Ignoring his captain’s insolence, Tyr spoke. “If you prefer I send someone else—”
“No.” Aaron leapt to his feet. “I’ll go.”
Rachelle cracked herbedchamber door open. If she moved too fast, the floorboards creaked. Only the flickering light of wall torches greeted her. She was stunned. No guards were posted in the corridor. Onetooth had rushed through the eventide meal and hadn’t stayed to share a glass of wine as he usually did. Last night, she’d questioned the old warrior until he’d sighed in frustration. His tolerance for her constant prattling was nearing its end. This much she had learned: Tyr issued three missives addressed to her uncle within the last three weeks. Each letter was entrusted to an official representative.
Demand for ransom.That’s what she assumed. Curse Tyr’s wretched soul for taking advantage of her aged kinsman—if he was even alive. Hope took root in her heart. She prayed multiple times each day.Let Uncle Henry be alive and well.Onetooth revealed nothing about the content of those letters. Although he did advise her to give it time.The North Sea claims her dead in winter. What ships sail to England go slowly.
A season for all things…Not the approach she was willing to take any longer. She wanted answers.
Knowing anonymity was her only chance of getting outside unnoticed, she tucked her long hair under the hood of her wool cloak. She planned on investigating Tyr’s household to find out if there was any news about her or England. The best place to do that might be in the courtyard where she knew men loungedand drank. Most of the people who lived in the main house were quartered on the first and second floors. Slaves shared rooms off the kitchen or lived in the thatch-roofed huts west of the hall. She didn’t expect anyone to be upstairs. The feast was in full swing. Creeping to the end of the hallway, she made it down the first flight of stairs.
Bearded gods, women, and ale… The only things these Northmen cared about. She rolled her eyes at the loud noises below. The unabashed fornication and overindulgence in anything pleasurable in this household appalled her. She’d witnessed more than enough her first night here. Maybe there was an advantage to living so unrepentantly. No fear of eternal damnation.
Rachelle crouched on the first stair overlooking the great hall.
Trestle tables were arranged in a rectangular configuration. Polished metal torch stands formed a fiery ring around the celebrants. Slaves rushed in and out of the kitchen. The noble women seated at the tables wore colorful tunics and headdresses. Even the servants were dressed in finery.
One woman drew Rachelle’s undivided attention. The same blonde that Tyr had fondled stood near him, dressed in a charming green gown. Her lustrous tresses glistened in the candlelight. Remembering the passionate kisses she shared with the Viking in England made her jealous of his servant.
As guests shuffled around, Rachelle had an unobstructed view of Tyr’s profile. He was seated at the center of the high table with Onetooth at his right and a man she didn’t recognize to his left. Aaron reclined inelegantly in the chair next to the stranger. Tyr’s impressive stature captured her interest again. His thick hair was braided at the temples, adorned with silver and gold beads. Wearing a black tunic, embroidered with gold thread overa burgundy linen shirt, thejarllooked the perfect nobleman. His guest must be an important dignitary.
She lowered her eyes. This would be the last time she allowed that bullying swine of a man to get inside her head. What remained of the wreckage of her life was more important than Tyr. With renewed confidence, she slipped onto the landing. Not one soul paid any attention to her. The loud noise and cramped conditions in the room would shield her from notice, she hoped. She made it to the doors.
“Søster.”
Who said that?Although it was spoken in Norse, Rachelle understood clearly. So many women were here, why fear anything? She rested her hand on the metal latch.
“Sister,” the same voice called out in English.
The music dwindled. Afraid, she opened the door.
“Stopp den jenta,” someone called.
Her heart somersaulted inside her chest. She couldn’t look. That order was directed at her. Fisting her left hand, she held onto the door so tightly her right hand went numb. Then the sound of padded footsteps came. Closer and closer. Until soft leather boots appeared in her periphery. She wavered as a firm hand grasped her shoulder. Twisting around, she acknowledged the man with a mere nod.
“Come,” he said.
The sentry’s soft smile was reassuring, but it didn’t dismiss her fears. Head hanging, she avoided the stares she felt on her back as they walked between the tables. She still refused to raise her head after they stopped in the center of the room. The guard tapped her shoulder.
“You’ve nothing to worry about, girl,” he assured her.
Yes I do. As soon as Tyr and Onetooth recognize me…Thank God the hood covered most of her face.
“If you’re disfigured in any way, sister, tell me, and I’ll leave you in peace.” That gentle voice had a calming effect, but that name he kept calling her—sister—irritated her beyond measure. She crossed herself.
“Ah…” The stranger stood. “A Christian. So I speak righteously when I call you sister. Come, shed your veil, and reveal your identity.”
The price she’d have to pay for leaving her room. Lowering the hood, unruly, loose waves of hair broke free and tumbled down her back. She met Tyr’s heated gaze first. She scowled. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. Onetooth looked away. Guessing the stranger to be nobility, she couldn’t possibly deny his simple request. Something had caught his attention. Did she look that suspicious sneaking outside?
The visitor sucked in a satisfied breath. “Radiant. I’m never wrong. You’ve been hording this breath of joy, Jarl Sigurdsson. Not that I blame you.”
Tyr’s big hands opened and closed slowly. He sat close enough to grab ahold of the stranger’s throat. Something sinister flashed in Tyr’s eyes, making Rachelle swallow. He’d worn the same dire look when he’d tied the drunk to the tree in Durham.
“May I introduce, Rachelle Fiennes?” Tyr said, his tone reserved.
She curtsied, hoping to avoid Tyr’s displeasure.
“Saxon?” the guest asked, surprised.
