Blind Mercy (3 page)

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 heart, only a broken one. Compassion crippled her. If he had wanted to kill her, she’d be dead. That much she knew.

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.

Chapter 2

Choices

Tyr Sigurdsson leveled his gaze on the woman. The wench possessed a melodic voice and gentle demeanor. He tapped the hilt of his sword while considering what to do. Her sudden appearance meant something—it had to. And right now, he couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes. Odin had already abandoned his king. Harald Hardrada had acted impetuously for too long. After his household converted to Christianity, he’d opened himself up to the wrath of the gods. Tyr would be damned if he’d do the same.

Hardrada’s fatal decisions had changed the outcome of this war. Six months ago, after the king appropriated assets from the southern lords to finance this invasion, Tyr volunteered to supply ships and men against his better judgment. He took the same oath as all the northern
jarls
, swearing allegiance in trade for an extension of an old treaty shielding the Trondelag from Christian interference. It bought his territory some time. Nothing more.

Now, the deadweight of his failures would burden him for the rest of his life. His twin brother’s death—his punishment for participating in this unjustified attack. But what should he do with this little intruder? The longer he waited here, the greater his chances of being captured or killed. He had important matters to attend to before he could return to his ship. The last thing he needed was the added responsibility of a wayward wench. A Saxon bitch at that.

Staring at her, he nearly forgot himself; her heart-shaped face and feminine charms didn’t justify his hesitation to kill her. Neither did it explain why the gods let her find him. His body disagreed as he stifled an animalistic growl threatening to come out. Weeks without a woman made him overly susceptible. Her presence alone threatened his self-control. The sweet fragrance lingering in her dark curls had overwhelmed him when she’d discovered him on the field—the shear memory wreaked havoc on his body.

How could he crave intimacy in the middle of a bloody war? What did that say about him?
Man or woman—she’s Saxon—and that’s reason enough to slit her throat.

Shaking it off, he puzzled over why she didn’t run. No fear showed on her face. Her unusual bravery impressed him. It would be wrong to snuff out the life force that animated those beautiful eyes. Perhaps a legitimate reason to keep her alive, yet he needed something more substantial to appease his brutal sensibilities.

By now, most women would have begged for mercy. Instead, this one prayed, condemning him. Those words she’d spoken,
eye for eye
. . . it surprisingly affected him. Truth always hurt. His heart had never been invested in this fight. Why he survived and thousands of his brethren perished, he’d never know. Nearly choking on his next breath, he set his regrets aside. After he dealt with
her
, he’d commit his brother’s spirit to Odin. Maybe if he donned the cloak of ruthlessness all Norsemen were unfairly accused of wearing, he’d scare her away. But how long would it take her to report him?

Time. He needed more blasted time.

Talking might convince her to flee. He’d avoided speaking directly, up to this point, because he wanted to observe her. He expelled an exasperated breath and grudgingly faced her. Her cool gaze searched the field. The resoluteness in those wide blue eyes made him realize he couldn’t hurt her. Stegir’s blood already stained his hands. And he’d not mar his brother’s memory by killing a helpless female.

She addressed him. “We shall work together to bury your brother. And when we finish, I’ll disappear and tell no one we met, if you let me go.”

Bargaining for freedom
. He nodded. She’d earned the right to live already. Shaking his head, he eyed the ground; there was plenty of tinder to start a fire. He needed to build a pyre worthy of his kinsman. Dragging her to an area sheltered by large rocks and trees, he left her standing while he started cutting branches and gathering kindling. He’d die before he abandoned his brother. And he’d never bury him like Christian fools did. Odin would catch Stegir’s ashes. The risk of lighting a fire didn’t matter. If his brother’s body wasn’t properly consecrated, his soul might get trapped between Asgard and earth. A fate reserved for cowards.

As he worked, he occasionally stopped to check on the girl. She watched intently
. Damn the gods, why didn’t she go?
He’d given ample opportunities.

As the pyre started to take shape, she confronted him. “Stop it.” She slapped the load of branches from his hands. “Do you understand what you’re doing? The army will come if they see fire. Burial . . .” She dropped to her knees, then dug her fingernails into the earth.

More than a little shocked by her concern, he reached for her hands. One at a time, he brushed the dirt from her palms. This woman must be daft. She acted like a trusting idiot—didn’t want him to get captured. It did not make sense. Nothing should keep her here. Vikings and Saxons were as incompatible as fire and water. They stared at each other for a long time. Maybe she was afraid to be alone.

Twigs snapped and he reacted violently. Securing her arm, he hauled her into the underbrush. He covered her mouth with his hand, while holding her down with his body. She struggled under his weight, but he couldn’t take any chances.

“Rachelle Fiennes . . .”

Tyr glimpsed three English soldiers on horseback. Unease settled over him as he realized the girl meant something to someone.

“Lady Rachelle.” The call came again. “Where are you?”

Tyr held his breath. Not quite dark yet, he hoped they’d overlook the half constructed pyre. Beyond this stand of trees, there weren’t too many places to hide. All three rode to opposite sides of the clearing, looked around, and then met up again. Seemingly satisfied they’d scoured the area thoroughly, they rode west, away from his escape route. Relieved, Tyr rolled off
Rachelle
. A beautiful name he knew belonged to the girl without having to ask.

Time was a commodity he couldn’t afford to squander. Especially now, there might be search parties everywhere. As he pulled the disheveled girl to her feet, the reason for her odd behavior became clearer. She must be running away from someone, but that still didn’t explain why she hadn’t fought to get away from him when the guards were in the clearing. That part confounded him.

Possessing a lord’s daughter might be beneficial; for a guaranteed escape and the potential opportunity to collect a handsome ransom in exchange for her safe return to her family. Not opposed to the idea of gold after the financial losses he’d suffered in this war, he wondered if he had the patience for such an endeavor. As manageable as she’d been, it seemed too good to be true. His only hesitation came from his continuing state of arousal and limited time.

What did he care? As long as he was in England, he was living beyond the grace of Odin. Another look at her crown of midnight hair, which reminded him of soft silky chords he’d love to get entangled in, nearly made him explode in his breeches. It had taken considerable effort not to bury his face in it when he straddled her before.

Reaching inside his pocket, he pulled out a silver flask. He uncapped it, tossed his head back, and took a long swig.
Women don’t belong on battlefields
. Enjoying another drink, he stole a second look. Spirits did little to alleviate his suffering. Gouging his eyes out wouldn’t either; he’d already committed her face to memory.

Laying his knuckles across his mouth, he wiped the excess liquid from his lips. Godforsaken, imbecilic English . . . Who allowed women to go traipsing about? She regarded him with a bewildered look. He offered her the flask. She accepted, and sipped daintily. The shock on her face after she tasted that liquid fire forced him to smile. She quickly handed the flagon back.

“Thank you,” she choked out.

“Aye, you’ll need it.” The words slipped out. Curse women. How easily they reduced a man’s mind to a pile of mush. Plans unraveled as easily as a ball of yarn when they were around.

“You . . .”

A wicked smile spanned his face. He bowed, appreciating the moment’s reprieve from sorrow.

“You understand English?” Her jaw tensed.

He should have talked to her sooner. “If a man can’t understand his enemies, how can he outmaneuver his foes?”

That explanation didn’t seem to satisfy her. She looked hurt and confused, and stepped back.

Foreseeing her next move, he rested his hands on her shoulders to keep her from running. “Be still.” The decision was made. Rachelle Fiennes would travel with him as far as the coast.

A Norseman speaking fluent English was the last thing Rachelle expected to find. He understood every bloody word she’d said from the start. Did he do it for protection or to trick her? She shouldn’t care. But he differed so greatly from the ferocious Vikings described in childhood legends. He exuded confidence and exercised mercy—she suspected that’s why she still breathed. They shared a common bond. Both mourned the loss of a loved one.

A tepid north wind caught her face as she stared in the direction the soldiers had ridden. If only they carried news about her uncle. She would follow them to the ends of the earth to hear it. Deep inside, she believed her uncle was dead. Whenever Rachelle loved someone, they abandoned her or died. It was an undeniable fact. This left only one person in the world she could love and trust—her closest friend Mercia. But Rachelle wouldn’t burden her. Mercia’s family had no money to help.

Trapped between her sorrow and the need to leave years of suffering behind, she considered her future. Having waited for a sign from God nearly all her life, each day had been filled with nothing more than tentative happiness. Little by little her uncle convinced her to live again, to smile and laugh. Not wanting to disappoint him, she’d conditioned herself. Yet underneath, anguish thrived. That was the sum of her life.

Her heart quickened at a crazy notion. Could this man be the answer to her childhood prayer? There was something about him that made the earth move under her feet. Or was that fear? She still considered it. What if her bitter portions had suddenly run out?

The Viking exhaled and snatched her hand. “It’s time to go.”

“Before we do anything, I want to know why you were playing dead on this field.” Her gaze flicked up, meeting his.

“You can ask as many questions as you like, I won’t answer. I’m not in the habit of discussing personal matters with
Saxons
.”

His gaze slid shamelessly down her body as he muttered, “Why are you so bold and beautiful?”

Rachelle didn’t know if she was meant to hear those words. It baffled her.

As if snapped back into the moment, he asked, “Why were
you
examining an unconsecrated corpse?”

“Am I expected to answer your inquiries after you completely disregarded mine?” She needed to argue to feel alive again.

“Listen to me.” He gave her a gentle shake. “By morning, this field will be crawling with soldiers. I have no choice but to leave you behind. If you hide until daylight, you’ll be safe.”

His words jolted her. She didn’t want to stay alone in the dark. Just a moment ago, he’d announced it was time to go. Assuming he meant both of them, she tried to make sense of it. “What will you do with your brother’s body?”

“I’ll finish what I started.”

Willing to endanger his life for the sake of a funeral proved he was comprised of more than beastly instinct. It deepened her desire for a family of her own. The giant unhanded her, then returned to his brother’s side. He dropped on one knee.

“
Lo, gjør Det jeg ser min Far, og Lo, gjør det jeg se min mor, og Lo, gjør Det jeg ser mine brødre og mine søstre og Lo, gjør Det jeg ser mitt folk tilbake til begynnelsen, og Lo de gjør kaller meg, og byd meg ta min plass blant dem i haller av Valhalla, Hvor modig vil leve evig . . .”

His ardent entreaty raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “What does it mean?”

“Lo, there do I see my Father, and Lo, there do I see my Mother, and Lo, there do I see my Brothers and my Sisters and Lo, there do I see my people back to the beginning, and Lo they do call to me, and bid me take my place among them in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave will live forever . . .”

She wanted to believe his gods would grant his request.

Miraculously, it began to drizzle. She tipped her head, letting raindrops fall on her face. After months of drought, this was like manna from heaven. Wishing it would wash away the evidence of the battle, she froze when she saw the Viking arranging the body on the pyre. After crossing a sword and shield over his brother’s chest, he kissed his cheeks. Finished with his preparations, the Norseman took a square piece of metal and flint stone from his belt. Misery and regret had silenced him altogether now.

She edged closer, standing at a respectable distance. Nothing could ever strip this memory from her mind. The tenderness this man displayed, the heavyheartedness that showed on his face made her heart skip a beat. Knowing firsthand what it felt like to lose someone, her own tragic memories came flooding back. Tears tracked down her cheeks. She’d cried more over the last two days then she had in years.

Not even the light rain could keep the flames from licking higher. Her body tensed. Men should be buried, not burned. Standing on the opposite side of the pyre, the fire illuminated every hard detail of the Vikings form. Pain and exhaustion were etched on his face. His broad shoulders drooped as if he’d been whipped.