Blind Allegiance (Viking Romance) (The Blind Series)

by Rand, Violetta

  Brain quit struggling. “Mercy,” he begged.

  The Viking released him, and Brian staggered to his feet as gracelessly as a drunk.

  “Is this how you treat your own kinswoman?” her rescuer asked.

  “She’s faithless—no blood of mine. We’ve made our bargain Norseman, take her.” He stood rooted in place like a stubborn mule and faced her. “You’re a whore.” His words ripped through her.

  How quickly he turned on her like a rabid dog. And for no good reason. Now he spoke about a bargain she knew nothing about and called her horrible names . . . Ophelia is dead and her murderer is walking freely amongst us, but my soulless brother speaks of anything else. Where is her body? Noelle’s anguish increased.

  “So long as I serve a purpose I am your blessed sister, but the moment an opportunity is lost, you cast me aside like trash. What have I ever done to deserve this treatment?”

  Brian threw his head back and laughed, then stared her down. “You killed my mother.”

  Heart splayed-open, she felt dead inside—like she had slammed into a brick wall at a full run. Noelle covered her ears in an attempt to block out his vicious words. Blaming her because their mother died after giving birth to her was simply the cruelest thing he’d ever done. How can anyone hold her responsible for something she had no control over? Cuts and bruises always heal, but a wicked tongue destroys.

  “Never again,” she vowed.

  “Never what?” Brian repeated mockingly.

  “What happened to Ophelia?”

  The giant wedged himself between them as if he were preventing a fistfight. She didn’t like the stranger standing so close and backed away. His gray eyes washed over her like a torrent of hot water.

  “He’s unworthy of your devotion, failed to tell you the truth—why he killed your sister.”

  She nearly howled as her eyes flitted between them. Who should she believe? Why would this man lie? But how could Brian be guilty of killing Ophelia?

  “Tell me,” she pleaded. “Convince me this is all just a misunderstanding.”

  Brian ignored her, made no attempt at denial. He stared at the Norsemen with a lurid expression that made her insides churn. She wanted to run far away. Instead, she only wandered a few feet. She stopped in front of the windows again and watched the sunrise.

  Noelle wanted answers. She whipped around and stalked across the hall with one man on her mind. She stopped in front of John. “Tell me, does the Norseman speak truthfully?”

  The old soldier nodded, sadly. All the guards agreed. Regardless, she went down the line one by one just to confirm it. And after she finished with them, she looked upon the women. She shook her head.

  “You shall not commit murder.” She recited the sixth commandment over and over again to keep herself from committing violence against her brother. Just barely, she managed to restrain herself.

  The world altered as sunlight seeped into the hall through the windows. Evidence of fire and bloodshed was much clearer in the light. The thick beams near the stairs were charred black and damaged more severely than anywhere else in the room. Floorboards and flagstones were stained in pools of dry blood. Stones in the main hearth—the loveliest feature in the room—were chipped and broken. Chairs and tables upturned in corners and tapestries her mother painstakingly collected from all over the world were shredded or singed. The house of Sinclair is finally reduced to ash and rubble to reflect the emotional ruins we’ve lived in for years.

  She closed her eyes, willing the image of a perfect life into her head. Her mother alive—four children lovingly gathered at her feet. And her doting father eating nearby at the high table with a twinkle in his eyes. It was a heart wrenching fantasy.

  Noelle returned to Brian’s side. He wore his customary arrogance like a war medal. Time stopped and everything moved in slow motion. Her eyes were painfully dry from lack of sleep, itched like they were filled with gravelly dirt. Her hair and clothing reeked of smoke and sweat, and her lungs ached. There was nothing worth saving in this cursed house—honor be damned. Not sire or friend could comfort her right now.

  “Why?” she finally asked.

  “Ophelia risked our lives by retaliating. Even after the truce was made, she stabbed one of their captains. I put her out of her misery once and for all.”

  She swallowed yet another scream and flew at him, prepared to use the only weapons she possessed. Like a feral cat, she dug and scratched his face, intending to scar him for life. Brian recoiled and blotted his cheek—shocked at the wet stain on his hand. She raced behind him and jammed her fists into his spine—punching him over and over again.

  He whirled. His heavy boot connected with her belly and sent her flying backward. She crashed to the floor and stared up at the ceiling in a daze. It had been a moment of foolish rage to think she could retaliate so boldly without him winning the fight. He abused women—sisters and lovers alike. A burst of pain broke her thought and she rolled onto her side, crunching her knees into her chest for relief.

  She raised her head in time to see the Viking circling Brian like a predator stalking its prey before the kill. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Maybe he wanted to cut Brian’s head off. Do it. He was the most polarizing force in her life. Rid us of this disease. Everything he touches withers and dies.

  He chanted something in that malignant tongue she’d heard him speak before and backhanded Brian so hard he stumbled several feet. Brian didn’t move again. But they stared hard at each other, rage arched between them. Then the Viking half-walked and half-shoved him across the room. Women along the east wall parted and scampered for safety. He didn’t stop until the back of Brian’s head hit the wall. Not giving her brother an opportunity to recover, the Viking punched him in the face and Brian’s legs buckled. He landed another blow, kicking him to the floor with a fluent sweep of his right leg.

  Noelle’s blood pounded as she stood and hurried across the room. Rage had clouded her judgment. Although she wanted Brian to pay, let him face an English executioner with his bloody head firmly planted on a wood block, not die at the hands of these Norse invaders.

  The Viking was unstoppable. She considered the look of violence in his eyes and slowly edged away. He unsheathed his weapon and raised it high above his head, but a guard intervened.

  “Hva vil du gjøre med henne hvis hun hater deg før du går til ektesengen?” the guard said.

  Judging by the severity of his tone, they must have been words of warning. She didn’t know if these men were organized by rank, but the larger of the two—the one who attacked her brother—froze with his sword midair. Brian lay at his feet, muttering nonsensically.

  She knew little about these people. Only that they sailed superior ships and worshipped a deity named Odin. She believed his god’s fury filled his mind as he leaned over Brian. She shrank a bit when he grabbed a handful of her brother’s hair and lifted his head.

  “I made these generous arrangements to spare the girl’s feelings. Not for your bloody convenience. You owe her your life. She’s the only reason I’ll spare you. And if your other sister wishes to escape this hel, I’ll claim her, too.” Brian’s head hit the floor with a thud. “Worthless bastard . . .” he muttered, spinning on his heels, and staring down at her.

  Stormy eyes threatened her sanity. She tried not to be deceived by his excellent features. Or drawn in by the smoothness of his bronzed complexion. The Viking seemed as harmless as the sharp end of an ice pick. And that voice—God help her.

  His baritone possessed the ferocity she’d fantasized God’s might have, thundering from the burning bush. It put the fear of The Divine in her. Blond hair hung well below his shoulders, tightly braided at the temples. His broad cheeks, aquiline nose, and shapely lips were perfectly symmetrical. She marveled at his savage beauty. Although she resented everything he represent
ed, secretly, she was grateful for his sudden appearance. What kind of a barbarian invades a castle and offers terms of surrender to its inhabitants?

  She stared pensively at him. He wore a knee-length, chain mail shirt over leather. His boots were embossed with strange circular patterns and dyed a rich bluish-purple. Silver medallions were sewn around the toe line, very different from the rest of his men’s shoes. He had an air of regality about him. A chieftain, of that she had no doubt.

  The longer she stayed in the room with him, the more her sense of reason fragmented. Nothing would ever be the same again. Brian was guilty of more than cold-blooded murder. He abused his power. But even now, she knew he could do no wrong in her father’s eyes. Noelle hated him for that. And the fact that she found herself regrettably obligated to this barbarian for rescuing her crushed her spirit.

  What bleak future prospects. She folded her hands over her stomach and stared away as long as possible. Found her mind wandering back and forth between Ophelia and this arrangement that her brother spoke of. She didn’t care to add more weight to the burden she already carried. Mere speculation would only drive her crazy.

  Instead, she drifted around the room in a silent frenzy and watched as the Norsemen came and went. They carried away piles of loot, depositing them on their ships. She attempted to memorize the faces of her father’s soldiers, surmising which men had died in battle. Her father found little use for keeping formal ledgers. In a situation such as this, it would have proven much easier than merely guessing who the survivors were.

  She remembered the identities of the women easily. Thirty-three maids were grouped together. The children were obviously cloistered somewhere upstairs. And Brian wisely kept his place on the floor, probably too afraid to move. There was nothing more she could do here. It seemed a selfish way to think, but if she didn’t leave, she might do something she’d regret later. Like kill her brother . . . Noelle slipped away.

  Chapter 3

  Eyes of a Stranger

  Randvior halted as the beauty made her way to the doors. His men started after her, but he stopped them. No harm in letting her go, for now. Give her time to work through the torture and torment. Wherever she went, he knew he would eventually find her.

  The climate in northern England made him appreciate the place even less. He forbade his men from drinking more because he feared it might affect their already diminishing spirits. Nothing would have kept them from overindulging in food and drink, except for his direct command. And his men, like any, might resort to violence once their gullets were wetted. This place had a way of picking away at a man’s soul.

  The only light he had found within the suffocating darkness of Durham seemed to be the girl. Her unwavering allegiance to her kinsmen and servants restored his faith. It made him reconsider his long held opinion that women served only one true purpose. Pleasure . . . He remembered only a handful of accomplished females he’d met in his travels. They were spinsters and widows who had dedicated their lives to attaining wisdom. Although young and stubborn, Noelle was composed of the same commendable qualities. And she fascinated him.

  Randvior entrusted the management of the takings and preparation of his ships to his men, then found a private space to sit and clear his head. He propped his head on his hand. He’d never imagined coming here, but Odin’s vision determined his path. The elusive deity was known to favor his family, and if he demanded an unplanned stop, who was he to defy his patron god?

  His men were restless after a season that yielded little profit and no action. These are the risks I am willing to take to solidify my holdings and establish new steadings. The prospect of a quick raid south ended all complaints. Bound by oaths of allegiance, his captains and foot soldiers went wherever he commanded. And if the gods denied good fortune, blood sacrifices compensated for whatever bad omens attracted their disfavor.

  Fortunately, Durham yielded enough silver and gold to go around. And a woman he felt an instant attraction for. She broke his concentration too easily already. He grinned, felt an uncomfortable stir between his legs, and cursed his rebellious body. The last thing he wanted was to run around with an erection, when he didn’t even know where its inspiration had fled.

  Randvior’s pleasant reflection changed course. Noelle needed time to exorcise the demons from her mind before he took her on ship. Many a seasoned warrior had chosen a watery death over another year of raiding if they didn’t want to go. Always a coward’s way out. And he refused to give the girl a chance to dive overboard. With the burden of her sister’s death on her mind, she was in no shape to think clearly yet. And the way her murdering brother treated her—his tongue should be carved from its English mouth. How dare he refer to her as a Norseman’s whore?

  But he couldn’t delay their departure. The evasive girl would simply have to accept her fate. The thought of running his hands over her lithe form nearly drove him insane. He wanted to master her body. Something told him she was more than just a pretty face, though. And he truly wanted the opportunity to explore the complexities of her mind, experience the world through her eyes.

  Convincing her to accept him was going to be difficult. He refused to resort to rape as most men in his position would. But he wasn’t opposed to relentless seduction.

  He left the alcove and headed directly for the stairs. Noelle’s sister would provide the information he needed to find her. English castles were a maze of endless rooms and hidden chambers. It could take a man a week to discover the places where a young girl would hide in a structure that took three centuries to build. He knocked on the bedchamber door.

  Margaret answered.

  He studied her delicate features. Blue eyes as round as a serving tray darted nervously between him and the empty hallway behind. “I know you blame me for Ophelia’s death,” he paused, surmising her state of mind. “There is no time for formalities. I need your help finding Noelle.”

  A faint smile flickered across her tear-stained face. “You may be different from the Norsemen the village women describe, but what makes you think I’ll provide you with any information?” she asked. “Many of those women were left with child after the raids and will never forget the beasts who assaulted them.”

  He also exercised better judgment than most jarls. His men had not inflicted such indignities on the women in this household for good reason. The gods directed his hand in this endeavor, and temperance was divine.

  “I offer my deepest sympathies for the women who suffered so needlessly.” His statement was true for the most part. Resorting to violence was necessary sometimes to bring conquered peoples under control. “Tell me what I need to know.”

  She scrutinized him with a lingering stare. “I’ll only tell you to spare my sister further pain.”

  “Prudence should prevail, lady. You are in no position to deny me anything.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to make my life any worse. You’ll leave my home in shambles and I’ll be the one tasked with putting it back together. Do you really think I’m afraid to die after what occurred here today, Viking?” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I can’t challenge or negotiate for Noelle’s freedom, I’ve nothing to give. So you’ll take her by whatever means necessary, I know this. But I’ll tell you. If you harm a hair on her head, I will damn your soul every day for the rest of my life, and believe me, God will hear my pleadings.”

  Bewildered by this sudden display of feminine mettle, he could do nothing but admire her and further loathe her brother’s cowardice.

  “My sister only seeks refuge in two places, the woods or the old cellars.” She rubbed her nose and looked over her shoulder, in the direction of the windows. “She’s in the cellar.”

  As Randvior turned to leave, she fastened her hand around his arm.

  “A priest could never hear my brother’s confession, there’s no salvation for such a man. I beg you not
to be such a brute where my sister is concerned, she’s only eighteen.”

  Why was she saying this to him? He inhaled and blew out a frustrated breath, fisted his hands. By Odin, what evils did she speak of? And just what had he bargained for?

  “My brother is obsessed with death.”

  “Some men are born killers.”

  She nodded and changed the subject. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  Her gaze drifted to his eyes. “Old enough to take care of my sister, I hope.”

  “Aye,” he said, and left.

  The cellar door was open, a clear indication someone was inside. After his men finished exploring the storage rooms for gold, Randvior had ordered them to remove the torches and secure the door from the outside. He ducked under the stone archway and lifted his torch high so he could see down the stairs.

  It was an ancient passageway with narrow steps; the kind a man could fall down and break his neck. As he descended, he admired the carved stonework. Two torches burned in a floor stand—Noelle was definitely there. He knew this wasn’t the kind of place a young woman would customarily seek solace. But any place must seem safer than near her brother.

  He searched the cellar, rummaging through piles of debris. There were three subchambers off the main room, and small, round windows hewn in the stone allowed natural light to filter in. No one was there. He sighed and searched the first subchamber. Dozens of empty barrels and crates were stashed in a corner, but no girl.

  He didn’t wish to frighten, only wanted to show her a bit of kindness.

  “Noelle Sinclair,” he called, walking slowly. He sincerely hoped to lure her out of hiding without resorting to physical force. No matter if she resisted, the terms of surrender were not negotiable. She was his greatest prize—not intended for slavery, but true companionship after years of meaningless trysts with faceless wenches all over the world.