Blind Mercy

by Violetta Rand

  Du er den store sølvfargede North Star,

  det evige lys som guider mitt skip hjem gjennom tomrommet.

  It mattered not, she’d never appreciate the beauty of those words or that he thought of her every time he remembered them. Cursing softly, he knew he couldn’t survive another rejection from her. The one time he’d offered his heart, she’d said no, and it wouldn’t happen again. Entering the great hall, he walked along the wall adorned with weapons. His sire’s finest war axe hung just below the main beam. He admired it, his gaze eventually wandered to his mother’s wedding sword. She'd insisted on giving it to him before he relocated to Norway. Her words stayed with him to this moment. Someday you’ll have need of it . . .

  Until now, it had meant nothing.

  He’d make no apologies for his past conquests. Men naturally enjoyed the company of women—many women. But after tasting Rachelle’s innocence and uninhibited passion, he’d never visit another woman’s bed again. Odin save him from such a terrible fate. Parting ways with Frida confirmed his future. Is this what my mother intended? Once I give my heart away, this elegant weapon should be passed on to my wife? If she accepted him, Rachelle’s name would be etched underneath his mother’s title. First, he must convince her to accept his proposal.

  With a deep sigh, he moved on, touching the painted shapes on some of the ancient shields. Generations of Sigurdsson men carried them into battle, won and lost wars behind them, and died with them clamped in their fearless hands.

  Fur clad Berserkers—fearless warriors—Odin’s bloodthirsty sons.

  An unseen force brought him to his knees suddenly. Overcome with emotion, he wept bitterly for his brother, misguided king, and fractured country.

  Aaron frowned and rubbed his cheeks briskly with both hands. At least two days’ worth of beard stubble scratched his fingers. Unlike these barbaric Norsemen, he usually kept a clean face. He’d slept hard and uncomfortably. His bloody back ached. He gazed around the loft. Blasted hangovers, the last time he overindulged in drink this much, he’d woke up in a brothel with nothing but a new pair of leather boots on. Well, two wenches were draped across his legs. The memory immediately elicited a wicked grin. He eyeballed Frida’s sleek shoulders, then sat up. The heartbroken wench had provided last night’s unforgettable pleasure.

  After making love the first time, they’d briefly discussed their grievances against Tyr. Both had been unfairly treated. Alliances were forged on less commonality. As he traced a line down her back, she slid closer. He smiled. Frida’s expert familiarity with a man’s body delighted him. She’d serviced him well, compliments of his cousin’s masterful training.

  He peppered her shoulders with light kisses, then climbed to his feet, shivering in the stark morning air.

  Frida rolled over. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I cannot stay, lass.”

  “Why?”

  He firmed his jaw. “I’m not in the habit of reporting my coming and going to a woman.” Arron pulled on his linen shirt, draped his tartan over his hips, knotted it at the shoulder, then gazed at her again.

  Her eyes were closed.

  God, Tyr had exceptional taste in women. “I beg your forgiveness, lass.” He squatted beside her. Gentle treatment would keep her in his bed a while longer.

  “Meet me here after the witching hour.” Aaron framed her face with both hands, then planted a firm kiss on her parted lips.

  Her round eyes were still heavy with sleep and her kiss-swollen lips curved into an appealing smile. “You’ll never want another after me.”

  If he had known about her talents in the bedroom before, he would have stolen her away from his cousin. The future looked brighter already.

  The greatest thing borne of his night in the stable was a plan he devised long after his lovely companion had drifted off to sleep. There was nothing to return to in Scotland. If Aaron was going to strengthen his presence in Norway, he knew what part of his cousin’s life must be changed before it was too late. Tyr ceaselessly reminded him that he needed to forge his own destiny. Be a man . . . earn respect . . . stand upon your own two feet. Words he was ready to live by now. He surveyed his humble surroundings, then laughed bitterly at the irony. Christ was born in a manger. It reviled Aaron. So were filthy beasts of the field. He refused ever to be treated like an animal again. “I’ll make Tyr respect me.”

  Chapter 13

  Rules of Conduct

  The weather steadily worsened over the next few days, but snow and freezing temperatures didn’t keep Rachelle from visiting the clearing daily. As promised, Tyr’s guards didn’t interfere. On the fifth evening, after kneeling in the snow for too long, she was chilled to the bone. She hastened to her bedchamber, where a roaring fire lured her to the hearth. She retrieved a fur from a chair, wrapped it about her shoulders, then stared into the flames. Every time she gazed at the cross, it transported her back in time. The height of the old tree reminded her of the lofty altar in Holy Trinity Church. Nothing had ever made her feel so inconsequential. She’d visited the church often enough before her father withdrew from public worship. She quivered. Having a place to pray now gave her a sense of peace. God’s spirit filled every corner of the earth, even the vast wilderness in Norway.

  Tonight, Uncle Henry and her dearest friend, Mercia, were the only beneficiaries of her thoughts and prayers. If Christ would spare them, she’d do anything. She concealed no secrets in her heart. No deceit. Why shouldn’t her request be granted? Mercy . . . Please, God, have mercy on my family.

  Expecting a late meal, she licked her lips in anticipation when someone tapped on the door. As she turned, it opened without invitation. Seeing Frida carrying the tray made her lose her appetite immediately. Why was she here? Who sent her? Angry at this avoidable humiliation, she glared. The household vibrated with gossip. Onetooth shared everything he overheard on his daily visits. Tyr recently banned Frida from his bed; the woman cursed Rachelle whenever someone would listen. Of course, Onetooth spared her the particulars, but she couldn’t understand why the jarl ended the affair.

  The maid curtsied, then placed the platter on the table.

  Rachelle dragged herself from her sour thoughts. “Why are you here?”

  Arrogance lit Frida’s eyes. “To serve you, why else?” she asked mildly.

  There was a dull pain behind Rachelle’s eyes as she pictured this woman making love to Tyr. Kissing and caressing him in all the same places she’d touched. Benefiting from his affection and ardor the same way she had. Unaccustomed to jealousy, Rachelle tried to deny any attachment to Tyr. What right did she have? She’d rejected him, fled the bathhouse without explanation. Still, her gaze ran hotly over Frida—involuntarily assessing her. She embodied all the feminine qualities associated with Scandinavian beauties . . . fair-haired and tall. And her sexual prowess surely made her more attractive to men. How could Rachelle ever compete with her? Apparently, virtue wasn’t as valued in Norway as in England. Women freely chose lovers from amongst Tyr’s warriors. There were no repercussions, not from what she’d witnessed. And Tyr didn’t hide his appetite for women. He brazenly admired them. This one had shared his bed more regularly than any other.

  Distance was the only solution—she must escape. But how? Famished, she surrendered to the tempting aroma of freshly baked bread. She walked to the table and sampled a piece. Her penchant for self-doubt was wearing her nerves thin. “I’m not truly welcome here,” she commented, turning to Frida. “I’m confined to these rooms. I rarely go outside. A maid visits in the morning and before I go to bed. Other than Onetooth, you’re more familiar than anyone else. So, tell me the truth, why did you come here?”

  “To meet you.”

  Rachelle leaned forward. She could find no malice in that. Curiosity had driven her to do many careless things throughout her life. Perhaps this woman’s broken heart inspired her to come. Another reason she’d not treat her with disdain. Women had little room to maneuver in a man’s world. Where they found oppo
rtunities to satisfy their needs, they must do so.

  The icy reality of their mutually unfortunate circumstances became clearer. “Are you disappointed?”

  A thin smile creased Frida’s lips. “My disappointment or suffering is of no importance. I’ll only admit that you’re more attractive than I first thought.”

  Must it come to that? Men competed for respect and to prove their superior fighting skills and strength. Must women think only of physical beauty where their rivals were concerned?

  “Hard-won praise,” Rachelle observed coolly. “What could we possibly have to say?” Should she confess that Tyr’s kisses made her wild and vulnerable? Or that he’d asked for her hand in marriage while in the heat of passion?

  “That depends on you, milady.”

  Had she heard correctly? Damnation. Did this woman have something of substance to share? “I’m exhausted and have no patience for nonsense.”

  “Think whatever you want.”

  For a servant, she spoke boldly. Rachelle sighed, then rocked side to side. “Thank you for the food. If you are quite finished—”

  Frida sat down.

  Remarkable. Rachelle saw a bit of her own stubbornness in her. “I didn’t invite you to stay.”

  Frida's laughter made her temper flare.

  “I’m not accustomed to being treated so disrespectfully. Leave, or your master will hear about this in the morning.”

  “Don’t be insulted,” she said. After measuring out two cups of wine, she offered Rachelle one. “I think we can help each other.”

  Rachelle accepted the drink. Frida’s unwelcome presence strained her mind and body. But how could she dismiss her without listening first? “Tell me . . .”

  She nodded. “I must make my peace with you first.”

  “I have no real quarrel with you. Only bits and pieces of gossip I’ve overheard that tell me more than I want to know about you. I cannot condemn you for disliking me. I’m a stranger. And your master has locked me away without offering any explanation to his household. Under the same circumstances, I too, would be suspicious and resentful.”

  “Your candor is appreciated.” The maid looked sincere. “Do you love him?”

  Rachelle coughed. “I love no man.”

  Frida’s eyebrows arched. “All women find Jarl Sigurdsson irresistible.”

  The two stared at each other.

  “I am not one of those women.”

  “If that’s the truth, milady, we’ve more in common than you think. I’m acquainted with your circumstances. As I’m sure you’re aware of mine. Why shouldn’t we collaborate and bring about a happy ending for all interested parties?”

  What did she mean by that? More empty promises from Northmen would only deepen her distrust for them. “Speak plainly.”

  “If you agree to my terms, in two hours, a mutual friend will meet us outside and escort you to safety, away from the confines of this house. We’ll pack one of the satchels in the wardrobe with whatever you need. Freedom is only a short distance from here.”

  Freedom? A concept she’d lost sight of weeks ago. Even if she escaped, what would it be like at home now? Tyr painted a ghastly picture of her homeland. With the conquering Normans leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, what nightmare awaited her in England? She looked around her suite, weighing the benefits of staying and going. Both presented serious risks. If she stayed, it didn’t put her any closer to her uncle or any further away from Tyr. She pressed her fist to her mouth. Think. Hard. Tyr had spies on the ground in England. If she gave them enough time, they’d likely find her kinsman. That much she believed. She’d seen how capable Tyr’s men were. However, the longer she waited, the greater the chances of finding Henry dead. She sucked down her wine, wrestling with her conscience.

  “I am unsure.”

  “The choice is wholly yours,” Frida offered.

  Fate had done her no favors, neither had that damned Viking. She shrugged. “I cannot decide. Serve me more wine.”

  The maid blinked. “You need a clear head to make this decision.”

  “I’ve been sober all my life. It’s done little to help.”

  “I’m . . .”

  Rachelle’s expression grew somber. She held up her hand. “Spare me your pity.” Her gaze flicked away, resting on the far wall.

  The last thing she needed was more sympathy. She’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. Everyone, including these godless Norsemen, looked at her with regret and guilt in their eyes. Receiving it from her romantic rival would only make her feel more ridiculous. Life hadn’t been easy, but it was her burden to bear, alone. She fought the urge to cry her frustration away.

  Frida approached with the bottle. “I am obligated to serve you.” She refilled Rachelle’s glass with hesitancy in her eyes.

  She savored the sweetness of the garnet-colored liquid, rolling it around in her mouth before she swallowed. She tasted cinnamon and a woody flavor. Grapes couldn’t thrive in this harsh climate. Where did they get this fine wine? Where did they find anything of quality in this frozen country? The answer slithered around her. England. France. Ireland. Scotland. All the places they ravaged and destroyed.

  The solution to her predicament couldn’t be plainer—go.

  A soft smile touched Rachelle’s lips as she set aside the half-empty cup. Home. It felt strange thinking it. “I accept. Although, I don’t know why I should trust you.”

  Frida spread her arms wide. “Don’t question Odin’s generosity, milady.”

  Odin? That pagan god had nothing to do with this. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. Keeping her thoughts to herself was the prudent thing to do. She looked away, then walked to the wardrobe. She took out a leather bag, selected several dresses, an extra pair of shoes, a wool cloak, and combs for her hair. These clothes should keep her warm enough on the voyage home. The prospect of landing on that rocky coastline, where she’d departed for Norway all those weeks ago, made her heart skip a beat. She’d never felt so happy and sad at the same time.

  Frida stepped around her, then reached inside the closet. Pulling out a fur, she flung it at Rachelle. “Put this on.”

  Rachelle swore she’d boil alive before they made it outside—she was already dressed in so many layers. But she felt compelled to agree with the woman who offered her a way out. Frida completed her costume by covering her hair with a thick scarf. The servant stepped back and inspected her.

  “Unrecognizable,” Frida slipped into her own cloak. “If you’re quiet, we should be able to get outside.”

  “What about the guards?”

  “Leave them to me. They’ll never suspect anything. Two wenches on their way home for a bit of fun.”

  You’ll be in Tyr’s bedchamber the moment I’m gone.

  Rachelle could not believe what she was seeing. Frida flirted deplorably with the only sober man left in the great hall. The rest were passed out drunk on the floor. Rachelle didn’t wish to witness the maid’s defilement. She refused to play the whore for anyone and slipped outside unnoticed. With her own wits compromised after drinking so much wine, she prayed for the luck to make it through her deliverance. It was cold outside and she rubbed her hands together to generate some heat.

  She took a deep breath, exceedingly grateful for the extra cloak and buried her hands between the folds of fur. She gazed skyward. Cloudless nights in England weren’t half as cold as Norway. Everything about this place was brutal—everything. A noise from the woods startled her. Left without any protection, she prepared herself. Wild animals roamed the steading at night; wolves, bears, boar, nearly any creature imaginable. She raised an eyebrow when she saw who it was. A bear would have been more welcome than Aaron McNally.

  “We meet again, Lady Rachelle.”

  Why did everyone insist on calling her Lady Rachelle? That title hadn’t been formally bestowed upon her yet. She crinkled her nose. Any compliment this man made was purely condescending in nature. “I presume you are the friend Frida spok
e to me about.”

  His biting chuckle made her skin crawl. “It needn’t be so miserable for you. We both desire the same thing. Why shouldn’t we assist each other?”

  Those words sounded uncomfortably familiar. Rehearsed perhaps? What had she really agreed to? She glared back. “I find it hard to believe you want to help me. Let’s be perfectly honest, shall we?”

  “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get you out of here.”

  Very carefully, she stepped closer. Oh, she agreed about escaping—that much she couldn’t deny. But this man shouldn’t be trusted by anyone. It worried her. Was she unknowingly part of a wider conspiracy to harm the jarl? Unable to live with that possibility, she tested him.

  “You have a firm reputation for being a troublemaker. Is it possible you intend to use me as a weapon against your cousin?”

  “I do appreciate a girl with imagination. If Tyr cared, why does he keep ye locked up like a dirty little secret?”

  Offended, she turned to leave.

  Aaron caught her by the wrist, then yanked her close. “Unlike the castrated bastards under this roof,” he said, releasing her, “I’ll not hesitate to discipline you if you get highhanded again.”

  The threat didn’t surprise her. She looked up at him. His pale-colored eyes lacked the warmth his cousin’s possessed. Devoid of feelings of any kind. “I believe we understand each other.”

  He smiled. “Good.”

  “What do you understand?” Frida joined them.

  The maid had taken much too long inside.

  “Nothing important,” Aaron said dismissively. “Our friend has an unpleasant side. I’ve advised her to control it.”

  Frida swatted his arm. Aaron responded by pulling her into a lewd embrace.

  A tremor raced through Rachelle. Everything made sense now. Aaron and Frida were lovers. What had she fallen into?