Chapter One #2
With an appreciative nod, he squeezed her hand.
Shocked by the amount of blood seeping from his chest, she assessed his condition.
Hopeless. Without immediate treatment, he’d surely bleed to death and she didn’t possess the necessary skills to do more than offer comfort.
The English chirurgeon wouldn’t help him.
The only reason there was one on hand was because he traveled with the king.
Men usually died where they fell. Tight lipped, she hid her growing despair, bracing for the inevitable.
The last thing she wanted to see was another death.
Not now. Not ever, if it could be avoided.
After what seemed a long time, his eyes fluttered open and he stared up at her. She returned a weak smile. What else could she do? Pray him into heaven? Please …
Checking his pulse, she felt his spirit depart as he took one last gasping breath. She let go of his calloused hand. His death triggered bitter visions of her uncle’s own battle-worn body laying somewhere amongst this sea of corpses. It nearly claimed what little sanity she had left.
Cursing fate for leading these fiends across the North Sea, she didn’t know what to do next.
A distressing voice inside her head kept telling her to give up and go home.
But she couldn’t sit and wait for someone to bring word Henry had died honorably in action, making her an orphan for the second time in her life.
She longed for darkness to conceal the death fields.
Yet she realized with every passing moment the sun sank lower, she’d get trapped in the dark.
As if she didn’t have enough troubles to contend with, she couldn’t remember which direction to go. Kicking at the ground as she walked, she struck something solid. Surprised, she looked about. A cache of weapons and dozens of half-clad fallen bodies surrounded her on three sides.
By the saints, how many miles had she gone?
No Englishmen were lying on the ground here.
Her emotions reeled. She swallowed her dread, knowing the departed couldn’t harm her.
Yet, even in death, these savages were posed to strike.
Eyeing them reverently at first, she realized these massive and bloodied beasts were just as threatening as she’d ever imagined.
But why were they half naked? Only one reasonable explanation existed.
However, enough time hadn’t passed for grave pickers to strip them.
An unlikely explanation came to mind.
After the king’s messengers arrived in her village to recruit for reinforcements yesterday, they’d described in great detail how countless longships had landed along the east coast and invaded York without resistance.
What they reported next was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard.
According to the crown’s agents, the Vikings were so elated from their victory, they declared a holiday.
In the heat, they’d stripped to go swimming, then lounged on the west bank of River Derwent.
The king’s army had caught these reckless bastards unprepared.
Grateful they were dead, she turned. Too many distractions had veered her off course.
West. She should head west. Her gaze darted across the field.
Her body cringed the moment she identified a corpse in full regalia between two bare-chested warriors.
Chainmail ended above the most powerful set of thighs she’d ever seen.
A brightly colored gonfalon, embroidered with a raven clasping a laurel wreath in its beak, covered his breast. A polished helmet rested beside his left shoulder.
She couldn’t stop staring. There was something eerily unnatural about him.
Ash blond hair framed his lean face. It didn’t feel right.
And unless she was hallucinating, the corners of his full lips were curved upward.
Men don’t die with smiles on their faces.
Feeling desperate, she wished soldiers, or even the thieves who usually swarmed the fields to strip the vanquished of their earthly possessions, were here to keep her company.
She shimmied closer, then kneeled. Dust and grit and blood covered his body.
But there were no visible wounds. No reason for him to be dead.
Had she overlooked something? Maybe this monster died of something invisible to her inexperienced eyes.
A groan escaped her lips as she shyly fingered the handle of the bloodstained axe at his hip. Only a heathen would carry such a deplorable weapon. A shield painted to match the banner he wore was gripped tightly in his right hand. Why were his weapons sheathed if he was killed during battle?
Every nerve in her body hummed. Rachelle’s inquisitiveness rivaled any cat.
And why was she so fixated on this mongrel?
She hated every man, woman, and child in Scandinavia.
Devils. Imagining his eyes reflected brimstone and fire, she knew he could steal the soul of a God-fearing woman with one look.
Shaking her head, she crossed herself. Enough nonsense. But as she started to rise, she swore he took a breath.
Panic set in.
Were her eyes playing tricks on her in the failing daylight? A quick benediction would put her at ease. “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …”
She stopped when the words didn’t provide the comfort she’d expected.
Waves of guilt crashed over her. Christ commanded all to love their enemies.
Didn’t this stranger have a mother and father—wife or lovers—children and slaves?
They’d mourn him in the same way she grieved for her uncle. Even heretics deserved God’s grace.
Forgive my selfishness—
An immense hand shot up, grabbing a fistful of her gown. “Help!” She tried to pull away.
He effortlessly flipped her onto her back.
Rachelle thrashed and shrieked as he crawled on top of her.
Straddling her chest, he covered her face with one of his massive hands, then tilted her head back.
He held her down for what felt like eternity, shoved a wadded piece of cloth into her mouth, and let go.
It tasted filthy. He slid off her, then tried to roll her onto her stomach.
She bucked until he roared and latched onto her hair.
Then, she froze.
Would she be stupid for resisting or giving up? Either way, she’d forever feel guilty for admiring his face. Sage-green eyes bore into hers. They were beautiful, despite the rage distorting his features.
The best way to assure her survival was to roll over. So, she did. Then she heard a tear and he quickly bound her hands behind her back. Before she completed another rational thought, he turned her over again.
“Vaer stille,” he hissed, leaning close.
She planted her foot in his shoulder. Her paltry kick couldn’t put a dent in that body.
The sound of his feral laughter left her breathless.
Rising to his feet, he glared down at her with unmistakable malevolence.
She shivered, knowing that if she tried assaulting him again, he’d kill her.
But that wouldn’t keep her from trying to get free.
She manipulated her hands until her wrists burned against the binding.
She worked the gag loose with her tongue, then spit it out. “Don’t touch me again!”
“Det er bedre ting ? gj?re med de leppene. Kom her.” The vicious snarl that came out of that attractive mouth sounded as threatening as a wild beast’s.
Rachelle shoved backward with her feet as he launched like an arrow.
Any attempt to escape was futile. Latching onto her arms, he yanked her close, then covered her mouth with his.
He swallowed her scream, raking his teeth angrily across her bottom lip.
As his tongue forced its way into her mouth, she considered biting down.
This wasn’t a kiss borne of lust, but a demonstration of his complete domination.
He needed to see she wasn’t the kind of woman who gave up easily.
Finally, her hands broke free and she clubbed the side of his head.
He roared. Grabbing her by the wrists, he wrestled her down.
Wrath boiled on his face as he heaved a deep breath.
Afraid to die, she quickly turned away. But when he didn’t strike, she carefully looked back.
Angry eyes swept across her as violently as a winter gale.
His features tightened with his grip until she squealed in pain.
As if he’d gotten what he wanted, he grunted and shoved her aside.
Once standing, he ignored her presence. She leaned awkwardly on her elbows, she watched him trek a few feet, then stop. He rummaged around on the ground. After a few minutes, she wilted at the sound of his mournful cry. He scooped up a body, then cradled it in his arms.
Opportunity came at the most ill-chosen times.
Although she was too afraid to run away, if she could convince him to let her go, she’d swear to secrecy.
This far inland, she’d find the army before he reached the coast. And it wouldn’t take long for the Saxons to hunt him down.
She considered it a fair trade—her freedom for his.
He pointed at her. “Se hva dette ubrukelige krigen har gitt meg, er min bror d?d, en forgjeves offer for din Hvitekrist som bryr seg ingenting for nordmennene.”
She didn’t understand, but those words sounded abominable. He came closer, the body clutched tightly to his chest.
“Bror.”
She needed no interpreter for that word. “Brother?”
He nodded.
Sympathy disintegrated when she imagined her uncle in the same condition. This savage and his brother deserved to die for what they’d done. Unable to control the sudden surge of outrage, she blurted, “Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot!”
She wanted to despise him. But the longer she stared at his slain brother, the more impossible it became to stay angry. She didn’t possess a cruel cold heart, only a broken one. Compassion crippled her. If he had wanted to kill her, she’d be dead. That much she knew.
After what seemed an eternity, he laid the body out, then focused all his attention on her. He came to her unthreateningly, making her insides squirm. “What do you want?”
The Viking lifted her to her feet.