She wiped her hands on her skirts, her face grim. “That’s the most arrogant thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.” She had some fight left in her. “England’s soldiers aren’t the ones rotting in the fields right now, are they?”
Anger appeared to swell inside her, slowly bubbling to the surface. He wanted to capture her rage, to taste and control it. A wasted fantasy of course, she would serve as nothing but a bitter reminder of this war and his brother’s death. “We’re both victims of circumstance.”
“Nay,” she hissed, flatly rejecting his sentiment. “You’re the furthest thing from a victim I can think of.”
“Are you a martyr, Rachelle Fiennes?” She inched away. Had he struck a chord?
“I’m a foundling with no fortune. And I’m sure my uncle perished in your unsanctioned attack.”
Understanding slowly dawned. Tyr would have never thought her an orphan. Sadly, this girl had lived through her own version ofHel. She’d been searching for her uncle. He thought carefully before speaking again. “I never intended to return to your country.”
She frowned. “Why did you come?”
“My sovereign issued a requisition for men and ships.”
Silence followed, but she seemed resigned to accept that answer. “Why were you wearing armor whilst your compatriots were in a state of undress?” she asked.
The same questions she’d targeted him with before. Only this time, he’d answer. “Accursed fools,” he muttered. The magnitude of this defeat would haunt him forever. “Poor leadership is to blame. No one conceived that your king would march north to oppose us when the Normans were threatening to attack at the same time. My compatriots refused to remain watchful… and died for it.”
“But not you.”
“No,not me,” he confirmed, sadly.
Having only recently returned to Norway from a diplomatic mission in Denmark, Tyr knew his willingness to join Hardrada’s fleet sufficiently demonstrated his loyalty. He had no reason to feel blameworthy. He steered his thoughts away from the anguish, he’d mourn his brethren later, in the privacy of his home or at Odin’s altar where the gods would comfort him. For now, he focused exclusively on her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He looked in her direction. “Surely a woman from your background knows the dangers of wandering alone at night. Why did you risk coming to me?”
Rachelle traced a line in the dirt with the tip of her shoe. A line he wanted to cross. He had a strong suspicion of whatattracted her—his virility. Hearing a compliment from her lips would make the best parting gift.
“I’m bound by spiritual mandates to render aid toanyonein need.”
A charitable spirit? That’s her claim? Countless women described him as beautiful, especially the dark-eyed beauties in Baghdad and Miklagard. Was he losing his spark? “Nothing else lured you?”
“Curiosity.”
“Curiosity?” he repeated unbelieving. Better not to fish for answers if he wished to keep his pride intact.
“Don’t be insulted.”
He chuckled as if a joke had been made. “Insulted? Never,” he denied artfully. “Only amused your faith condones violence and then demands you nurse your enemies back to health. No wonder this country is plagued by revolution.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Through talking, he’d demonstrate his prowess in a way that never failed. “Kiss me again.”
Rachelle bit her lower lip nervously. “I never willingly kissed you. You stole them.”
If Tyr wasgoing to act the scoundrel, why keep talking? Only an unscrupulous man would continue to pursue a woman the day after his brother died. In a few more hours, he’d be gone. Why keep kissing him, it only complicated things. More important issues occupied her thoughts. If anyone caught them together, would they question her devotion to England? Accuse her of high crimes? Was it an unforgivable sin to sympathize with a pagan, maybe even treason?
Gazing at him, she was certain she couldn’t avoid another intimate exchange. Something in his gaze assured it. She scrunched her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, then tiltedher head. Her legs trembled with anticipation. The thought of tasting those lips again made her core temperature rise. He rumbled with laughter.What’s so blasted funny?She opened one eye, thoroughly annoyed.
“Who taught you how to kiss, a man or salmon?”
“Youdid.”
He’d give anythingto hold her naked body in his arms, while kissing that perfectly shaped rosebud mouth. If only he had met her at another time, in a different setting more hospitable for seduction. Was there anything more pleasurable than tasting a maiden freshly plucked from the vine? Any rogue could kiss. He intended to do much more. Gazing possessively at her, he admired every inch of her body. Imagining the soft mounds of flesh underneath her bodice and the liquid heat between her legs eroded his restraint.Oh sweetling…She shuddered. How would she respond to another touch? He couldn’t leave it to his imagination; he swept forward and captured her in his arms. He dipped her low, panting heavily on her neck. Tension flared between them again. She offered her milky throat and he nibbled his way from her left ear to the right. Even the taste of her salty skin boiled his blood.
