Blind Mercy (9 page)

“Wake up, you godforsaken barbarian.” A furious blush warmed her face.

He was unresponsive.

Even when she poked his chest, he said nothing. Irritated, she grabbed a handful of his blond arm hair and twisted.

“Ouch!” His eyes opened. He laughed.

“Let go of me.”

“Only if you kiss me first.”

She elbowed him. “Well?”

He unhooked his arms. “I see you’ve regained your strength.”

Climbing to her feet, she covered her nether region with her hands. “Where are my clothes?” She frowned. This man liked being naked too much.

He rewarded her modesty with a furtive smile. “Are we in a garden paradise, sweet daughter of Eve?”

“If we’re in the garden, you’re the wicked serpent.”

He leaned up on his elbow. “There’s an enormous viper hidden underneath this cover, shall I let him loose?”

Swallowing tightly, it sickened her that seduction ruled his mind and heart. And if she didn’t bind herself with chastity, she might get sucked into his sin. “Your vulgarity astounds me.”

“You call me the devil. Will you fault me for rising to the occasion?”

Filthy-minded mongrel
. “You act as if you’ve never seen a naked woman before.”

He grinned lecherously. “None as comely as you.” His gaze dropped to her hands. “Don’t be ashamed. Show me what you’re hiding.”

She curled her hands into fists. “Why didn’t you let me drown?”

Moving swiftly, he came off the ground, then caught her in his arms. She melted into him, craving the shelter his body offered; the protection and warmth only a big man could give. At this moment, she’d take anything he’d give to stop the rising pain.

Holding her tight, he said, “Do you know what you put me through? If you attempt anything so stupid again, I’ll punish you, severely.”

She licked her lips nervously. She needed to forget about him and those forbidden kisses that left her feeling the same as after drinking too much wine. Something kept pulling her toward him. An invisible hand that threatened to squeeze all resistance out of her.
If your right eye causes you to stumble
. . . She couldn’t stop staring at him. And he knew it.

“I’m sorry.” She trembled. There was no logical explanation for jumping overboard. The need to be free had overwhelmed her.

“Good.” He released her and pointed to a nearby tree. “Your gown is hanging over there.”

She raced for it, then awkwardly pulled the dress over her head. She paused when she heard his strangled voice.

“
Odin, slår meg død før denne kvinnen ødelegge meg
.”

It sounded so pitiful. She tried to commit those words to memory for future translation.

Chapter 6

Sanctuary

Rachelle had been trapped in an emotional prison since the day her parents died. With a pain in the back of her throat, she remembered the cursed day and the cruel words that priest had whispered to her. “Sin always catches up with the unrepentant.”

Those words had transformed her. They’d made her distrust men of the cloth and kept her from forming close attachments to people. If the Lord punished her parents for speaking out against the church, what would stop him from smiting others she loved? She wasn’t so young and innocent to not understand what Tyr wanted. If she resisted the attraction, it would be safer for both of them. She knew what she had to do. Happiness lay in the wide-open spaces where she spoke freely to God. Not in the company of men—especially Tyr.

Anchored for over an hour, she stood with Tyr’s crew on shore. She shadowed them across a narrow footbridge, then up a hill. From the pinnacle, she viewed the valley below. Rows of barley and wheat were visible—golden in color—ready for harvesting. Women gleaned in the fields. A herd of sheep drank from a small lake. The river narrowed considerably where they had docked and split into two arteries. The widest one snaked across the land.

Onetooth guarded her like a dog. “The
jarl
owns the lands as far as the eye can see.”

Her uncle’s modest estate paled in comparison. Swallowing the bitter reality of Tyr’s immense wealth, she understood what influence and power came with such extensive holdings. This lowered her chances of getting home.

“Beyond the fields,” Onetooth continued, “is the pride of our household women, the great
kálgardr
. Our gardens boast some of the largest heads of cabbage you’ll ever see. They also grow horsebeans, onions, peas, and angelica.”

She smiled appreciatively. “Are there flower gardens?”

“I’d forgotten how deeply the English admire flowers,” he said. “Yes, there are many colorful blossoms to enjoy. The sweetest of these grows wild in the forest.
Røsslyng
.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Heather,” he said.

Holding her hand over her mouth to hide her smile, it surprised her how something so irrelevant could bring joy at a moment like this. It reminded her of home.

After they walked down the hill, they crossed the fields. A massive stone and wood house, nearly three times the size of her home, came into sight. A shiver ran up her arm and down her neck.
Not a barbarian.
She scrutinized Tyr who stood nearby. A grin softened his exhausted features. Shoving his index fingers in his mouth, he whistled, then jogged ahead alone. Excitement sounded from the fields. People abandoned their work and rushed toward him. A welcoming meant for a beloved figurehead.

The prodigal chieftain was home.

Tyr embraced tenant after tenant, stopping frequently to twirl children in the air. For over an hour, he grasped the hands and shoulders of dozens of men and kissed the cheeks of women. It had been so long since he’d experienced such comfort. Sadly, it couldn’t last. Bad tidings hovered above him like a great storm cloud. The news he so carefully guarded ate away at his insides.

Once the initial shock and joy of his return subsided, he faced his house. The comfort of the great hall, food and drink, the warmth of the hearth, and a swarm of women awaited him. But before he reached the outer courtyard, the questions started. They might as well pelt him with rocks. He wanted to provide truthful answers and nearly lost control when some of the women noticed their kinsmen missing.

A youngster started naming off the warriors. “Erik, Jarli, Holmgren, Gunnvor, Trjonn . . .” He identified all fifty-two men standing nearby. “My brother—Ulfeid—is he still on ship, sir?”

Today, the gods chose to cruelly remind him of the fragility of mankind. Death owned everyone, with a particular fondness for warriors. Men died to glorify Odin, not for selfish kings.
Damn the gods . . .
As chieftain, he must disclose everything.

Aaron was suddenly at his ear. “If you don’t tell them,
I will
.”

Tyr whirled, gnashing out a curse, and shoved Aaron aside. “Breathe a bloody word before I’m ready and you’ll find yourself eating shite all winter.”

“You’d maltreat me for telling the truth?” Aaron glared at Rachelle. “Don’t look at me that way, wench—I’m sure your kinsmen had a hand in my cousin’s death.”

Tyr’s mouth twisted as he held his emotions in check. “You cannot blame
her
for our misery.” Aaron needed a sharp reminder of his place and who provided his food and lodging, but now was not the time. Tyr seized Rachelle’s hand, leading her to the house. Guessing she craved a hot meal and sleep, he’d seek out the same pleasures soon enough.

Aaron’s threat embittered him. These were
his
people. Not his cousin’s. Or King Hardrada’s. What purpose was there in depriving them of a day of celebration? As they reached the backside of the house, a large crowd greeted him with a treasured verse.

Wind we, wind we such web-of-darts

as the young war-worker waged afore-time!

Forth shall we fare where the fray is thickest,

Where friends and fellows against foemen battle!

Tyr’s nostrils flared. Heat flushed through his body. Arrogance had cost many lives. Shame washed over him for despising his dead sovereign—but he couldn’t overcome it, or forget the king’s mistakes.
Hel take Hardrada’s soul.

A war horn blared. Gunnar Jorgensen, the captain left in charge of his steading, brandished the ceremonial ram’s horn. It sounded three more times before he formally hailed Tyr. Thralls distributed horns brimming with beer to the men. A line of eager women offered smiles and embraced the soldiers.

Tyr sighed. The traditional warrior’s welcome—an overabundance of ale and sex. Something Tyr missed. Fixing Rachelle with a concerned stare, he wondered how far her Christian tolerance would stretch, watching this open display of drunkenness and ribald affection. Seeing no evidence of discomfort on her face, he returned his attention to the celebrants.

Standing inside the great hall, Rachelle immediately identified the seat of honor at the head of the room. The elaborately carved chair was adorned with flower wreaths and silver chains. Once Tyr crossed the threshold, women flocked to him, vying for his favor. They ushered him to the imposing seat. A tiny girl waddled forward, climbed onto his lap, then placed a crown of dried holly blossoms on his head. The crowd applauded. Tyr smiled in a way Rachelle had never seen. Even from where she stood, she saw the genuine warmth in his eyes. This is where he belonged. At home, surrounded by subjects who adored him.

Her chest tightened when an attractive blond helped the little girl down. Holding a polished horn, with insets of ivory and silver, to Tyr’s smiling lips, the woman laughed affectionately as Tyr swallowed. Reaching around her, he slapped the wench’s ample backside, sending her away in a flurry of giggles. Adding to Rachelle’s discomfort, she discovered lewd behavior in every direction. Men and women groping each other, drinking and laughing without thought of how shameful they looked doing it. This scene reminded her of Sodom and Gomorrah. She prayed holy fire wouldn’t rain down from heaven.

The hall was in complete chaos. Rachelle counted nearly a hundred people fighting for space to sit or stand. Tyr raised his hands and leaned forward.

“Thank you for your vigilance and loyal service,” Tyr praised them in Norse and English. “Tonight’s festivities cannot be in vain. Remember our brothers who sacrificed their lives in service to our country.”

Rachelle knew what he was doing. Let everyone enjoy a night of revelry before he broke their hearts. Once they learned the fate of their king, weeks of mourning were sure to follow. Taking advantage of the lapse in supervision, Rachelle decided to explore the hall. Stopping to admire the tapestries that decorated the walls, she lost herself in the resplendent images. Ancient scenes were depicted beautifully—bearded warriors battling wild beasts or making love to ethereal women in the most provocative poses. Heat suffused her cheeks. Could a man and woman really do that?

Grateful other items of interest arrayed the walls, she studied the collection of antique shields and swords. Marveling at curiously shaped knives, with jeweled handles and long pikes, she lazily ran her fingers along the stonework, then stopped abruptly in front of a sword that differed from the rest. Smaller and prettily crafted, the thin blade gleamed coppery-silver in the light.
Lady Noelle Marie Sinclair of House Sinclair, Durham, England
was etched in the steel.

She wanted to touch it. Dropping her gaze to the floor, she considered it. No one would see. Stretching out her hand, a loud cough stopped her. She froze.

“Don’t touch it,” Aaron spat. He slapped her hand as if she were a child reaching for a pot over an open flame.

Although his features resembled Tyr’s, they were sharper. Bitterness dulled his eyes. Did this man begrudge everything his cousin had achieved? Onetooth had told her Aaron coveted Tyr’s lands and women. And since she was the current focus of Tyr’s attention, she knew his cousin’s scorn would be directed at her.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You should plead for more than that.” He grabbed her by the arm.

This man was overstepping his bounds. Trying to pry his fingers loose, she gasped when he gave her a firm shake. She prayed silently for someone to intervene.

Onetooth appeared as if summoned by the Lord himself. His huge hand covered Aaron’s. “Let her go,
now
.”

There was something ominous about a man whose mere tone accomplished what most men would need to demand to get done. She didn’t want to be the cause of deeper friction between anyone, but Aaron was an agitator. Averting her eyes, she refused to acknowledge him until he released her. When he finally did, he smacked the wall under the tip of her nose, growled, and stormed away.

“Don’t worry about that sack of—” Onetooth heaved a long sigh. “You were admiring this sword?” He tapped the blade.

“Yes.”

“A beautiful piece . . .” He lifted the blade from the pegs. “A wedding gift from Tyr’s father to his mother, with her name inscribed.” He offered her the sword.

Rachelle admiringly ran her fingers across the words,
Noelle Sinclair Sigurdsson
. “Why would a warrior gift his bride with a weapon?”

“Swords symbolize the joining of two families. Randvior Sigurdsson worked tirelessly to help his young bride assimilate so she’d be welcomed by his kinsmen. It meant House Sinclair would forever be united with the Sigurdssons. As rare a gesture as I’ve ever seen.”

“You were there?”

“Not at the formal ceremony.” Onetooth grinned. “But I remember the celebration, the first time I ever got pissed.”

She chuckled. When he smiled, the scar that forever marred his otherwise handsome face faded. Thinking on that more, she didn’t like the name Onetooth very much. He deserved a more dignified title. Rewarding his humor with a grin, she asked, “What’s your given name?”

His bushy brows lifted.

“I promise never to tell anyone.”

He broke eye contact and shrugged. “Skari.”

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