Chapter Three #2
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 make 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.
Rachelle’s lips parted with a sigh. He traced the outline of that delectable mouth with the tip of his tongue, dreaming of the ecstasy of first entry.
With a loud whimper, she locked her hands around his neck.
Something more permanent than lust slammed inside him.
By Odin’s eye, what was he doing? If he pursued this any further, he couldn’t be responsible for his own actions.
Wars weren’t strictly fought on battlefields. One raged below his waist right now.
Withdrawing slowly, he held her at arm’s length. “You nearly branded me the devil before.” His stomach lurched. “Woman, if I’m Satan’s offspring, you’re one of his prized jewels.”
She slapped his face. He deserved it, and let her go.
Damn the gods, there was more to him than animal lust. But there was no time to extend all the common courtesies he would have normally shown a virtuous girl.
He nearly begged the gods to transform her into the whore he craved to satiate his desire and the freedom to ride her until every ounce of strength bled out of him.
Deeply regretting his loss of control, he knew many women awaited his arrival at home. He’d find relief between their legs.
He shoved all feelings aside. “We’ve wasted precious time.”
She tucked a loose curl behind her right ear and nodded. Then she smoothed her dress as if nothing had happened, obviously afraid to look him in the eyes again.
An hour later, Tyr sucked in the brisk morning air as if it were his first breath outside his mother’s womb. It was considerably cooler on the coast. The mournful calls of the gulls made him smile inside. “We part ways here.”
There was no longer a need for pretenses.
He dismounted. No obstacles stood between him and freedom.
Staring eastward, he prayed to Odin. The sea made any Viking smile.
Odin’s Eye, his swiftest ship, was anchored in a cove a mile up shore.
Sadly, he had foreseen a possible defeat and left the vessel as a means of escape.
Rachelle slid off the horse, then walked to the edge of the water.
His gaze followed her. She looked out of place standing there alone, as if she were waiting for someone. Too much time with this wench might change his way of thinking. It was time to say goodbye. He strode a few feet. “Farewell fristerinne.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Is that what you call all the women you kiss?” She didn’t know what it meant, but the sound of it didn’t amuse her.
“No, you’re the first.”
Before she shot back, the sound of thundering hooves silenced him. Rotating on his heels, he eagle-eyed a red and gold banner flying above an English regiment. He swept Rachelle aside.
“Go,” he bellowed, stripping off his armor. He checked to see where she went. She stared at him dejectedly. He scanned her beautiful face one last time, then ran for the surf.
Rachelle’s mouth went dry as she watched the gray waves swallow Tyr.
The sting of his last kiss was still fresh on her lips.
With soldiers at his heels, what else could he do?
They’d torture and kill him. The very thought of his glorious body being slowly destroyed made her cry out.
She must purge her mind of any thoughts of him before the soldiers arrived.
Any evidence of guilt on her face would endanger her.
She shouldn’t be ashamed for choosing kindness over fealty.
Although she’d never spent time alone with a man, she knew she had exceeded the limits of her world by helping Tyr.
Their association ended here. At the edge of the sea that separated their lands and lives.
Some things were better left unexplored.
God must have further use of her in England.
She’d immerse herself in more charitable work.
Continue to study the healing arts or cooking.
Join a convent if that’s what it took to forget Tyr Sigurdsson.
She mentally scrambled to come up with a convincing story.
What would she tell the guards? Foolish, misguided thoughts always spurred Rachelle to do as she pleased without considering the consequences.
She didn’t fear Tyr. Childhood prayers were as binding as a blood oath.
Why shouldn’t she believe he was a blessing?
In eight long years, no one else had shown up.
English or otherwise. She’d survived any way she could; suppressed her sorrow, smiled when she wanted to frown, and laughed when she wanted to weep.
Everywhere she turned reminded her of her family.
Someone grabbed her from behind. Wheeling around, her breath caught in her throat when she met those wide green eyes.
“Did you really think I’d let you get away so easily?” Tyr asked.
Words disintegrated in her mouth. In a split second her future could be altered. Uncle Henry’s memory held fast inside her heart. Her allegiance to him could never be questioned.
“I have further need of your talents. Will you come with me?”
He looked as mythical as one of Poseidon’s sons crawling from the depths of the ocean. Without giving her time to answer, he swept her off her feet, then carried her to the water. “Can you swim?”
She nodded mutely.
“Hang on,” he warned, bracing for the first wave. “We only need to go a short distance. There’s a fishing boat hidden further up the beach.”