”

  Just as she had forespoken—imprisonment. She clenched and unclenched her hands rapidly. “You expect me to accept this? Doomed to never see the light of day while I’m here?”

  Onetooth wrinkled his nose. “That’s not what I said. Hostilities will increase against the Saxons in the days to follow. Your king devastated our army. Once the ships carrying the survivors return, stories of the massacre will take on a life of their own. Bloodletting will be the only way to appease the men and women who mourn their loved ones. Northmen don’t embrace humiliation, Rachelle, they abhor it. Thousands of Saxons dwell in the lands between Oslo and this steading. Slaves and freemen alike. If Tyr wasn’t thinking of your welfare, he’d allow you to roam wherever you pleased. Anyone who claims your beleaguered island as their birthplace is in danger right now.”

  “Oh . . .” was all she could say. He was right. If their native pride measured even half of hers, his people would resent her mere presence, woman or not.

  “As for Aaron McNally, I remind you to stay away from him. I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

  Chapter 7

  Comfort

  Rachelle snorted at the extravagance of her bedchamber. A feather-stuffed mattress and furs, embroidered pillows, cushioned chairs, a high-arched window allowing sunshine to bathe the room in golden warmth, and a stone hearth with a pleasing fire. In the far corner, she found a wardrobe complete with gowns and even slippers that looked small enough to fit her feet. Her eyebrows knitted together. Who did these dresses belong to? A bone and silver handled brush, comb, looking glass, and adornments for her hair were in the drawer inside the wardrobe, too. Apparently she wasn’t the first female visitor in this house.

  By late evening, the expected celebration erupted. Lute music and laughter filtered upstairs. Deeply resenting the isolation, she decided being cosseted in luxury didn’t make imprisonment any more comfortable. She missed home. And more than ever, she wanted to ride her favorite mare and feel the wind whipping her hair. Huddled on the bed, she prepared to face a long, lonely night.

  Much to her delight, minutes later, someone knocked. Jumping up, she ran to the door, then opened it.

  A sweaty Onetooth looked her over. He smelled of smoke and ale. “Why haven’t you changed out of that tattered dress?”

  “I’ll change after my bath.” She retrieved a pile of clothes and a pair of boots she’d set aside earlier.

  The old Norseman placed her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her to the second floor. Passing through a sizable bedchamber with a balcony, they descended stairs leading to the rear of the house.

  “Ashamed to be seen with me?” she asked. Why were they slinking around in the shadows like thieves? Where was he taking her?

  “I’ve already explained myself.” He spoke through closed teeth. “Tyr is very protective.”

  The fine hair on the back of her neck rose. Imagining that overgrown Viking’s hands touching and prodding women’s backsides all night made her angry. Protective, her arse . . . Prideful. Conceited. Arrogant. That’s what he was. Rounding the corner of the house, Onetooth pointed at the buildings ahead. The moon cast silvery light everywhere. She could clearly see the outline of dozens of outbuildings. Walking past several, they halted in front of a sturdy log structure.

  “Where are we?”

  “The bathhouse.” Onetooth opened the door. “There are tiled tubs in the back. You’ll find soap and linens inside. I’ll be waiting.”

  He shut the door behind her.

  Steam rolled through a small opening in the thatched ceiling. She removed her boots. Honey-yellow tiles warmed the pads of her feet. Heat engulfed her. A large fire-pit in the center of the room drew her deeper inside. Tossing her fresh clothes on a nearby bench, she admired everything. Tyr Sigurdsson had a taste for opulence. Squatting, she ran her fingers over the seamless tile work. So beautiful. The ones closest to the fire were hot. Standing, she ambled across the room and found a hot spring. Half expecting a sulfurous odor, she wrinkled her nose, only to find spicy incense filling her nostrils. The gurgling water beckoned her. She momentarily forgot herself and started to disrobe. No one could get by Onetooth. But for modesty’s sake, she scanned the area before letting her shift pool at her feet.

  Someone had taken great care in carving smooth, rectangular stairs out of the stone that lined the spring. Timidly, she tested the first step. “Ah . . .” Nearly melting from the wonderful heat, she braved the second and third until she stood ankle-deep in water.

  Incomparable pleasure to anything she could think of. Launching, she submerged herself, resurfacing on the opposite side of the pool. She paddled and kicked until she was too tired to move. Returning to the steps, she reclined on the bottom one, letting her head fall back against the ledge. The water soothed her tight muscles. Her imprisonment and unknown future might seem like a nightmare, but this single place offered relief. She relaxed and let out a deep sigh.

  The echo of a slamming door startled her upright.

  The sound of heavy footsteps made her heart pound. She’d been foolish for letting her guard down. Perhaps Onetooth was here to check on her because she was taking too long? Hoping it was him, she shifted. Instead of her trusted guardsman, Tyr emerged from the shadows. No mistaking that superior flesh, peppered with curly blond hair. Why was he here? Wiping beads of perspiration from her forehead, she scrambled to get underwater again.

  “I have a feeling,” he started, looking down at her. “Something’s not quite right between us.”

  Rachelle laughed erratically. “A feeling? I should think it would be quite clear how I feel.” She crossed her arms over her heavy breasts.

  She faced him. He was so undeniably appealing, yet so appalling at the same time.

  “Your eyes betray you,” he teased.

  “Why are you here?”

  “To entertain you . . .” He unlaced his breeches.

  Horrified by the prospect of seeing him naked again, she squealed and covered her eyes with both hands.

  His booming laugh raised her ire.

  “Not the sound most women make when I disrobe.”

  She resented his banter. “You lack common decency, sir.” She stole another look. Much to her relief, he wore a loincloth.

  Diving off the rocks, he crossed swiftly to the far side of the spring. He leaned carelessly against the wall and rested his long arms on the narrow shelf behind. She marveled at his invulnerability.

  “Why are you afraid of me?” he asked.

  “I’m not,” she lied. “I just don’t like being alone with you.”

  He grinned. “I can be anything you want. The rogue or the inexperienced boy—a madman or prince—a dying soldier begging for one last
taste of passion or a merciless Viking claiming what rightly belongs to me.” He ran his large hand through the tangle of his wet hair.

  He spoke too boldly when describing himself. Panic crashed over her. Her first impulse—run away.

  Was he actually suggesting she belonged to him? Or simply jesting? There was no way to know. If she argued, he’d find a way to disgrace her.

  Turning her back to him, she started up the stairs. Water splashed behind her. Knowing he was following made her cringe, but she forced her legs to continue. A thousand thoughts ripped through her mind. She’d never fought so hard to resist anyone before. Tired from days of grief and fear, why couldn’t he leave her alone?

  Muscular arms encircled her from behind, his hands locked on her belly. Resting his chin on the top of her head, his deep breaths had a surprisingly calming effect. The feverish heat from his body infused her, triggering a dangerous reaction—self-admittance that she craved love and affection. Rachelle clung desperately to her independence, but he’d breeched her defenses already.

  Those hands promised unthinkable pleasures. Just the thought of another kiss made her nipples pucker. And with his rock-hard member jammed against her naked backside . . . she shivered. Her emotions split. Brushing wet strands of hair off her neck, his soft lips invaded, faintly tracing the curvature of her neck. Why did a single touch from him change her mind? Then he sucked and kissed her right shoulder, igniting a fire between her legs. She swayed like a reed in the wind, but his strong hands steadied her.

  “You were made for touching,” he mumbled in her ear.

  His voice alone wreaked havoc on her insides. Tantalizing sensations pricked her sensitive skin as his hot breath blazed a trail down her back. Shaken, but not completely weakened by his physical manipulation, she realized the only protection she had left was merciless rejection.

  “For the sake of my innocence . . .” She couldn’t finish her thought. A halfhearted protest made her look stupid. “For my own protection—”

  “I’ll protect you.” He stopped kissing her long enough to say the words. Then his lips made contact with her skin again.

  A second wave of excitement washed over her as she leaned back. Snaking his arms around her waist, he gripped her so firmly she expelled a breath involuntarily. Then his grip loosened.

  Chills rippled up her spine. She must rebuff him now. “I don’t like being touched by a heathen.” She jerked free.

  He gave a deep throated chuckle, then spun her around to face him. “Don’t agonize over something so insignificant,” he said. “I suffered through prima signatio long ago so I could trade freely in Christian lands.” He dragged her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly.

  Stop.

  Now.

  Breaking the kiss, she sighed in displeasure. How could she have forgotten about prime-signing? As if the act of a priest breathing over a pagan’s head to drive away malevolent spirits and signing the cross upon his forehead could cleanse his soul of evildoing. This wasn’t an act sanctioned by God, of that she was sure.

  “It doesn’t better your chances of intimacy with me. I condemn that practice as many Christians do. Priests are too eager to overlook abominations when they are in dire need of silver and gold.”

  “The whole world is in need of resources,” he said waving her off. “Do you consider yourself better than people living in impoverishment? Would you have them starve or trade so they can buy bread to feed their families? Did you reject the sustenance I gave you? Is it a sin to be touched by the same hands that feed and clothe you?”

  His admonishment nearly changed her mind.

  “What answer do you offer?” he asked impatiently. His golden brows jutted upward.

  He’d outwitted her again. She felt ashamed and stupid. “If I had one, it would be wasted here.”

  He encircled her wrist. “Why this forced resistance? Haven’t I treated you kindly, and listened to everything you told me?”

  She couldn’t think of an instance where he hadn’t showed patience. “I misspoke. I admit you’ve tolerated my opinions. However, if you were truly sympathetic, you would have never brought me here.”

  “This arrangement has nothing to do with personal feelings,” he informed her for the first time. “Can your delicate sensibilities handle the truth, Rachelle?”

  “There’s little chance of me liking anything you have to say on the subject. It's better for me to know the truth.”

  “You’ve spoken wisely. I’ll tell you. This is a matter of financial obligation. Someone must absorb the cost of my losses. Who better than your uncle? Initially, I rejected you because I didn’t need the added burden of a woman. Then I realized the value in taking you. The price I’ve set on your pretty head will help replace my lost ships.”

  Minutes felt like hours after he spoke. What a heartless bastard—such indescribable cruelty. Knowing her uncle couldn’t afford to pay a ransom, she scowled. “The only thing that assures my freedom is your death.”

  Staring at her long and hard, he clenched her shoulders. His eyes turned frightfully dark, pupils dilated. Fear spiraled down her spine. Without speaking, he suddenly let go, then tramped across the room. Riveted by this change in attitude, she waited helplessly to see what he would do.

  Returning with a handful of linens, he flung one at her. “Cover yourself.”

  Grateful for his spite, Rachelle wrapped the material around her body. Once again, her defenses were intact. She’d found a way to repel him. Bitterness and lust didn’t mix well.

  Drying himself, he dressed quickly. “After you finish here, Onetooth will take you back to your chamber. Stay there until I summon you.”

  “How long—?”

  “Don’t question me further.” His stormy expression threatened unspoken punishments if she challenged him again.

  “You’ve made your feelings known. My generosity has been wasted. If I were true to my reputation, I’d lock you in the cellar and feed you bread and water until you recanted your death wish for me.”

  She remained silent.

  After muttering words she couldn’t hear, he left.

  Chapter 8

  The Guest

  After three days of separation from Rachelle, Tyr still didn’t know what to do. One brief look or touch of her body had the ability to impair his judgment.

  Three generations of bedeviled Sigurdsson men had fallen prey to the charms of English women. Did it never end? Was there something putrid in Tyr’s blood or his soul that deserved this? His father had warned him. The gods blessed our family with superior strength and aptitude, increased our holdings, gave us wealth, and condemned our cocks to seek out the passion of English women.

  Tyr didn’t crumble under pressure. Never. But tonight, he’d lashed out by telling Rachelle a callous lie. It was a natural reaction, inevitable after her cold rejection. Although deeply offended, she didn’t appear surprised. He brooded over that for a long moment. Surely the girl had deep-rooted suspicions and would doubt anything a Norseman told her. The reality of it made his stomach turn. So did her death wish. Those words were quick and careless. Her mannerism reminded him of an overindulged child. O’ that he could teach her a valuable lesson and remind her how prudent people wisely held their tongues.

  He took comfort in the fact that Onetooth visited her every day. The girl had bonded with his old friend almost immediately. A poor substitute for his own relationship, but he learned from the conversations his captain had with her.

  However, the longer he waited to resolve their troubles, the more difficult it would be to concentrate on anything else. With her room located directly over his, every night he stared up at the ceiling, as he was now, pretending to see her through the floorboards. She’d make a delightful life companion, worthy of his admiration and deepest affection. But that undisciplined mouth—thoughts burst out of it without forethought.

  Raised in a distant country, without the love of her parents, adjusting to life amongst his people would be
a constant struggle for her. Exasperated by his inability to settle his mind, Tyr rolled onto his left side, then punched his pillow.

  To make matters worse, the course of Norway’s future was unknown. What expectations would the new king have of the pagan jarls? If Tyr didn’t know where his own loyalties lay, how could he expect a woman to choose?

  The hope of sleeping faded. He rolled onto his back. The morning after his argument with Rachelle, he'd gathered his household in the hall. So great was the pain inside his heart, it swept through his veins. As he’d predicted, rumors about the battle at Stamford Bridge had already begun to circulate. Women were without husbands—children without fathers. Tough questions were asked and demands for vengeance voiced before he’d even begun to speak.

  Disgraced warriors who’d survived had returned home; three from the Trondelag. Word had reached Tyr’s steading within a day. And Hardrada’s eldest son, Prince Magnus, who was appointed regent before his father departed, would hold formal inquiries in Oslo. No ruler would accept this magnitude of humiliation. Tyr knew if the surviving captains didn’t willingly go to him, he’d find them. Dozens of inquisitors would be dispatched.

  And the Trondelag wouldn’t be spared this degradation.

  A week after the initial shock, Aaron strutted into the great hall. “At least fifty men are encamped a mile east of here.” He addressed Tyr too casually. Throwing himself into the chair opposite his cousin’s at the high table, Aaron poured himself a drink. “If Magnus wishes to restore faith in the Church and establish credibility with the people, he better do so quickly. Before the peasants decide peace can only be achieved through bloodshed.”

  “Whose blood?” Tyr slammed his fists on the table. “Magnus’ paranoia will only add to the suspicions of the commoners. Three quarters of his subjects can’t read or write. They’ll believe what they’re told. Men lose battles—gods die. Countries crown new kings.”