Chapter Four
Condemnation
After lifting Rachelle into the arms of his man on deck, Tyr hoisted himself onboard. She swayed on her feet and leaned against the wood rail for support.
“The Jarl has returned,” the crew cheered.
She couldn’t blame Tyr for rejoicing in this warm reunion, yet her brows drew together with concern. Soon enough his crew would hear about the tragedies heaped on their nation by the English. Not wishing to draw more attention, she slid further down deck, away from the assembly.
Tyr unbuckled his weapon belt. It fell at his feet with a dull, wet thud.
Next, he stripped off his boots and breeches without regard to her presence.
Embarrassed to look, she turned her head.
Having seen the drunk that nearly raped her, she sincerely believed it may have ruined any chance of being intrigued by another man’s form.
However, temptation still prickled at her core.
After all, Tyr was no ordinary man. Giving in to curiosity, she peeked.
Her gaze raked over his powerful chest and arms, then dropped slowly to his narrow hips.
She licked her lips, nearly breathless. Her gaze dropped lower, stopping on the mass of soft blond curls that crowned his manhood.
Astonished by his flawless physique, her gaze flitted nervously to the guards, the benches where the oarsmen sat, then to the water.
Struggle against her maidenly curiosity was clearly fruitless.
She stared at him again—above the waist.
With Tyr facing her direction, she easily spotted the thick black vertical lines that started below each armpit and ran the length of his torso.
Silvery barbs and knots were interlinked on the lines.
His tattoos ended just above his navel, converging at the top of a war axe that spanned the width of his stomach.
For the love of God, his body resembled a life-sized mural.
Scarred and deeply bronzed and perfect. Such immodesty she had never witnessed in a man.
She felt the heat of a flush on her cheeks.
Apparently not all the legends she’d heard as a little girl were based on lies. These barbarians were larger than life.
Tyr gave an exaggerated stretch, accentuating the rippling muscles that formed his perfect body.
She rolled her eyes. Pulling the length of her wet hair over her left shoulder, she squeezed the excess water from it.
Did he enjoy making a spectacle of himself?
He looked as proud as a male peacock preening his feathers.
Is this what men did around each other? Strut naked …
Barely able to jump out of the way before a boy scampered by with a pile of clothes in his hands, Rachelle watched where he went.
He halted beside Tyr, who winked lewdly as he shook out a pair of leather breeches.
Surmising her own condition, her plain linen gown irreparable, she hoped the jarl would provide dry clothes.
She scratched her arms. Salt water made her skin itchy.
With his mischievous gaze still fixed on her, she wondered what he would do if she shed her gown.
A dose of his own medicine would make him pay attention.
She began to unlace her bodice. Somewhere between the beach and this deck, she had lost a shoe and her silver bracelet.
Irritated, she kicked her lone boot off.
Before she loosened her dress completely, Tyr stalked over. “What are you doing?”
“I thought if I stripped, another boy might appear with something warm for me to put on.” Her heart gave a terrible jolt at the audacity of her sarcasm.
“That’s absurd.”
“Why?” she asked. “While you’re busy enjoying yourself, I’m freezing my—”
“Straighten your bloody dress.”
The crew began to amass around them. Rachelle needed to vent some of her frustration. “Put on a shirt!”
He huffed, looking down at her feet. “Where are your blasted shoes?”
“One is at the bottom of the ocean.” She wiggled her toes.
“If you hadn’t kicked me in the shins when we were swimming—”
“If you hadn’t squeezed so hard—”
Reaching an impasse, the disagreement stopped abruptly.
Of course she had never intended on fully disrobing.
She hurriedly laced her dress. His reaction told her he cared.
She breathed a sigh of relief in that knowledge.
Few things had frightened her more than standing on the deck of a Viking longship surrounded by a crew of bearded heathens in the aftermath of a war that had decimated their army.
Judging by their mirth, they didn’t know the truth yet.
What would happen after they found out? How would they feel about having a Saxon on their vessel? She ground her teeth with fear.
With the drama over, the crew turned their attention elsewhere, bombarding Tyr with questions.
He immediately silenced them with an unmistakably pained expression.
Rachelle sensed the rage that simmered below the surface—she’d felt it before.
A rumble of disappointment sounded, but she noted how quickly his men snapped their mouths shut after Tyr cast a stern look.
The Viking obviously expected complete obedience and they obliged him.
Still anchored in the inlet surrounded by rugged gray cliffs, it was no wonder why they hadn’t been discovered.
Tyr had chosen his hiding spot well. Looking about, she admired the craftsmanship of his vessel.
The mast looked freshly polished. The hull was long and narrow and deep.
The figurehead at the bow was a raven’s head and it boasted a curved tail at the stern.
She recognized the design on the square sail.
A strange hammer adorned the embroidered raven’s neck, the same one tattooed on Tyr’s abdomen.
Such graven images were strictly forbidden by her holy book.
“Lower the oars. A fine wind’s blowing and I’ll be damned if we’ll spend another day here,” Tyr commanded.
The men sprang into action.
Forgetting her physical discomfort, an urgent realization dominated her thoughts. I’m standing on the deck of a longship bound for Norway. If she went with him, she’d never be reunited with Uncle Henry. Why did her mind keep playing tricks? Why couldn’t she keep track of a single thought?
If she was going to escape now, she needed to jump before they reached deeper water.
Spotting a narrow strip of beach where she could hide, she inched closer to the railing.
What would happen if she couldn’t swim that far?
And if her uncle was looking for her and she drowned?
All consideration stopped, as someone lifted her from behind.
“What’s going on inside that head of yours?” Tyr queried.
She preferred to keep her thoughts to herself. Looking over her shoulder she said, “Put me down.”
He did.
“Forget about leaping.” He grabbed her by the arms and gave her a firm shake.
How could he read her thoughts? Why did he ignore the fact that her teeth were chattering and she looked like a wet rat?
Busy with their duties, the crew paid her no attention.
Weren’t they interested, even in the slightest, to know what a female was doing on their ship?
Embarrassed and a bit enraged by his neglect, she raised her hand.
Tyr snatched her by the wrist. “You’d strike me in front of my men?” He showed no change in expression.
Even she didn’t know if that’s what she really intended to do. Thoughts whipped through her mind like the wind. She cleared her throat. Did she need to spell it out for him? “You took advantage of me by bringing me onto this ship.”
He crossed his arms over his sculpted chest. “If that’s your honest assessment, I must disagree. I question who took advantage of whom.”
Shrill whistles sounded from behind. Maybe Tyr’s men were covertly watching after all.
Rachelle twisted around and glared at the handful of sailors who stood within earshot.
She’d be damned if she was going to provide more entertainment for these cretins.
Biting her tongue, she flung her hands on her hips. “Who would believe that?”
“One look at you and my men would fully understand the challenges I faced.”
Laughter and humiliation were her newest companions. Ones she refused to live with. She gestured at the water. “I’ll jump.”
Anger flashed across his face. “If I can’t trust you to stay onboard, I’ll tie you to one of those benches.” He pointed to an empty space between two rowers.
Both men stood, revealing large symmetrical bodies. One patted the crudely made pew with his hand. His salacious grin made her insides squirm. Pouting, she pivoted on shaky legs. Empty threats hadn’t inspired Tyr to be kinder or forced him to be honest with her. Why was she here?
Turning back, she stared at him unflinching.
Nothing about this arrangement made any sense.
She’d escorted him to the beach and watched him swim.
What had brought him back? She intended to find out.
For now, fearing he’d follow through with his threat to strap her down, she decided to apologize.
Uncle Henry often advised her to pick her battles wisely.
“I’ll do whatever you ask,” she said.
For now.
“Good.” He latched onto her arm. “Your lovely backside would have gone numb sitting beside Wulfgar and Onetooth for a solid week.”
All the same, he dragged her to the designated seat. Prepared to find Onetooth’s mouth in a terrible state when he smiled, she unexpectedly discovered a perfect set of teeth. Much to her surprise, he was missing his left eye instead. She gasped.
Humored, the mature Viking said in English, “My nickname has the same effect on women everywhere.”
“I see—” She covered her mouth, ashamed she made any reference to seeing anything.
Onetooth chuckled. “Laugh at my expense.” He scooted over to make room for her. “Sit. I kept it warm for you.”
Unsure about his easy acceptance, she still plopped down next to him.