Noelle’s blood pounded as she stood and hurried across the room. Rage had clouded her judgment. Although she wanted Brian to pay, let him face an English executioner with his bloody head firmly planted on a wood block, not die at the hands of these Norse invaders.
The Viking was unstoppable. She considered the look of violence in his eyes and slowly edged away. He unsheathed his weapon and raised it high above his head, but a guard intervened.
“
Hva vil du gjøre med henne hvis hun hater deg før du går til ektesengen?
” the guard said.
Judging by the severity of his tone, they must have been words of warning. She didn’t know if these men were organized by rank, but the larger of the two—the one who attacked her brother—froze with his sword midair. Brian lay at his feet, muttering nonsensically.
She knew little about these people. Only that they sailed superior ships and worshipped a deity named Odin. She believed his god’s fury filled his mind as he leaned over Brian. She shrank a bit when he grabbed a handful of her brother’s hair and lifted his head.
“I made these generous arrangements to spare the girl’s feelings. Not for your bloody convenience. You owe
her
your life. She’s the only reason I’ll spare you. And if your other sister wishes to escape this hel, I’ll claim her, too.” Brian’s head hit the floor with a thud. “Worthless bastard . . .” he muttered,
spinning on his heels, and staring down at her.
Stormy eyes threatened her sanity. She tried not to be deceived by his excellent features. Or drawn in by the smoothness of his bronzed complexion. The Viking seemed as harmless as the sharp end of an ice pick. And that voice—God help her.
His baritone possessed the ferocity she’d fantasized God’s might have, thundering from the burning bush. It put the fear of The Divine in her. Blond hair hung well below his shoulders, tightly braided at the temples. His broad cheeks, aquiline nose, and shapely lips were perfectly symmetrical. She marveled at his savage beauty.
Although she resented everything he represented, secretly, she was grateful for his sudden appearance. What kind of a barbarian invades a castle and offers terms of surrender to its inhabitants?
She stared pensively at him. He wore a knee-length, chain mail shirt over leather. His boots were embossed with strange circular patterns and dyed a rich bluish-purple. Silver medallions were sewn around the toe line, very different from the rest of his men’s shoes. He had an air of regality about him. A chieftain, of that she had no doubt.
The longer she stayed in the room with him, the more her sense of reason fragmented. Nothing would ever be the same again. Brian was guilty of more than cold-blooded murder. He abused his power. But even now, she knew he could do no wrong in her father’s eyes. Noelle hated him for that. And the fact that she found herself regrettably obligated to this barbarian for rescuing her crushed her spirit.
What bleak future prospects. She folded her hands over her stomach
and stared away as long as possible. Found her mind wandering back and forth between Ophelia and this arrangement that her brother spoke of. She didn’t care to add more weight to the burden she already carried. Mere speculation would only drive her crazy.
Instead, she drifted around the room in a silent frenzy and watched as the Norsemen came and went. They carried away piles of loot, depositing them on their ships. She attempted to memorize the faces of her father’s soldiers, surmising which men had died in battle. Her father found little use for keeping formal ledgers. In a situation such as this, it would have proven much easier than merely guessing who the survivors were.
She remembered the identities of the women easily. Thirty-three maids were grouped together. The children were obviously cloistered somewhere upstairs. And Brian wisely kept his place on the floor, probably too afraid to move. There was nothing more she could do here. It seemed a selfish way to think, but if she didn’t leave, she might do something she’d regret later. Like kill her brother . . . Noelle slipped away.
Chapter 3
Eyes of a Stranger
Randvior halted as the beauty made her way to the doors. His men started after her, but he stopped them. No harm in letting her go, for now. Give her time to work through the torture and torment. Wherever she went, he knew he would eventually find her.
The climate in northern England made him appreciate the place even less. He forbade his men from drinking more because he feared it might affect their already diminishing spirits. Nothing would have kept them from overindulging in food and drink, except for his direct command. And
his
men, like any, might resort to violence once their gullets were wetted. This place had a way of picking away at a man’s soul.
The only light he had found within the suffocating darkness of Durham seemed to be the girl. Her unwavering allegiance to her kinsmen and servants restored his faith. It made him reconsider his long held opinion that women served only one true purpose. Pleasure . . . He remembered only a handful of accomplished females he’d met in his travels. They were spinsters and widows who had dedicated their lives to attaining wisdom. Although young and stubborn, Noelle was composed of the same commendable qualities. And she fascinated him.
Randvior entrusted the management of the takings and preparation of his ships to his men, then found a private space to sit and clear his head. He propped his head on his hand. He’d never imagined coming here, but Odin’s vision determined his path. The elusive deity was known to favor his family, and if he demanded an unplanned stop, who was he to defy his patron god?
His men were restless after a season that yielded little profit and
no
action.
These are the risks I am willing to take to solidify my holdings and establish new steadings
. The prospect of a quick raid south ended all complaints. Bound by oaths of allegiance, his captains and foot soldiers went wherever he commanded. And if the gods denied good fortune, blood sacrifices compensated for whatever bad omens attracted their disfavor.
Fortunately, Durham yielded enough silver and gold to go around. And a woman he felt an instant attraction for. She broke his concentration too easily already. He grinned, felt an uncomfortable stir between his legs, and cursed his rebellious body. The last thing he wanted was to run around with an erection, when he didn’t even know where its inspiration had fled.
Randvior’s pleasant reflection changed course. Noelle needed time to exorcise the demons from her mind before he took her on ship. Many a seasoned warrior had chosen a watery death over another year of raiding if they didn’t want to go. Always a coward’s way out. And he refused to give the girl a chance to dive overboard. With the burden of her sister’s death on her mind, she was in no shape to think clearly yet. And the way her murdering brother treated her—his tongue should be carved from its English mouth. How dare he refer to her as a Norseman’s whore?
But he couldn’t delay their departure. The evasive girl would simply have to accept her fate. The thought of running his hands over her lithe form nearly drove him insane. He wanted to master her body. Something told him she was more than just a pretty face, though. And he truly wanted the opportunity to explore the complexities of her mind, experience the world through her eyes.
Convincing her to accept him was going to be difficult. He refused to resort to rape as most men in his position would. But he wasn’t opposed to relentless seduction.
He left the alcove and headed directly for the stairs. Noelle’s sister would provide the information he needed to find her
.
English castles were a maze of endless rooms and hidden chambers. It could take a man a week to discover the places where a young girl would hide in a structure that took three centuries to build. He knocked on the bedchamber door.
Margaret answered.
He studied her delicate features. Blue eyes as round as a serving tray darted nervously between him and the empty hallway behind. “I know you blame me for Ophelia’s death,” he paused, surmising her state of mind. “There is no time for formalities. I need your help finding Noelle.”
A faint smile flickered across her tear-stained face. “You may be different from the Norsemen the village women describe, but what makes you think I’ll provide you with any information?” she asked. “Many of those women were left with child after the raids and will never forget the beasts who assaulted them.”
He also exercised better judgment than most jarls. His men had not inflicted such indignities on the women in this household for good reason. The gods directed his hand in this endeavor, and temperance was divine.
“I offer my deepest sympathies for the women who suffered so needlessly.” His statement was true for the most part. Resorting to violence was necessary sometimes to bring conquered peoples under control. “Tell me what I need to know.”
She scrutinized him with a lingering stare. “I’ll only tell you to spare my sister further pain.”
“Prudence should prevail, lady. You are in no position to deny me anything.”
“There’s nothing you can do to make my life any worse. You’ll leave my home in shambles and I’ll be the one tasked with putting it back together. Do you really think I’m afraid to die after what occurred here today, Viking?” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I can’t challenge or negotiate for Noelle’s freedom, I’ve nothing to give. So you’ll take her by whatever means necessary, I know this. But I’ll tell you. If you harm a hair on her head, I will damn your soul every day for the rest of my life, and believe me, God will hear my pleadings.”
Bewildered by this sudden display of feminine mettle, he could do nothing but admire her and further loathe her brother’s cowardice.
“My sister only seeks refuge in two places, the woods or the old cellars.” She rubbed her nose and looked over her shoulder, in the direction of the windows. “She’s in the cellar.”
As Randvior turned to leave, she fastened her hand around his arm.
“A priest could never hear my brother’s confession, there’s no salvation for such a man. I beg you not to be such a brute where my sister is concerned, she’s only eighteen.”
Why was she saying this to him? He inhaled and blew out a frustrated breath, fisted his hands.
By Odin, what evils did she speak of?
And just what had he bargained for?
“My brother is obsessed with death.”
“Some men are born killers.”
She nodded and changed the subject. “How
old
are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Her gaze drifted to his eyes. “Old enough to take care of my sister,
I hope
.”
“Aye,” he said, and left.
The cellar door was open, a clear indication
someone
was inside. After his men finished exploring the storage rooms for gold, Randvior had ordered them to remove the torches and secure the door from the outside. He ducked under the stone archway and lifted his torch high so he could see down the stairs.
It was an ancient passageway with narrow steps; the kind a man could fall down and break his neck. As he descended, he admired the carved stonework. Two torches burned in a floor stand—Noelle was definitely there. He knew this wasn’t the kind of place a young woman would customarily seek solace. But any place must seem safer than near her brother.
He searched the cellar, rummaging through piles of debris. There were three subchambers off the main room, and small, round windows hewn in the stone allowed natural light to filter in. No one was there. He sighed and searched the first subchamber. Dozens of empty barrels and crates were stashed in a corner, but no girl.
He didn’t wish to frighten, only wanted to show her a bit of kindness.
“Noelle Sinclair,” he called, walking slowly. He sincerely hoped to lure her out of hiding without resorting to physical force. No matter if she resisted, the terms of surrender were
not
negotiable. She was his greatest prize—not intended for slavery, but true companionship after years of meaningless trysts with faceless wenches all over the world.
No words could describe the emotions that stirred inside him once he met those somber eyes searching for an escape from the besieged hall. It compelled him to abandon his men and concentrate on her safety alone. Attraction turned to pure enchantment after she came face-to-face with his fiercest fighter and didn’t utter a sound. The rare bravery she demonstrated sparked a passion inside him long forgotten. An attribute greatly admired amongst the Norse. He rubbed his chin and suppressed a smile.
He explored the second room. A hint of shadow moved across the wall. “
Min lille dukke, komme til meg, jeg vil ikke skade deg
,” he whispered. “Why are you hiding in the dark?”
No answer.
He waited a moment longer before speaking again. “Come out.”
A rustling sound from behind a stack of dilapidated crates alerted him to her exact location. He took four steps and stopped, kept a safe distance so she wouldn’t feel cornered.
“Noelle, I’m here as an ally, not an enemy.”
“Hah!” Her face appeared. “You have a strange way of showing it.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “But situations change as quickly as the direction of the wind at sea. You must be brave a little longer.”
Momentarily distracted, he took full advantage and inched closer. The graceful curve of her mouth and the pinkish color of her lips did not escape his attention. Unfortunately, his first opportunity to get closer was impeded by a pile of rotting wood. Blast his misfortune!
She didn’t seem to mind he was within arm’s reach and stepped from behind the crates. He watched the expression on her face change as she studied him. He’d give her plenty of time to admire his features once he got her on ship. Until then, every second that passed represented increased risk—her father’s army could return at any moment.
“It’s time to go.”
“Where?”
With her face streaked in soot and dirt, she looked more like an orphan than a lady. Her long tawny hair was little more than a mass of dirty tangles, and her shift was badly stained. By Odin, she was still beautiful. His gaze moved slowly up and down her tiny frame and stopped on her feet.
For the love of Odin
. . . “Where are your boots?”