Blind Allegiance (18 page)

Inches of fresh, icy snow covered the ground and crunched noisily beneath them as they walked. Randvior stopped to check her, fingered her chin, and looked into her eyes. Truth always lingered on her delicate features—her eyes were red and swollen. He rewarded her stubbornness with a smile and continued into the woods along the northern boundary of his steading.

They halted at a clearing. A massive, whitewashed stone rested at the center. She stared curiously ahead, then turned to him with a questioning look. He patted her arm reassuringly. Randvior knelt and wrapped his arms around the stone.

He called on the gods, “Come Odin, Hlin, Eir, Frigg, Baldr, Magni, and Tyr . . .” Inscriptions were carved into the face of the rock.

Noelle reached hesitantly, and he nodded approval as she ran her fingers along the surface. He watched as she examined the ancient altar.

“What is this place?”

“Odin’s altar. We’re on hallowed ground, the most sacred on this steading. The place we invoke the favor of the gods, plead our causes, and beg forgiveness.
And pray for you
,” he added softly. “The words inscribed on this stone,” he ran his fingers over the carving, “are a message the Valkyries delivered on behalf of father Odin, wisdom to sustain my people.” The warrior inside him sparked to life again. The spirits of his ancestors inhabited his body now. “Stay with me,
min lille dukke
, and someday I’ll reveal the secrets behind these words.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

Before he answered, something flashed overhead. “Look!” Randvior pointed skyward.

She followed his gaze. Colored ribbons of dazzling light were suspended high above, pulsing, and oscillating. Terrified, she covered her face.

Randvior pulled her hand away. “It’s a blessing. Don’t be afraid, my little one, ’tis a good omen.”

They watched the celestial dance in awe as color spanned the breadth of the sky. And as the mystery slowly faded, moving farther north and altogether out of sight, they stared at each other in wonderment.

Once Noelle recovered and could speak again, she said, “I’ve never seen anything so phenomenal before.”

“
Nororljos
—the northern lights. The Valkyries favored you this eventide and donned their armor, a guarantee there will be a place for you at Odin’s table.”

He fell to his knees again. Only this time, he clasped her hand over his heart.

Her shoulders were rigid. “I can’t deny the way I feel when you touch me—kiss me—hold me. In your arms the world I knew before never really existed . . .” She clenched her left hand into a tight fist. Randvior knew she had revealed more than she ever intended.

“I want you,” he said as he got to his feet. “I’ve brought you here to swear an oath before the gods.” He reached inside his cloak and produced a small dagger. “You speak so poorly of love,
min lille dukke,
as if it will never find its way into your heart.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “The time has come for our love to take root.”

Randvior held his left hand over the altar, and with his right, scraped the blade across his palm. Blood slowly dripped onto the stone. “Odin is my master and witness. I offer this troth as an everlasting pledge of my love. Noelle Sinclair, you are now and forever blood of my blood. If the world should crumble around us, reduced to ash and dust, my promise shall endure.”

She rocked back on her heels in trance. Randvior pulled her closer to the stone. “Will you take this oath with me?”

She stared beyond the trees, focusing on something in the distance. He wondered
what
she saw through the darkness, regrets or maybe her future with him. He had spoken from the heart, as plainly and truthfully as he could. If she did not accept him now, he’d send her away. To a convent or to Brandon’s family in Scotland. But never back to Durham where her brother could hurt her.

She offered her hand and dagger quickly met flesh.

His shoulders rose and fell in contentment and triumph. Because he hadn’t coerced her into taking this oath, the gods would consider it legitimate. The act of volunteering her hand was enough. Randvior set the dagger aside and removed a piece of linen from his pocket. He doctored her wound tenderly, blotting the blood, and tied the bandage tightly around her wrist.

“I love you.”

He could see the surprise on her face and she swallowed. His heart burned and his loins ached for relief.
She’s too afraid to give herself away.

Randvior covered her mouth and cheeks with fervent kisses. She returned them with equal ardor. All this time she begged him to respond, to confess his undying love, and reiterate it over and over again. Still the girl refused to admit her own feelings.
O
my sweet little hypocrite.
He swept her off her feet.

“Where are we going now?”

“To announce our betrothal. A man can only endure so much. I’ll be damned if I’ll wait another minute.” For the first time in many days, Randvior laughed.

Guards saluted as they crossed the threshold into the great hall. The crowd responded unremittingly. Noelle’s head rested against Randvior’s chest.

“I give you the freedom to manage this household,” he whispered. “I want you to be comfortable and happy—we are family now.”

He knew they were words she needed to hear.

Randvior hugged her closer as he stepped onto the dais and scanned the many faces of the people standing closest. Noelle snuggled deeper into the folds of his cloak trying to hide.

“Don’t be afraid.” His eyes penetrated hers. “Everyone wants to celebrate.”

“No need to exaggerate, my lord.”

Randvior chuckled at her pessimism as she slid from his arms.

He’d hold nothing back now. “I returned from Durham a wealthier man. Of all the treasures hidden in that English fortress, I desired the lord’s youngest daughter most. I have offered Lady Sinclair the protection of my home and name. The gods revealed the pathway to my destiny in the Orkneys and I returned with my future in my arms. No man,” he paused and looked directly at his mother, “or woman, shall interfere with what the gods have mandated.”

Pressing his lips closed, the sting of overwhelming silence both disappointed and angered him beyond words. Had he misjudged the hearts of his people so carelessly? He felt consumed by anything that pertained to her. But once Noelle gifted the assembly with a brilliant smile, they erupted into hurrahs. All they needed to see was that she willingly embraced this marriage.

He relaxed then, savoring the sultry glint in her eyes and admiring the soft contours of her face. He kissed her forehead and called for a cup of mead. The honey taste reminded him of the sweetness of her lips. “A toast for father Odin!” He raised his cup high.

Mugs and fists pounded the tabletops thunderous and maddening, proof of his supporters’ joy.

Another blessing had graced his life.

Lauga looked him over reservedly. She stood with a group of women near the main hearth. Their eyes locked. His gaze drifted beyond her and stopped on a man with a badly bruised face who stared unfalteringly at his betrothed.

What a difference a betrothal could make. Noelle felt a bit overwhelmed by the number of well-wishers lining up along the front of the stage to shake her hand. God, she wanted to run away. But she stayed because she wanted to enjoy every second her future mother-in-law was forced to stand by her son and greet his supporters with as much enthusiasm as him. Cunning and deceptive.

All her life she had longed for a mother and always hoped marriage would provide one. But not this marriage, and never this woman.

Brandon’s company lightened her mood. He grasped her hand and made a ridiculous fuss over the engagement. “I am deeply disturbed the lady chose you over me. To think you could have had my heart and spent your days with a civilized man . . .” he teased her relentlessly and grinned at Randvior.

Randvior arched his brow. “Did she ever have a choice?”

No.
Noelle held her tongue.

They laughed.

Hours later, after most of the celebrants departed or passed out drunk, Noelle yawned—she wanted to go to bed. Randvior had wandered off with a group of men.

As she walked to the stairs, someone flattened her against the wall from behind.

“You chose life with a bloody Norse, and I warn you, I’ll use every inch of that beautiful body to my advantage.”

Randvior’s musky scent filled her nostrils. His body was flush against hers and he hiked the back of her skirt up. Fingers trailed up her inner thigh and she sucked in an excited breath. He thumbed the sensitive nub between her legs. Within a few meager seconds, her pleasure crested and she collapsed against the wall deliriously. She reached around and caressed the rock-hard bulge between his legs.

“Go to bed,” he commanded, and let her skirt fall.

She turned. The muscles around his lips twitched while he stared at her. “Why did you pleasure me?” She craved intimacy.

“So you don’t forget.”

“What?”

“Anything . . .” he mumbled, intoxicated. “Good wives are few, and you have the promise to be the best.”

She blushed at the compliment. Drunk or not, she wanted more.

Against her wishes, he sent her upstairs without a proper good night. She looked back and met his gaze unflinchingly as he leaned against the wall, eyes hard, face brooding. Her blood thundered. He had deliberately sparked her desire and sent her away thirsting. This was no reminder, but a warning. Randvior Sigurdsson knew exactly what he was doing, removing lingering thoughts of Ovesen from her mind.

Katherine greeted her and she shared the joyful news.

“A pity you are forced into such an arrangement after your sire—”

“He loves me . . .” Noelle didn’t want her only friend to disapprove of this match.

“Did he tell you so, my lady?”

“Yes, many times.” Although primitive, blood oath remained a form of betrothal in England. Mostly in the northern regions where clans
still occupied untamed swaths of land.

“A pagan ritual is no substitute for a true Christian betrothal.”

Katherine risked much, speaking so boldly. But Noelle had always encouraged her to speak freely. “I’m not a simpleton,” Noelle snapped. “I did what I must to protect myself and my family’s interests. I admit that I possess feelings for him, how deeply they go I cannot say, not yet. And could my father have done any better?”

“Your noble birthright is squandered on a barbarian. I’m sure your father—”

“Lord Sinclair never considered my personal feelings in anything, especially in selecting a husband. I admire my father’s accomplishments, but he needed gold to pay off his debts more than he needed a daughter.”

“But the
jarl
is not obligated to the English crown or even our Church.”

“I know.” Surprisingly, she felt relieved by this fact. “Somehow, I prefer it that way.”

Randvior dismissed his slaves after midnight. His unquenchable thirst was driven by an increasing hunger for Noelle. He’d drink until he collapsed or ran out of wine. Whichever came first didn’t matter. Better she not see him this way. Better she not know the new depth of his dark obsession for her. Their blood oath changed everything.

Brandon refused to let him stew and slapped his back, making him choke down the ale in his mouth.

“How many lasses are weeping bitterly this very night because the mighty Randvior has finally chosen a wife? Even more hearts would have trembled if the lady had selected
me
as husband.”

Randvior snorted. “And how many heads would have been dislodged from their bloody necks if she had chosen you?” He tore off a hunk of bread and dipped it in a bowl of broth.

“Many,” Brandon indulged. “Too many to count.” He chucked Randvior on the chin.

He smiled before he wrestled Brandon’s hand to the table. He held it down in challenge.

“Ye desire an arm wrestling contest?”

Randvior’s face split into a heady grin. “Aye,” he said. “But I’d prefer to save the weakest man for last to make it fair. Bring me one of those young bucks first so I might demonstrate my superiority for you, my friend.”

Brandon espied the group of eager boys who perked up the minute the informal challenge was made. They gathered along the front of the stage. Traditionally, anyone who defeated the
jarl
in sport would be granted a reasonable request. Fald Ovesen, who still sat nearby, laughed delightedly and pointed out his eldest son.

“Not a skilled talker,” Fald observed, “but he speaks well with his fists.”

Randvior grunted. What happened in the bathhouse between him and Sveinn would remain private. However, he wanted nothing more than to purge the rage from his heart. He could easily torture the man for hours before he felt any relief. He chose Sveinn as his opponent.

Strict rules applied to arm wrestling matches, no matter how informal. Brandon would act as referee and appoint seats for the challengers. Massive right hands folded together across the high table.

Brandon circled, checking their form from every angle. Upon final inspection, the Scot straightened their wrists until he was sure neither had a starting advantage.

On the count of three, Brandon whistled and the match began. Sveinn displayed raw skill first and locked Randvior’s wrist in a vulnerable position. Randvior indulged the younger man by allowing him to dominate and spend his strength early. Each time Sveinn attempted to slam his hand down, Randvior forced him back to the starting position.

He grinned as Sveinn dug his long fingernails into the palm of his left hand and drew blood. He loved competition for the sake of a fight and twisted Sveinn’s wrist so hard it cracked loudly as he banged it down in decisive victory. The sickening sound drew the boy’s worried father to the tableside. After a quick inspection, it was realized only to be a severe sprain.

Fald seemed relieved. “It’s a long ride home and my son requires rest and time to mend his pride.”

“Aye.” Randvior agreed. “Go with my blessing.” He greatly appreciated Fald, but his son deserved the sharp end of his sword.