The glower on Aaron’s face depleted Tyr’s patience. “Get out, or I’ll be forced to whip you for challenging my authority.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“Sleep with the beasts.”
Aaron was getting what he deserved. He played the martyr. Although born and raised in Scotland, his cousin knew the ways of the Norse better than his own heritage. Accountability set men apart from beasts. That’s why Aaron’s father begged Tyr to foster his eldest son. And until his kinsman learned to accept his bitter portion in life and strived to change his future, Tyr had little use for him. He tolerated his cousin out of loyalty for his uncle and nothing more.
“You want me to sleep in the stable?”
“I want you to learn to be a man,” Tyr said.
Aaron shrugged unrepentantly. “I’ve done nothing to deserve this kind of treatment.”
“You’ve committed no crime,” Tyr countered. “If we measure the depth of everything you’ve done to create discord in my home over the last five years, we’d be standing neck deep in shite. A few nights in a rann might wake you up. Now go before I impose a more severe punishment.”
Aaron stared in disbelief. Tyr would no longer tolerate his cousin’s delusions. Chains-of-command didn’t only exist in the military. “You’ll see more clearly in the morning.”
Tyr turned on his heels; Rachelle needed him now.
Exhausted, Rachelle’s heart sank deeper and deeper into disillusionment. She’d been naïve to mistake Tyr as the answer to her childhood prayer. She suddenly realized just how helpless she truly was. The fact she ever considered him a godsend angered her. It showed poor judgment. So did her deplorable actions on that beach in England. She shivered in revulsion. No more tears. Lacking the strength to weep anymore, the empty place inside her chest ached enough to make up for it. She curled into a ball on the bed.
She was almost to sleep when the door creaked. Hadn’t she secured it? Refusing to move, she tucked her head further underneath her arms. Maybe the intruder would go away. Loud footsteps echoed, the kind made by a heavy-footed man. Onetooth? The only male she’d ever trust again on this side of the North Sea.
The mattress sank under the weight of whoever sat down beside her. The male presence took a deep breath and her body went rigid. Not a word, she advised herself, she’d fight to remain silent. Suddenly, a heavy hand rested on her head and she knew who it was. Onetooth wouldn’t touch her that way.
Tyr muttered words she couldn’t understand. The mixed scent of smoke and ale filled her head. He’d overindulged in spirits and food on purpose tonight; all part of his guise to snare Edwin. The Viking had proven nothing to her. Despite his efforts, Rachelle still didn’t know which man’s transgressions were more of an affront.
Her insides ached, her heart as heavy as a boulder. Why didn’t he say something? Uninvited fingers trailed down her back. Contact with Tyr always made her weak. Whether she hated him or not, those fingertips invoked powerful reactions. Against her will, she sighed—pleasurably. Then he caressed the sore flesh around her spine. Slowly, her body uncurled, granting him access.
Damn him. In order to avoid the danger of another intimate episode, she sat up straight. She looked him in the eyes and clenched her hands. What did he want? Why couldn’t Tyr Sigurdsson leave her alone?
Aaron’s glance swept the hall. After heading outside and standing in front of the stable for a long time, he’d refused to enter. The outbuilding reeked of piss. His cousin’s infatuation with the Saxon bitch was the true cause for his misfortune and Prince Edwin’s. Deep in thought, he jumped when a big hand clamped onto his shoulder.
Aaron swung around.
“Tyr’s gone.” Onetooth’s crooked smile wasn’t meant to be friendly. “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be—?”
“That’s not for you to decide. Unless ye mean to exercise authority over me, I suggest you let go.”
Onetooth spread his hands and grinned wider.
Aaron didn’t fear the henchman. A renowned fighter, Aaron could wield a sword as deftly as anyone.
The captain let go.
“Send a thrall to fetch my cousin.”
Obviously amused, the captain’s bushy eyebrows rose. “It’s rather crowded in the stable isn’t it?”
“I care little for your conversation. Do as I command.”
Moving deliberately slow, Onetooth retreated a few steps, then rattled his sword. “Titles hold little value in this hall. Do you care to prove your headship?”
Aaron admired his opponent with a grin. He possessed the broadest set of shoulders he’d ever seen. The challenge was tempting. Felling his cousin’s champion like a great tree would win much respect. For now he needed to forget righting this wrong—it wasn’t the time for violence. Not yet.
Unable to bear the idea of giving in, Aaron sighed loudly. “Another day,” he said, and headed outside again.
The idea of bedding down on shite-stained hay was detestable; Aaron kicked the stable doors open. This disgrace deserved retaliation. The idea of usurping power from his cousin often dominated his thoughts. It did so now—relentlessly. What he’d give to command his army and bed his whores. Aaron would show less concern for his inferiors and establish himself as a true leader. His lips tightened into a hard line. I am a laird by birthright . . .
A night wind howled, chilling him to the core. Pulling his tartan around his shoulders, he cursed the gaps between the wallboards, which let the cold air in. The flame in the lantern hanging on the far wall flickered. In the shadowy light, he searched the floor for a clean spot to sit down.
Sheep and goats were kept in stalls that lined both sides of the space. Vermin crawling over or biting him in his sleep made his stomach lurch. Drunk and tired, he shouldn’t care where he laid his head for the night. But after tossing and turning for over an hour, an idea came. The loft might be warmer. He grabbed the lantern, then climbed the ladder. He paused on the top rung and raised the light so he could see. It was cleaner. As he stepped up, he heard a faint sob. Setting the lantern down on a wood beam, he searched the garret. A figure wrapped in thick blankets lay on the floor, a crown of blond hair peeked over the wool.
As he moved closer, the woman’s profile became clearer. What man could forget such curves? Frida must have sensed his presence because she shifted and pulled the covers down. He rather enjoyed the unobstructed view of her well-formed calves. Able to see her tear-stained cheeks, he shook his head. Was she another victim of Tyr’s gall? Rage against his cousin simmered in his chest. Female companionship of any kind would suffice on this accursed night. Neither said anything as he halted to devour her with his gaze. Primitive passion sparked inside him. He’d been made to sleep with the animals, why shouldn’t he act like one? Would it be considered a sin to comfort a grieving woman?
He stripped off his boots and tartan, then hung his weapon belt on a hook on the nearest wall.
She didn’t object when he slipped under the blankets and spooned her. She scooted back until her arse met his crotch. Frida sighed. He liked the feel of her soft skin rubbing against him. Comfort comes in many forms. There was nothing selfish or intrusive about his behavior. Gritting his teeth, he groaned as she gyrated against his thigh. The idea of leaving his seed inside a woman Tyr bedded regularly invigorated him. He worked his hand between her thighs, then fingered her wet slit. He stifled a wild growl as he pierced her in one angry thrust. He bit her neck and felt the jolt of excitement travel through her body. Inflicting pain excited him. It reminded women of their inherent place—beneath him.
Painful silence deafened Tyr’s ears as he eyed Rachelle. Sadly, he didn’t completely trust her. He couldn’t. Not after she’d attempted to take her own life. The possibility of her harming herself again was very real. Something inside her had changed already. The spark in her eyes was gone, replaced by a vacant stare.
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” he asked.
She covered her face wi
th her hands, made a strangled sound, then stared at the ceiling.
Surely, this girl hadn’t been completely undone by the devastating news Edwin had so callously shared. Anger and fear were acceptable emotions to feel, but broken? Never. Not this spirited wench. Not his Rachelle. Tyr recognized the qualities that made someone resilient. The Norse had perfected it. If you get knocked down, stand up quickly.
“There’s no reason to believe your uncle was targeted by the Normans. On the contrary, your family bears a Norman name.” He meant to ease her mind, if only a little. On any other night, he’d welcome blessed silence. Speak woman.
“I’ll believe whatever you wish, milord.”
He smiled inwardly. Now she played the submissive. Stubbornness creased the pretty spot between her finely shaped eyebrows. A tiny spark remained after all.
“From this day forward, I won’t shield you from the hard truth. I’m sorry that bastard made such a shocking announcement. I would never—”
“Yes, you would,” her voice rang sharply. “You withheld the truth. I admit there’s no excuse for Prince Edwin’s behavior. Both of you have proven just how far you’ll go to get what you want.”
A log fell in the fireplace and Rachelle startled.
Beyond weary, Tyr exhaled. Irritation raked his spine. At times, women didn’t make any sense. His heart-felt apology should be accepted, but remembering how he’d felt after he found his twin dead made him more accepting of her sadness and confusion. Reason had fled his mind that night on the battlefield near York. She must feel the same. Maybe she suffered more because she didn’t know her uncle’s fate.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I cannot deny it. I’m the sort of man who’d go to any lengths to protect what I consider my own. It's what my father taught me.”
She stared. Damn those cold, steely-blue eyes.
“Truth is finally revealed,” she cracked. “We both know why you kidnapped me. Money. And then you have the audacity to propose to me. Edwin did nothing so underhanded. You are unusually cruel, even for a Norseman.”
He didn’t want to hear her judgment. “Goddamnit, woman.” He gritted his teeth. “Can you not recognize when a man is trying to make atonement?”
“A pathetic attempt, if I ever heard one.”
That’s where he drew the line; he’d protect his honor, even if he was wrong. How could she judge him so carelessly? She didn’t know the truth, because she refused to believe a word he said.
He lifted her by the shoulders, then gave her a small shake. “You’re not an idiot. Stop acting like one for the sake of spurning me. What will you have me do to prove myself?”
“Send me home.”
Her welfare was his primary concern. He shook his head. Reports from England were grave. The Normans had ransacked and burned dozens of cities, enslaved families, and executed rebels without trials. That was only the beginning of the atrocities. “You request the only thing I cannot give. Conditions in England are deteriorating by the hour. Would you risk your life by returning?”
Visibly rattled by his reply, she folded her arms across her chest and turned away.
“I pledge to share any information I receive concerning your home if it eases your pain. Although I don’t understand how it would. Some things are better left unsaid. My spies are searching for your uncle in northern England as we speak. If he’s alive, they’ll find him. For now, be strong.”
“Strong?” She twisted around. “Haven’t I been? I’ve endured much since I first met you. Imprisonment, seduction, murder . . .”
Sympathy hadn’t softened her. Brutality wouldn’t help. Yet, the more defiant she grew, the more aroused he became. Those soft lips weren’t meant for spewing insults. Infinite passion thrived inside her. He felt it and wanted it for himself—but only at her invitation.
Perhaps a blast of arctic air would clear his head and tame his groin. “Do you want to go outside?”
Glancing up, she asked, “Now?”
“Aye.”
She gave him a brief, half smile. Praise the gods for helping him think of something to break through her icy exterior.
Chapter 12
A Rare Gift
Rachelle followed Tyr through the woods. He outpaced her and she breathed in mouthfuls of frigid air while trying to catch up with him. The deep silence reminded her of the night she’d spent in the English moors with him. Mist spiraled off the snow. Uneasiness settled into her bones. If the moors were haunted, vile spirits must occupy this dark place. As long as she stayed close, nothing could harm her.
They entered a large clearing. She stared in amazement at the bright light surrounding them. Although moonlight reflected off the snow, it seemed as if a thousand candles were lit. Ancient trees rimmed the field. A large stone in the center drew her attention. Two men were adding logs to a bonfire. She looked questioningly at Tyr.
He pointed to a tree.
She squinted at what he wanted her to see; she gulped in disbelief. The most sacred Christian symbol, a cross, was suspended on the tree. What game did he play now? Pagans despised Christ. She’d learned that quickly here and witnessed firsthand the level of hostility Tyr possessed toward her religion. Tension flared as she met his steady gaze. “Your harsh words hurt and frightened me earlier,” she said.
“I owe you an apology. Forgive my foul temper.”
She was relieved to hear it. Was his immediate goal to make amends for his atrocious behavior? She remained confused. Above all, she had overheard the repeated violent threats he made against his baptized cousin and Prince Edwin.
Her heart pounded. “I don’t understand the motivation behind this gesture.” Did this represent a willingness to accept her faith? His immense hatred made that hard to believe. “Is this a peace offering?”
“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 vuln
erable, 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?
Blind Mercy Page 12