“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? Therearepriests 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 underattack. 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 wrong 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.
