Blind Mercy (16 page)

“Of sorts,” he admitted. “After everything you’ve been through, I knew you needed a place to pray. I can’t send you home, nor can I tell you anything about your Uncle’s whereabouts. Sometimes I take it for granted that my parents are alive in Scotland. I forget how blessed I am to have a family; brothers and a sister I love, a father who entrusted me with his birthright, and a mother I adore.”

Every day she remembered the enchanted first half of her childhood. How she’d enjoyed long walks with her parents, holy days, and her favorite thing, the eventide meal—her father often told vivid stories afterward. The sound of his engaging laughter was too fresh on her mind. Heat fanned across her face. Grief suddenly engulfed her. She needed to concentrate on the present. No more sad reflections. Someday, she’d be reunited with her parents in heaven.

Tyr’s intense gaze was fixed on her. His eyes were so hypnotizing and beautiful. His lips warm and tempting. It hadn’t taken more than a few kisses to convince her. But the passion simmering beneath his cool exterior terrified her. Tonight’s gesture eclipsed his bad behavior. Having a place to commune freely with God fed her starving spirit.

“Where are we?”

He pulled her close. “Odin’s altar.” They slowly walked to the stone. “My father stood near this monument and confessed his love to my mother.”

Were those tears brimming in his eyes? She’d never have guessed how idealistic he truly was. She had listened to his words quietly while taking in the sight of him—weighing the genuineness in his voice. The man standing in front of her wasn’t the same beast whose temper had exploded inside the great hall tonight. Her lips thinned. Would he too confess his love? Did this place bewitch men?

Although she was unprepared to hear it, part of her silently begged him to profess undying passion. Fear no longer mattered. The world offered little happiness. Shouldn’t she enjoy what little comfort she could get? She gaped in wide-eyed anticipation, but he failed to fulfill her girlish fantasy.

“I speak with the gods here. As do all my people.” He stared across the snow-covered field.

Since the first day they’d met, Tyr had been embroiled in strife and violence. Standing in this holy place, he seemed vulnerable, almost normal. Only once before had she seen this level of tenderheartedness in him. The degree of compassion he showed his deceased brother when he prepared him for funeral rites still haunted her. Of course, what man wouldn’t be moved by such tragedy? This was decidedly different. Baffled by this transformation, she observed him closely.

“Thank you for this kindness,” she said.

He embraced her. The motivation behind his touch had changed, she felt it.

“I swear on this sanctified ground, I’ll never hurt you again,” he promised.

He’d pledged it before. Would she be foolish enough to believe again? Didn’t he understand she couldn’t get past the fact he was holding her for ransom? Could she ever really forgive his deception and the shame he put upon her? The longer she lingered in his embrace, the more intense the jolts of lust that shot through her body became. It felt wonderful to be touched; yet as welcome as those feelings were, they must stay hidden forever.

“I
want
to believe you,” she said.

He tipped her head upward. “I make no promises I can’t keep,” he assured her. “If there’s anything I can do to ease your pain, ask me.”

She remained silent. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a place existed where happy thoughts thrived. She pictured how it might be if he dropped on his knees and declared his love. All of this was quickly swept aside.

“I’ll leave you now,” he announced. “My men are aware of your situation and will not disturb your observances. When you are ready, they will escort you back to the house.”

Tyr’s throat tightened as he trudged away. Every time Rachelle’s lips quivered, he wanted to kiss them. Whenever she was nearby, he wanted to rip her clothes off and finish what he’d started in the bathhouse. He’d also failed to recite a poem he learned as a young man—a Norse verse that had always stayed with him. One he believed was meant for her.
What were the first lines?

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 opportunities 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.”