Blind Allegiance (Viking Romance) (The Blind Series) Page 6

  Randvior courteously ushered Noelle around deck and introduced her to many of his soldiers. Aud Magnusson seemed to be his best warrior.

  “I have three daughters of my own,” Aud announced proudly. “One near your age, perhaps you might become friends someday.”

  Randvior patted him on the back. “Ask my friend who runs his household.”

  Noelle believed three daughters would run any man ragged. “I needn’t ask,” Noelle turned her attention to the imposing figure. “Judging by the look on your face, your daughters are in full control.” Even though he was a barbarian, Noelle couldn’t help but like him.

  Aud laughed appreciatively. “Aye,” he agreed. “And we’ll see in a few weeks, once you’re settled in the Trondelag, who runs my master’s house.”

  The men exchanged mirthful grins. Noelle curtsied, for lack of a better response, and walked on with Randvior.

  “Now that we are under way, you may ask me whatever you wish.”

  Noelle rubbed irritably at her nose. She’d had plenty of questions when they were still in Durham. How dare he show her around his ship as if she were an old acquaintance he was escorting home? Now he was all smiles and acted as if nothing had happened. Ophelia and her father’s men were dead and nothing could alter the ugliness of that reality.

  “You’ve given me hardly any time to recover from this atrocity. And now you expect me to parade around this ship with you and exchange niceties with the murdering heathens who attacked my home and stole me away as chattel? And beyond this . . .” Her body trembled. “. . . now you want me to ask questions?” His casualness enraged her. “You make little of what happened in Durham.”

  Randvior gripped her by both shoulders and nodded.

  His unspoken acceptance left her mind a jumbled mass of confusing thoughts and left her heart full of contradictory emotions.

  Though one question did come to mind.

  “Why me?”

  Randvior had promised clarity. And she deserved the truth in measured doses. They walked to his cabin, very much in need of privacy to continue the conversation. He opened the door and they went inside. He sat down on a chair next to the narrow bed, folded his hands behind his neck, and stretched his long legs out.

  “I’d never considered targeting your homeland. If I yearned for a lucrative raid, my ships would aim closer to Ireland. A week ago, I was in the Orkneys preparing to return home. Father Odin sent me an incredible vision—showed me his banquet table in Valhalla. A rare thing for a mortal to behold while he still lives.”

  Noelle sat on the bed and for the moment appeared enthralled by his tale.

  “His fierce maiden warriors, the azure-eyed Valkyries, who serve and choose the men who sit at his table, offered me wine from his chalice. No man can refuse this honor. I drank, but much to my dismay, I realized the table wasn’t decorated for celebration. It was prepared for a funeral feast. Not to honor warriors slain in battle, but those wretched souls condemned to Hel. I dropped the sacred cup and ran. Once I escaped, I mysteriously appeared on the lands surrounding my home. Funeral pyres burned in every direction, columns of black smoke rose above the earth, very near my own hall.” He dropped his hands from behind his neck and leaned forward.

  “I hastened for miles through ice and snow to reach my steading. Before I crossed the border, disir, women who decide men’s fates, were waiting. I greatly mistrust these spirits and attempted to elude them. But they followed me and called out to me.

  Why do you run from your destiny? There are two possible ends for you, and we have revealed both. You have drunk from Odin’s cup, an honor bestowed on few mortals. Yet you remain only half a man. Sail to Durham on the eventide and discover the troth the gods have chosen for you. If you reject this gift, your wyrd will be altered—given over to forces beyond Odin’s control.”

  “Tell me what wyrd is?” Her skepticism was evident.

  “Fate.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the retelling of his tale, yet disbelief still remained on Noelle’s face. She resembled the wraith in his dream. Randvior studied her features more closely. Unable to resist the urge to touch her, he moved to the bed and pulled her onto his lap as he sat down again.

  She bristled. “So I am to believe that a warmongering prince succumbed to the demands of spirits he doesn’t trust, then sailed for distant shores? If my father’s army were present they would have overpowered you and sent you back to Norway in burning ships.”

  He arched a brow, completely unprepared for how to deal with such an undisciplined, feminine tongue. A few unsavory methods crossed his mind, perhaps a gag and a firm throttling to her backside to start.

  “I didn’t realize Norsemen relied on mystics to determine their futures.”

  He nodded agreement and loosened his grip. “My people pay homage to countless deities, and seek the council of many when mapping out the course of their lives. Our stargazers are the most famous in the civilized world and have successfully predicted the futures of kings and military leaders—earning them many enemies. I know these ancient practices violate the tenets of your religion, but we were mandated by our gods to use our skills to help shape the future. Your church unfairly condemns pagans, levies false charges, and executes them.”

  The disir had revealed his fate. They referred to him as half a man, and those prolific words beset him the most. A woman, spirit or otherwise, could say nothing more degrading. Randvior had interpreted them correctly, in his opinion, therefore safeguarding his virility from further scrutiny. The gods wanted him to take a wife. A woman can fill the empty spaces in a man’s soul like mortar between stones. He went where Odin commanded and found the girl. With his blood heating exquisitely, while she squirmed innocently in his lap, he nudged her off to keep himself from losing control.

  He stood. She was too beautiful for her own good.

  And his. The only way to win her affection would be to woo her.

  “That’s it?” she complained. “Your silly story ends there? You fill my head with ridiculous notions of gods and spirits—prophetic visions, fire, and mayhem and end it without resolution?”

  Keeping a straight face, he let her rant continue.

  “My senses tell me you’re full of—”

  Randvior laughed warningly. “Sometimes a story ends where it must. This isn’t girlish make-believe, but an honest recounting of what carried me here.”

  Most women would have swooned upon hearing how the gods favored him. Not this one. Noelle Sinclair simply rejected him.

  Days passed and Randvior spent his afternoons walking and talking with Noelle on deck.

  Today, he formally introduced her to Odin and a myriad of deities he worshipped. He also prepared her for the reaction his people might have once they found out she was English. It seemed hatred thrived on both sides of the sea. Men most fear what they do not understand.

  “Decades of derision lay between our countries. The first Norse ships landed in Lindisfarne over two hundred years ago. My ancestors swept the region, pillaging, and enslaving with such unprecedented success that no one seemed capable of stopping them. Their bloodthirstiness struck fear in the hearts of men. Norsemen have been demonized ever since.”

  The only thing Noelle surmised his people feared was the expansion of what they considered an illegitimate faith, which had already cost thousands of people their lives across the continent.

  “Last year,” Randvior continued, “a Christian convert named Olaf Haraldsson, returned to my country to claim the crown. He publicly professed his new faith and proclaimed the indisputable right to unite the country under the Pope’s banner. Most jarls rejected his idea.”

  “Why?”

  “My kinsmen are fiercely devoted to Odin. We would never abandon centuries of tradition because belief in a new god was carrie
d across the sea by a zealot long absent from his homeland,” he said. “There is always increased risk when a man’s ambition is driven by religious fervor.”

  Noelle didn’t know what to say. People should freely choose what god they want to worship, and if Christ’s blood united nations, well, she would secretly celebrate it.

  “Your religion will sweep the world and your god’s holy soldiers will kill anyone who gets in the way. Tension is building across Western Europe as I speak, and I believe your Pope will eventually set his eyes on the Holy Land,” he said.

  “Do you forbid me to practice my faith?”

  “No,” he answered curtly. “But any open display of your vulgar traditions might draw unwanted attention, and may even prevent you from being accepted by the women. Women you will need on your side one day.”

  “What traditions do you speak of?”

  “Cannibalism,” he said plainly. “Eating the flesh and drinking the blood of your White Christ.”

  Noelle looked at him incredulously. Had she heard him correctly? “You are greatly mistaken. We do not actually eat his flesh or drink his blood. Holy Communion is a sacrament, a symbolic gesture mandated by our Lord. Surely you don’t believe otherwise?”

  Randvior smiled ruefully. “What I believe doesn’t matter. I’ve traveled the world and seen many things. My faith is unshakable. My tenants and thralls may not be so open-minded. Their worlds are much smaller than mine.”

  “I made no such judgments concerning you.” Noelle knew she wasn’t going to be among her kinsmen or friends any longer, but this seemed ridiculous.

  The Viking lord had watched her closely on the beach in Durham during the ritual and had even expressed his appreciation at how she approached things with a child’s innocent curiosity. People in his homeland might learn something from her.

  “A Christian monk visited my home last year,” he offered, “and disappeared on the same day. Not by my order, but my men discovered a fresh burial mound a few miles away.”

  Noelle flushed and swallowed back her concern.

  “You have my protection,” he promised. “There are no temples or churches, no Sabbath observed amongst my people.”

  “Where do you worship?”

  “Wherever I choose. Under trees, along the riverbanks, or in a place we think the gods hear our voices. There are holy sites. What were you imagining? Secret chambers where we conjure demons or groups of scantily clad women and hooded priests prancing around a bonfire in the middle of the night like a coven of witches? There are priests amongst us, elders who serve as mediators.” His eyes danced mischievously now, humored by her naivety.

  The ship careened, stopping their conversation short. Objects flew off the table in the corner and Noelle ducked just in time before a candlestick flew over her head. She nearly choked while standing back up and bumped her head on the wall.

  A loud knock sounded at the door.

  Randvior opened it, one of his warriors waited.

  “A powerful storm is brewing, you’re needed on deck.”

  Randvior adjusted his belt. “Stay here,” he commanded, looking at her. “It may be hours before it’s over.”

  She understood and nodded. Vikings were the most revered and feared men on the high seas. Not only known for their violence, but as explorers, and successful merchants, too. This much she knew growing up in a territory continuously under attack. Against her better judgment, she allowed her gaze to follow him across the cabin, mentally groping his body. Such capable hands, and she felt herself slipping; sliding down an emotional incline with no way of climbing back up. She smiled bleakly as he rummaged through a cabinet and withdrew several instruments he must use for navigational purposes.

  She watched his retreating form. Much to her surprise, Noelle realized that she was starting to like him a bit and felt safe in his custody. She had been so intent on hating him that she couldn’t recall when the shift in feelings occurred. Should she forgive him for robbing her of a future she had carefully planned out? Or would that be considered the worst kind of betrayal to her family?

  Having always lived outside the circle of intimacy that connected her siblings with their father, she couldn’t decide. When her sire spent time with her sisters, he seemed contented in the moment. But in Noelle’s presence, his eyes dulled. She had earned his respect, but never his love. Randvior undoubtedly offered a new beginning. With this, she became overwhelmed; the time and energy it would take to find a way home seemed pointless in the moment. Her life was irrevocably changed. Brian had sold her into slavery to save his own life. A known braggart and skilled fabricator of stories, he could easily convince her father of anything if she weren’t present to defend herself. Her brother’s stinging voice rang inside her head. He would swear on the Holy Father’s name that she begged to go along with the Norse to escape marriage to an Irish lord. Her father would surely sever any ties to her for the magnitude of such iniquity.

  By the time the only candle in the room had burned down to a waxy nub, Noelle had been tossed and turned about the windowless cabin more than a dozen times. She had sailed on many occasions between southern England and Ireland, always nestled closely to the shoreline, but the open sea was perilous. She eyed a bruised elbow, and now her left knee stung, too. Enough was enough, no more tumbles off the bed. She stripped the covers and made a bed roll on the floor.

  Howling winds buffeted the ship. She imagined the black-capped waves ripping holes in the polished wood and nearly vomited when the ship went vertical. She grabbed the bed frame to stay stationary. The vessel surged upward again and came crashing down. Noelle bounced and landed hard. The worst jolt yet.

  She had to get out of there, trembling as she imagined a watery grave. Pray Noelle Marie—pray fervently. With no rosary beads or prayer book to read from, she had to rely on verses or prayers she had memorized over the years. Heart pounding, she prostrated herself. Comforting visions of an earthly paradise eased her mind as she whispered the verses over and over again. Surely, no harm could befall her wrapped in the protective arms of her beloved Christ.

  Hours later, the door burst open. A dripping-wet Randvior stepped inside and almost tripped over her. He muttered something under his breath as she turned and watched him walk to the cupboard. He opened it, withdrew a new taper, and lit it by the wick of the nearly spent candle. He placed it in a holder he picked up off the floor as she sat up.

  The worst must be over for he would have never abandoned his men in the middle of a squall. She visualized what he must look like working the riggings and sail with those strong arms. In the muted candlelight, his eyes were purely electric, any amusement long gone. With his wind-blown hair and raw masculinity seeping from every pore of his body, he looked as untamed as the ocean. Dangerous conditions could break any man. And she feared a tempest of this proportion stirred her companion’s emotions. Eyes are the windows to the soul and his spoke violence.

  He knelt and ran his fingers over the curve of her hip. His eyes never wandered from her face. “Stand up,” he commanded.

  She obeyed.

  Randvior looked capable of striking at any moment. Unsure and afraid, she stiffened when he climbed to his feet and towered over her. A moment of silence passed between them, but she heard the thunder of war drums pounding in her ears. A spell of nausea was followed by a wave of guilt because she knew she was wrong for wondering what it would feel like to be buried in those massive arms.

  “What were you doing on the floor?”

  “I . . . was . . . praying . . . for the soul of this ship,” she stuttered.

  He nodded.

  Noelle lost courage. Nothing could protect her from this man. Suddenly, Randvior leaned down; his tongue was hot and hard as it broke the plane of her lips. Naturally, she wanted to fight, threaten, and scream—maybe escape. Everything seemed wron
g as strange sensations seared through her flesh. Hadn’t she anticipated this moment the first time they met? A telling premonition or perhaps she needed something only he could offer. Release after years of holding back her deepest feelings and hostility. She knew she should deny him, but this felt too good and she could not suppress her desire any longer.

  Randvior’s tongue probed deeper and she opened to him. He groaned inside her mouth and it reverberated up her spine. She matched his scorching kisses with virginal exuberance as a large hand cupped her right breast, and the other anchored her against him. Calloused fingertips prodded and tickled the hardening nipple through her dress.

  He licked his way down the column of her neck, moving his tongue in tiny circular patterns. His hands dropped lower, utterly delighting her, exploring every inch of flesh between her stomach and upper thighs. He paused when she moaned and she rewarded his ministration with a dreamy smile. Her eyes met his and she nearly melted in his hands. Curse him for being so irresistible. Did Eve’s apple tempt Adam half this much?

  His beard pricked her skin as he slid his hands up her body again. And those heated fingers left her in a daze as they indelicately unlaced the back of her gown and tugged. She swayed as Randvior pulled the material over her head and yanked her chemise down until it sagged loosely around her hips.

  He stepped back and took a deep breath, openly admired her, while his eyes caressed her lazily. “The enchantress in my dreams has sprung to life. You are more beautiful than I ever imagined, Noelle.”

  She felt the intensity of his need through the quietness of his voice. Her silence was his answer.

  The only stitch of clothing left was her stockings and boots. She convinced herself to feel no shame. She needn’t love a man to get what she needed. Men sought comfort in the arms of nameless women all the time. And for once in her life, Noelle intended to gift herself with a single indulgence. He rolled her leggings halfway down and knelt; his soft lips made contact with the goose-flesh on her inner thighs. What was left of her wits scattered to the four winds.