Chapter Eleven
Confessions
Rachelle set the bolt on her bedchamber door, then collapsed against it.
How quickly feelings changed. The pain churning inside her belly burned and ached.
The man she had grown to admire over the last two days appeared to be as ignoble and thoughtless as everyone else.
Edwin’s version of cruelty served no purpose other than to imperil Tyr’s respectability with her.
She likened the two men to wolves fighting over the same bone.
With no news of Uncle Henry, and no knowledge of what arrangements Tyr had made in order to secure her release, the hope of ever getting home evaporated.
She suspected her captor never intended to let her go.
It didn’t matter anymore. Because her kinsman never refused a fight.
If he had survived Stamford Bridge, he’d likely marched south with the king.
The implications of King Harold’s death were grim. If the Normans occupied her homeland, she’d pray for a merciless and swift death for all Saxons. Those beasts of prey shared bloodlines with the Norse. What atrocities would they commit to achieve dominion?
She sniffled. The best she could hope for was his burial in consecrated ground. God had abandoned England. Banging her fists on the door, she prayed for mercy. Tears bled from her eyes. Her life was over.
At Tyr’s signal, his guards surrounded Edwin’s men near the main entrance of the hall. Stripped of their arms, they didn’t protest. Onetooth held his position nearby, still using his body as a barrier between Tyr and the prince.
“There will be consequences for this violence,” Edwin threatened.
Tyr grinned. “And what punishment will your half-brother Magnus mete out once he hears how you abused the power he vested you with? Using your birthright as a means to gain leverage against the legitimate princes of Norway is a crime. And if you’re threatening me with bloodletting, take your weapon and face me. ”
Still hunched over the table, the prince wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His color was improving. Straightening, he grabbed a pitcher of water off the table and gulped it down.
“As for your mistreatment of Lady Rachelle—”
“I’d never hurt her,” Edwin grumbled.
Perhaps the first truth this man had spoken since his arrival.
Tyr considered the severity of his situation.
He didn’t fear reprisal from Magnus. Edwin disturbed the peace in his home and shamed King Hardrada’s memory.
Beyond that, he emotionally terrorized a young woman under his protection.
Those offenses alone were worth a few broken bones.
However, if Tyr chose self-restraint and sent the bastard away unharmed, the indignity of having been force-fed horsemeat at the feast in front of a hundred guests would follow him wherever he went. That idea overwhelmingly pleased Tyr.
“The girl is no longer your concern.” He waved his hand dismissively.
As if Onetooth read his mind, the captain grabbed Edwin by the arm and hauled him away.
“How can ye treat a king’s son with such inconsideration? Make amends before it’s too late,” Aaron hissed.
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 na?ve 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.