Blind Mercy

by Violetta Rand

  As if he read her mind, he said, “Rape is punishable by death. By your own words—eye for eye, tooth for tooth . . .”

  “Shouldn’t I have a say in his punishment?”

  Their gazes wrestled for dominance. Tyr straightened with indignation. “He’s a threat to my survival. I cannot risk it. He’ll run to the local magistrate and tell them I’m alive. You have nothing to do with that.”

  The size of a mule and more stubborn . . . She owed him everything for saving her life and honor. But the man at his feet had already suffered and been stripped of his dignity. By the light of the moon and stars she could see the large wet stain on the front of his breeches after he sat up.

  Drawing a deep breath, she said, “Go ahead. And after you kill him, you better execute me, too. I’m as much a threat as he is.”

  Cursed witch. Things were much easier in Norway. Without giving it another thought, Tyr lowered his weapon, then grabbed a fistful of his captive’s hair. He’d give in to her dimwitted request to pacify her, but not without satisfying his own need for revenge. “Horse. Food,” he demanded.

  “I’d rather die than betray my country—” the criminal started.

  Tyr thumped his head. He sank down, shaking and whining.

  Sick with rage, Tyr stared at Rachelle. “This situation is ripe for trouble.” His only concern should be for his own survival.

  She addressed her countryman. “If you refuse him, he’ll cut your heart out.”

  For a noblewoman, she had a way with words. Tyr nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of what came out of her mouth. He’d learned something important about her, though. Either she’d experienced more violence than any woman should or she was as frigid as an ice shelf. Regardless, her warning changed the Saxon’s mind.

  The man pointed at his camp. “There are horses and food over there.”

  With a twist of an earlobe, Tyr forced him to his feet. He harbored a special hatred for rapists. If he couldn’t disembowel the bastard, he’d find another way to make him suffer. It didn’t take long. A grin spread across Tyr’s face as he framed the man’s punishment in his mind. He would tie a noose around his neck, loop the rope over a high branch, and make him sit astride a horse with his hands tied behind his back. If the drukkin moved, he’d hang himself.

  All three started up the footpath leading to the far side of the lake. After eating his fill, he’d saddle a horse and ride like thunder. Nothing would stop him from reaching his ship.

  Chapter 3

  Confusion

  In the end, the fool threw a tantrum after Tyr tied his hands behind his back. Rachelle wanted to vomit after Tyr punched him silent. Riding sidesaddle in front of the Norseman now, she glanced over her shoulder to catch a last glimpse of her countryman. Tyr smiled wolfishly down at her and she cursed him. The shrewd bastard found a way to sidestep her demand not to commit murder again. No one would hear the man screaming for help. The closest farm must be miles away. Furious, she refused to speak. One thing she didn’t regret though—the death of that greasy man that nearly succeeded in violating her. The others should have been spared the Viking’s wrath.

  The way he leered at her made her uncomfortable. His expressions were ridiculously juvenile, almost obscene. And she could barely hide her own strange fascination. Anyone with a soul couldn’t kill so mindlessly or move that adroitly. After riding a short distance in silence, she gave in. Words of gratitude were long overdue. “Thank you.” Her voice was ice. “Needless deaths benefit no one.”

  The large hand resting on her right hip patted her. Was this his way of acknowledging her obligatory appreciation or her disapproval? They’d been unfairly flung together and it felt incredibly dreamlike being anywhere with him. Sitting stiffly in the saddle, she still wondered why he’d rescued her. Those animals . . . she bowed her head, realizing just how close she’d come to the afterlife. Good God. She could’ve died. She shivered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  She shook her head, her gaze hardened. Deep inside, she wanted to soften against him—banish the anger she felt and let him console her for what little time they had left together. Whatever she chose, he’d question her. This man was a warmongering Cretan—a bloodthirsty murderer with no scruples. Normal men are judged by their hearts. Not this one. The way he manipulated a weapon, as if it were an extension of his own body, made him seem unreal. She pursed her lips discontentedly. He made violence a spectacular thing to behold, whether you wanted to watch or not. Admittedly, she stared with sickened obsession. The same way she gawked at traveling entertainers who visited her village every summer.

  Christ’s words echoed in her head. Judge not. Bloody hell, he had spared her life.

  The horse stopped unexpectedly and she peeked at Tyr. Unable to read his expression, she waited for him to say something. He slid from the saddle, then helped her down.

  Standing in front of him, she could see something deeply troubled him.

  “I have a duty to my men,” he started.

  “Is duty really the inspiration for this conversation?” She already knew the answer.

  “I’m foresworn to sacrifice my life under any conditions to protect them. Odin take my soul, I’ve stayed here too long. Lust blinded me. And my brother’s death tortures me with every breath. Nothing good can come from our meeting. Do you understand? We’re adversaries and must part ways here.”

  His words tormented her almost as completely as his lips. “Why?”

  “Didn’t you listen to anything, woman? We’ve passed a dozen farms. I’ll drop you near one. You’ll be out of harm’s way.”

  Caution told her to go. Accept his offer and part peaceably. He’d been different from the beginning—nothing more than a dream. Refusing to let this opportunity pass, she stepped close enough to caress his cheek. “I’m sorry . . .” For finding you, she finished silently.

  The muscles around his mouth went tight. Realizing her touch unwelcome, she clenched her hands together. “Do whatever you want. I’m too exhausted to fight.” Everything was in God’s hands now. She swallowed the huge lump in her throat.

  “Rachelle.”

  His rough voice was as gratifying as honey on her tongue.

  “You should have fled.”

  Laws of nature separated predator from prey. So why did he defy those rules by protecting her? She averted her eyes and sucked in a timorous breath. Helpless as always, she silently prayed for him to vanish.

  He didn’t.

  In fact, he made his physical presence quite known by claiming her hand. His thumb massaged the soft flesh between her index finger and thumb. She shut her eyes. First contact made her dizzy. In the span of only one night, she had experienced so many emotions, despised him, pitied him, and now, wanted him. Holy Mother of Christ . . . why was she doing this to herself? Wretched sinner.

  “Look at me.”

  Rachelle preferred to keep some pretense of control. Although it would only deepen the misery in her mind, she opened her eyes. Bright-as-day moonlight reflected in his green eyes.

  Their lips met after he tilted her chin upward. Her lips naturally parted under the influence of his soft, persuasive kisses. He took full advantage and gently sucked on her tongue. It lit the very depths of her soul. She responded by moving her tongue with his. He groaned. The sound both frightened and hypnotized her. She rested her hands on his strong arms. Then something happened—he transformed into the barbarian she imagined him to be. Tyr clamped onto her hips and slammed his body against hers. The force of the collision made her squeak.

  With his body as rigid as an oak tree, his hands invaded her bodice.

  She tried to back away.

  “No,” he growled.

  She succumbed to his relentless touch. And truth be told, shamelessly welcomed it. Something incredible uncoiled inside her belly. Liquid heat spread from her toes to the tips of her aching breasts. She threaded her fingers through his long hair, not wanting him to stop. This time she tugged him cl
oser. Her selfish appetite surprised her. With his powerful arms enshrouding her like a cloak, she felt infinitely bolder. When he began savagely groping, a warning sounded inside her head. Her tiny scream stopped him.

  “I’m not a gentle man,” he mumbled against her lips.

  He covered her right hand with his, guiding it between his legs.

  She instinctively cupped his groin.

  “I crave more than virginal kisses.”

  The rock hard lump convinced her of it. Shocked and ashamed, she yanked her hand away. She shook it out as if his manhood had branded her and scowled at his raucous laughter.

  “What did you think you’d find down there?”

  His sarcasm broke the spell. She must be beyond the grace of God for ever letting this man near her. She’d been made a fool of, by her own lapse in judgment. Giving into such shameful desires showed how stupid she was. She couldn’t trust herself anymore.

  Daylight loomed and she whispered a word of gratitude for it.

  “Damn my misfortune.” Without another word, he swept her off her feet.

  He carried her to the horse, then pushed her onto the saddle. He mounted behind her. Some things were blessings in disguise. What would have happened if they’d continued exploring each other? Could she have denied him anything? She didn’t want to find out. Tyr jammed his heels into the horse’s flanks. Frustration pumped out of him like smoke.

  Their ensuing mad dash across the moors confirmed so much. Tyr had a restless, untamed spirit. Few men wandered this wilderness at night. Ancient legends as revered as biblical parables told of evil spirits roaming the dells. And as resilient as she was to such superstitious drivel, right now, her weary mind nearly convinced her there were indeed strange creatures lurking in the shadows as they galloped by. Finding comfort against Tyr’s broad chest, she managed a weak smile when she felt raindrops falling again. The wind bowed the scraggly trees as he rode harder and faster.

  Another silent hour passed, and more important things disrupted her half sleep. His crotch kept brushing against her backside. She wiggled left, then right, to avoid being poked again. Her cheeks heated. Struggling to keep her mind on something else, she couldn’t help remembering how it had felt to touch him there.

  Tyr’s entire body burned with insuppressible lust. Another feathery brush of her fingertips would set him on fire. She felt something, too. Her eyes couldn’t lie. Whatever made this tiny girl seek comfort in his arms he couldn’t guess, and didn’t want to. Maybe he should have asked. Regardless, it was impossible to share more. As innocent as she appeared, the girl needed to know what consequences followed heavy caressing and kissing. For this reason, he had acted abominably. Although Rachelle nestled neatly under his chin, he resisted his animal urges.

  The constant threat of getting stranded in England cooled his desire. He shared his thoughts so she’d understand. “Everything in my future depends on how quickly I get home. Other men survived this war. Whatever their fates, I need to get back to the Trondelag to prepare my household for the aftermath. Norway will never be the same again.”

  “You should have considered that before you attacked. My life will never be the same either. Where shall I go?”

  Did the girl have anything encouraging to say? Need she constantly remind him of his failures? Her suffering? Memories of the campaigns he’d fought in over the last few weeks played out in his mind. After King Hardrada beleaguered Scarborough and defeated Morcar’s army at Gate Fulford, the king wasn’t satisfied. Obsessed with taking York, he marched deeper into England. The city surrendered to avoid further bloodshed. Never give a warmonger his spoils for free. The thrill of easy victory caused most of the army to abandon providence. Tyr advised them to offer sacrifices to appease the gods—to stay vigilant—a man’s time on earth is as fleeting as a shadow. His warning went unheard.

  Tyr’s stomach clenched. Days after occupying York, a great dust cloud had rolled across the plain. Norse sentries sounded the alarm after they’d identified the English king’s Dragon of Wessex and Fighting Man banners. The Norse army hadn’t been prepared. Years of war against Denmark had taught Tyr to heed the lessons of the past. Victory made men slothful.

  Soaked with blood and weary to the core, he’d known the battle was over once they lost Stamford Bridge.

  That’s when he chose life over death.

  Rachelle’s appearance on the battlefield changed everything. It altered his escape plan. Heaving a sigh, he scanned the predawn sky. Only a couple of hours left until sunrise, enough time to offer the girl what tenderness he could.

  Reining to a halt, he dismounted. Rachelle joined him. He’d make no excuses this time. He wanted a last chance to hold her in his arms before they separated. Without giving her a chance to protest, he embraced her. Soft hands wandered up his arms. He gritted his teeth. More than simple attraction existed between them. Blast his weaknesses. Better to jump off the highest mountain than thirst for a Saxon. This woman—angel—temptress—blasted inconvenience—had wormed her way into his mind. He refused to deny himself a moment of real affection and decided to send her away with a lasting impression.

  He held her at arm’s length so he could stare into her eyes. “Not all Vikings wish to conquer England. This snake pit is more trouble than it’s worth. My ancestors stripped most of this nation’s wealth a century ago. I don’t know why our princes come back expecting to find something different.”

  She wiped her hands on her skirts, her face grim. “That’s the most arrogant thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.” She had some fight left in her. “England’s soldiers aren’t the ones rotting in the fields right now, are they?”

  Anger appeared to swell inside her, slowly bubbling to the surface. He wanted to capture her rage, to taste and control it. A wasted fantasy of course, she would serve as nothing but a bitter reminder of this war and his brother’s death. “We’re both victims of circumstance.”

  “Nay,” she hissed, flatly rejecting his sentiment. “You’re the furthest thing from a victim I can think of.”

  “Are you a martyr, Rachelle Fiennes?” She inched away. Had he struck a chord?

  “I’m a foundling with no fortune. And I’m sure my uncle perished in your unsanctioned attack.”

  Understanding slowly dawned. Tyr would have never thought her an orphan. Sadly, this girl had lived through her own version of Hel. She’d been searching for her uncle. He thought carefully before speaking again. “I never intended to return to your country.”

  She frowned. “Why did you come?”

  “My sovereign issued a requisition for men and ships.”

  Silence followed, but she seemed resigned to accept that answer. “Why were you wearing armor whilst your compatriots were in a state of undress?” she asked.

  The same questions she’d targeted him with before. Only this time, he’d answer. “Accursed fools,” he muttered. The magnitude of this defeat would haunt him forever. “Poor leadership is to blame. No one conceived that your king would march north to oppose us when the Normans were threatening to attack at the same time. My compatriots refused to remain watchful . . . and died for it.”

  “But not you.”

  “No, not me,” he confirmed, sadly.

  Having only recently returned to Norway from a diplomatic mission in Denmark, Tyr knew his willingness to join Hardrada’s fleet sufficiently demonstrated his loyalty. He had no reason to feel blameworthy. He steered his thoughts away from the anguish, he’d mourn his brethren later, in the privacy of his home or at Odin’s altar where the gods would comfort him. For now, he focused exclusively on her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He looked in her direction. “Surely a woman from your background knows the dangers of wandering alone at night. Why did you risk coming to me?”

  Rachelle traced a line in the dirt with the tip of her shoe. A line he wanted to cross. He had a strong suspicion of what attracted her—his virility. Hearing a compliment from her lips would ma
ke the best parting gift.

  “I’m bound by spiritual mandates to render aid to anyone in need.”

  A charitable spirit? That’s her claim? Countless women described him as beautiful, especially the dark-eyed beauties in Baghdad and Miklagard. Was he losing his spark? “Nothing else lured you?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Curiosity?” he repeated unbelieving. Better not to fish for answers if he wished to keep his pride intact.

  “Don’t be insulted.”

  He chuckled as if a joke had been made. “Insulted? Never,” he denied artfully. “Only amused your faith condones violence and then demands you nurse your enemies back to health. No wonder this country is plagued by revolution.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  Through talking, he’d demonstrate his prowess in a way that never failed. “Kiss me again.”

  Rachelle bit her lower lip nervously. “I never willingly kissed you. You stole them.”

  If Tyr was going to act the scoundrel, why keep talking? Only an unscrupulous man would continue to pursue a woman the day after his brother died. In a few more hours, he’d be gone. Why keep kissing him, it only complicated things. More important issues occupied her thoughts. If anyone caught them together, would they question her devotion to England? Accuse her of high crimes? Was it an unforgivable sin to sympathize with a pagan, maybe even treason?

  Gazing at him, she was certain she couldn’t avoid another intimate exchange. Something in his gaze assured it. She scrunched her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, then tilted her head. Her legs trembled with anticipation. The thought of tasting those lips again made her core temperature rise. He rumbled with laughter. What’s so blasted funny? She opened one eye, thoroughly annoyed.

  “Who taught you how to kiss, a man or salmon?”

  “You did.”

  He’d give anything to hold her naked body in his arms, while kissing that perfectly shaped rosebud mouth. If only he had met her at another time, in a different setting more hospitable for seduction. Was there anything more pleasurable than tasting a maiden freshly plucked from the vine? Any rogue could kiss. He intended to do much more. Gazing possessively at her, he admired every inch of her body. Imagining the soft mounds of flesh underneath her bodice and the liquid heat between her legs eroded his restraint. Oh sweetling . . . She shuddered. How would she respond to another touch? He couldn’t leave it to his imagination; he swept forward and captured her in his arms. He dipped her low, panting heavily on her neck. Tension flared between them again. She offered her milky throat and he nibbled his way from her left ear to the right. Even the taste of her salty skin boiled his blood.