Blind Redemption (Viking Romance) (Blind Series)

by Rand, Violetta

  He sighed. Every man has his own needs.

  Finished eating, the women extinguished the fire and reloaded the cart. Aaron refused to make camp until nightfall. At least five hours of daylight remained, enough time to put more distance between them and Oslo.

  Chapter 2

  Discovery

  Kara Dalgaard spit blood on the ground. Her latest mistake, dropping her shield too soon. Marteinn clipped her in the chin with his fist, causing her to bite her tongue. She growled fiercely and attacked, slamming her sword into his wooden shield, then pushed with all her strength. Marteinn laughed as he stumbled backward.

  “Follow through, Kara,” her brother urged from the side. “One push isn’t enough, use the edge of your shield. Clap him over the head and kick him in the balls, now.”

  “Leave my future children alone,” Marteinn countered as he covered his ballocks with his left hand.

  She took advantage of her opponent’s fear, kicking him savagely in the shin.

  The six and a half foot warrior dropped his weapon and hopped on one foot. “You little cretin. That hurt.”

  “It’s supposed to.” She raised the visor on her helmet, then stared at her target. “Do you yield?”

  Before Marteinn replied, Geilir inserted himself between them. “I think you’ve practiced enough today. For the love of Odin, sister, I’ve never seen a woman love swordplay so much.”

  “Perhaps the proper parts would heat in my bed.” Marteinn grinned ear to ear.

  “Your fantasies are unattainable,” Kara said, thumping the back of his head. She rejected him nearly every day, but her adopted brother only heard what he wanted to hear. She would know the right man when she saw him. She’d believed that all her life. Whether she’d accept him, depended on what her heart told her. Although she dreamed of love, giving up her freedom scared her more than anything.

  She steered her thoughts back to Marteinn. Raised in her father’s household, he enjoyed the same privileges as her own brothers and teased her as ruthlessly as they did. He baited her constantly, a favorite pastime of all the men in her family. Only now, she was no longer a weak, grubby child. Father wanted her to learn how to fight to protect herself and had appointed Marteinn and Geilir to teach her.

  Kara removed her helmet and leather gloves, then dropped them on the ground. A basket of food waited under a nearby tree where the horses were tethered. All three headed in that direction. She arrived first and reached inside the basket—fruit, cheese, bread, and several skins of mead. Her stomach growled as she shoved a hunk of bread in her mouth.

  “Give me the bread.” Her brother grabbed the loaf.

  “Animal,” she called.

  “Ill-mannered wench.”

  Laughing, she sat cross-legged on the mossy ground and emptied a skin of mead in minutes.

  “Where does it all go?” Marteinn gazed at her in wonderment. “Do you have a hollow leg?”

  “No.” She smiled. “But you have a hollow head.”

  Truly, it wasn’t. Her father appointed Marteinn as captain of the guard three years ago because he was a talented strategist. Since then, their home had survived four attacks. Christian rebels often targeted the pagan lords in Lagenheim. But with fearless men like Marteinn to defend them, none had succeeded.

  She admired her foster brother’s face. Chestnut curls framed his magnificent features. High cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes revealed his birthplace. His mother came from an Icelandic province.

  Marteinn loved her. She struggled with it, cringed at the idea of regarding him as more than a kinsman. How could she? The boy who used to hold her arms down and force feed her dirt and bugs. It seemed unnatural. The way he stared at her while she ate, reminded her of the way she’d often caught him ogling her backside whenever she walked by. She’d grown shapelier over the last two years. Breasts too big for her small frame and a curvy arse drew unwanted attention from men in her household every day, further justifying her father’s desire to train her to fight.

  Men, including ones as honorable as Marteinn, are soulless creatures in the presence of beauty.

  Her sire’s philosophy, not hers. She wholly disagreed. Whenever Kara looked in the mirror, she didn’t see comely features, only someone who refused to embrace womanhood. At nineteen, all her personal interests revolved around charting the stars, riding horses, and learning the healing arts. She hated her body, especially once she realized why her father’s men treated her differently. Some avoided her altogether now. Why? She couldn’t stop the hand of the goddess Frigg, who eventually beckoned all women to the marriage altar.

  Over time, Marteinn had grown more aggressive about spending time alone. He asked to go on long walks and expressed the joy he felt sitting with her in the moonlight while she star-gazed. Mapping the heavens meant everything to her. Although she wasn’t opposed to Marteinn’s company, whenever his hand slipped over hers or he scooted too close, she always found an excuse to leave. She refused to give the household slaves reason to gossip about her. What her favorite childhood companion needed was a wife. Perhaps she’d help find him one.

  Aaron had yet to find a farm or village containing boys worthy of recruitment in the three days he’d been on the road. They were either too scrawny or too young. The further north they traveled, however, the greater their chances of success. Northlanders were bloodthirsty.

  As his party approached a clearing in the forest, he spied a group of men at swordplay. Hope spiraled inside him. Soldiers training in the forest suggested a steading nearby. A jarl with sons and possibly guards to spare. He halted to watch, concealed by trees. A boy attacked a much larger opponent. The man retreated, cunningly drawing the boy into an obvious trap. The youth attempted another careless strike and was promptly rewarded with a stout kick to his stomach. He tumbled to the ground. They laughed.

  Aaron couldn’t resist smiling. What the lad lacked in stature, he made up for with fearlessness. With time and proper training, the boy would become a valuable fighter, maybe even Aaron’s first recruit. He preferred working with fourteen and fifteen year olds. It was much easier to shape their young minds. In hope of demonstrating Olaf’s tolerance, Aaron planned on appointing pagans to leadership positions in his new regiment. Norseman were severely loyal, regardless of what faith they claimed.

  Suddenly, a band of masked riders emerged from the woods and swarmed the clearing. Bandits preyed on unsuspecting travelers in the wilderness all the time. But not so close to an established household, unless a blood feud existed between families.

  Aaron quickly assessed the situation. Four men and a child against a dozen horsemen . . . even if he didn’t want to get involved, he felt obligated to protect them. He signaled for Agni and Varinn to follow, then heeled his horse beyond the trees. The lad and his tutor still defended themselves. They were backed against the trees, with two of the attackers on the ground nearby. Aaron circled and caught the attention of two riders. They charged him—full gallop. He gripped his sword in his left hand and his battle axe in the right, controlling his stallion with his thighs.

  He cut between them, hitting each with his weapons, knocking them from their mounts. Jumping from his saddle, Aaron landed on his feet. Before his opponents recovered from their fall, Aaron delivered two deathblows, one to his first opponent’s chest, the second to the other man’s neck. Breathing hard, Aaron raced to the other side of the clearing where Agni had joined the fight. The marauders retreated, disappearing into the forest. Aaron wiped his bloody blade off on the tunic of one of the dead raiders, then sheathed his weapons. He twisted and looked at the man who’d been training the boy. He wasn’t full Norse.

  “We’re indebted to you. My name is Marteinn Hagebak.” The stranger introduced himself. “These lands belong to Erik the Bald. On behalf of my master, I welcome you to Lagenheim.”

  The
strange emblem on Marteinn’s helm attracted Aaron’s attention—Thor’s hammer. Erik the Bald was pagan. It surprised Aaron that a heathen lord would live so far south. A lucky twist of fate—he desperately needed recruits. And if his instincts proved correct, there should be others living nearby.

  “Those men never meant to kill anyone,” Aaron observed. “They were after something, maybe someone.”

  “Aye,” the stranger agreed.

  Aaron’s gaze swept the clearing. Nothing remarkable to note. A river, trees, and he guessed plenty of wild game. What caused those bastards to attack? “Does your master have a quarrel with someone?”

  “No.”

  The warrior spoke little, but Aaron decided to seek answers later. At the moment, he was concerned about the injured men on the ground. “We should look after your brethren.”

  The stranger nodded, then followed him to where Varinn was tending the wounded. Another reason Aaron had chosen him for this expedition was his skill at stitching and setting broken bones. One of the soldiers had died in battle; the other two were seriously injured.

  Marteinn inclined his head reverently, then introduced one of his companions. “This is Geilir, my master’s eldest son. I don’t know your name.”

  “Jarl Aaron McNally.”

  Geilir made a severe sound, almost reminiscent of a laugh. “A Scottish jarl?” He scowled. “What business do you have here?”

  Heat rose in Aaron’s cheeks. “I’m an emissary for King Olaf.” He’d save further explanation for the lad’s father. But one thing bothered him as he let his gaze search the field. The lad was nowhere to be found. Only horses and weapons remained by the trees. “Where’s the boy?”

  “What boy?” Marteinn acted as if he didn’t know who he was talking about. Then, realization dawned on his face. “Kar? Probably rushed back to the keep after the fight ended.”

  Perhaps the boy was the jarl’s youngest child and was ashamed of what happened. “How far is it to the keep?” Aaron asked.

  “Two miles,” Marteinn answered.

  “We have need to get these men home so I can clean and dress their wounds properly,” Varinn said in a voice that left no room for argument.

  Aaron inspected the gash on Geilir’s left leg. “Tis deep—it will take time to heal.”

  Geilir looked away, huffing.

  Caring little about what this man felt, the mystery behind the boy’s disappearance still gnawed at Aaron’s gut. If he had a young son, he’d keep better watch over the child. In the spirit of diplomacy, Aaron chose to reserve judgment until after he met Erik the Bald face-to-face.

  “I’ll collect the horses.” Aaron walked away, fisting his hands. Before his conversion, he would have struck a man for displaying such open disrespect. Although he knew how to control his anger now, there were moments he desperately wanted to revert back to his old ways.

  Yet he couldn’t if he wished the jarl to peacefully donate men to the king’s service.

  Chapter 3

  Fool

  Kara didn’t have the will or strength to move after the skirmish. Her arms and legs ached from the fight. She’d never expected to draw blood—to actually kill someone. But she had. And the shock of it overwhelmed her. And once she saw that monstrosity of a man who appeared from nowhere to aid them, her heart stuttered. Something about his beastly gray eyes made her tremble. He looked every bit the man she’d dreamt of. The one who could steal her heart. Tall and powerful—she admired his rugged features.

  As if Odin touched her legs, she found the power to run away. She arrived at her house sweaty and breathless, stumbling up the stairs to the front doors. Guests had arrived yesterday and her father was busy entertaining. She eyed the blood on her armor. In order to get upstairs unnoticed, she needed to slip by a double archway that opened to the great hall. Sneaking inside, she turned her back so no one would recognize her.

  Her father’s booming voice stopped her short.

  “Daughter . . .”

  She ignored him and hurried up a few stairs.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She stopped and turned slowly to face him. His blue eyes widened when he realized her condition. She cringed under his scathing look. This wasn’t what she’d wanted. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t—her sire resembled a devil at the moment.

  “Where is your brother and Marteinn?” he asked. “How far behind are they?” He grabbed her by the arms and gave her a firm shake. “Speak girl or so help me.”

  She finally found her voice. “We were attacked.”

  “By whom?” he demanded. “What happened?”

  Almost before she’d ended her story, her father growled orders to his guards. “Fifteen of you ride to the forest and recover my son and the men who assisted him. Now.” The highest ranking warrior nodded, then rushed outside. Her sire wrapped his arm consolingly about her waist. “Come with me to the hall. Bring wine,” he bellowed as they entered.

  A thrall immediately appeared and guided Kara to a chair. Before she sat down, she stripped off her armor, dropping it on the stone floor. Grateful to be home, she held the cup the slave set down in front of her with both hands, then guzzled the wine. Prone to eating when nervous, she claimed a hunk of bread off a nearby tray and ate ravenously. After, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Surprised by her sire’s unexpected, deep-bellied laughter, her gaze flitted around the high table. His guests appeared equally amused.

  “Have I offended you, sir?” Heat rose in her cheeks, what had she done?

  “By Odin’s eye,” her sire swore. “I’ve raised three sons.”

  Her brows knit. Taken aback by his words, she shakily poured herself a second measure of wine. Her father’s less than favorable opinion of her put her on the defensive. “I’ve done everything you’ve expected of me, milord.”

  He eyed her severely, his smile fading. “I was just boasting to these good men how beautiful my daughter is. Look at you. You’ve embarrassed me, child.”

  She lifted her chin. She wore armor and carried a sword because her father demanded it. He’d never admit it in front of his distinguished guests. “I don’t gallivant around wearing braies and weapons every day,” she defended herself.

  “Only because I forbid it,” he countered. “Seeing you now shows me what an injustice I’ve done you. I’ve poorly prepared you for your future. You lack the refinement and elegance most girls half your age possess.”

  “Haven’t I proven time and again I can play the role of the jarl’s perfect daughter when it’s expected of me?”

  His criticism stung. Ever obedient, she learned to read and write and fight alongside her brothers. Could he fault her for preferring climbing trees over dancing? Reading over embroidery? She enjoyed drying herbs; didn’t that count as cooking?

  “Go upstairs and prepare to greet our guests properly,” her father instructed.

  She needed a bath. Surely the stable smelled better than she did. “Yes, father.” She stood, then bowed.

  Her father coughed. “Bowing as a man only proves my point.” The five men at the table laughed.

  Humiliated, she huffed out an apology, curtsied, and ran out of the room.

  A half hour after the battle, Aaron followed Marteinn through the front doors of Erik the Bald’s modestly sized keep. Although the great hall was smaller than most, the jarl’s wealth showed in the finery he decorated it with. Tapestries and furs were abundant. On the east-facing wall, small niches were carved into the stone. Each hollow contained a miniature marble statue of the gods.

  A large hearth with a marble mantle graced the north wall. Two silver battle axes, crossed at the center, hung above the fireplace. Left of the hearth, covering the wall from ceiling to floor, was the largest bear skin he’d ever seen. He’d enjoy hearing the tale beh
ind that prized pelt. To the right of the mantle, an ornate looking glass, edged with silver and amber, hung on wall. Three long trestle tables were arranged in the center of the room. A hundred men could dine comfortably there. Erik the Bald enjoyed luxury.

  Marteinn motioned him across the room. They passed the kitchen where women were busy placing fresh loaves of bread on racks. Aaron paused to take in the smell of roasting meat. Violence always made him hungry. His escort grinned as if he’d read his thoughts and stopped at a narrow doorway. Once Aaron caught up, Marteinn knocked.

  “Enter,” a deep voice sounded from inside.

  Marteinn opened the door, then stepped aside so Aaron could pass. Sitting at a table piled high with ledgers and weapons was a white-bearded giant he assumed was the jarl. True to his name, Erik the Bald had a head as hairless as a baby’s arse. He stood to greet them.

  Marteinn bowed. “Milord, this is Jarl Aaron McNally, a representative for King Olaf. He intervened—”

  The jarl held up his hand. “Kara gave full account. Save your strength. We’ll speak later.”

  Aaron regarded Marteinn. Kar? Kara? Who is he? A faint smile crossed his lips. Perhaps this man’s youngest offspring was cursed with a feminine name.

  Erik broke his concentration. “Come, sit. I owe you endless gratitude, Jarl McNally. You saved my son.”

  Marteinn exited the room.

  Aaron couldn’t help noticing the size and condition of Erik’s hands, gnarled and scarred from years of battle. He held a high level of respect for men who earned their wealth in the field. “You owe me nothing. I was passing by and heard the commotion.” He’d never admit that he was spying on the man’s warriors.

  Erik eyed him speculatively. “Playing humble doesn’t impress me.” He offered Aaron a wine skin. “Your name is well known, Aaron McNally, kinsman of Tyr Sigurdsson.” The elder gave him a hostile stare.