Chapter Nine

Taranc sought the correct word to describe the woman in his arms. He settled upon brittle. Lady Brynhild, the proud Viking lady, sister to the Jarl of Skarthveit sat the horse with a stiffness he could not entirely attribute to the switching he had dealt her, though without doubt that played its part. She held her body straight, her spine rigid and unyielding as she refused to lean back against him. It was as though she could not bring herself to be in contact with his body, to touch him at all.

He flattened his lips in irritation. She would learn the hard way that comfort should be had where it might be found. In her situation, he was the only source and she would do well to remember that.

They rode in tense silence for perhaps an hour. It was Taranc's intention to travel through the night and, with luck, reach Hafrsfjord shortly before first light. The fishing vessel promised by Ulfric should be waiting for them in the small harbour there and he saw no cause to doubt it. The Jarl had been as good as his word up to now. Taranc hoped to enter the port under cover of darkness and put to sea before the inhabitants of Hafrsfjord were up and about. The fewer who saw them, the better .

This evening had gone more or less to plan thus far. He had bargained on spirited resistance by Brynhild and she had not disappointed him. It was to be hoped that the sore bottom that must pain her with every jolt and roll of the mount beneath her would be sufficient reminder of the perils of crossing him again. They would see. He was not averse to issuing a further demonstration of his mastery of her fate should that prove necessary.

He might have been able to dredge up a little more in the way of sympathy for the Viking's plight were it not for the many tales he had heard of Brynhild's ill treatment of Fiona. Though he knew her to be mean of spirit and malicious, Taranc could not help believing that the taciturn woman who now shared his mount might shatter into a thousand pieces at the slightest jolt. She had a quick temper and would think nothing of venting it upon those who could not defend themselves. She was not deserving of his compassion.

Still, this night's work was not her punishment. It was not for him to seek retribution for the hurts done to Fiona. Her banishment from her home was the forfeit she had paid and he had no cause to compound Brynhild's misery.

"You should sleep, lady. I will make sure you do not fall." A decent enough offer, in Taranc's view, given the circumstances.

Brynhild did not favour him with so much as a reply. She continued to stare straight ahead, her shoulders stiff and unmoving, her silence unrelenting even though he had removed the gag once they were mounted and on their way again and she was free to speak should she so desire.

Taranc shrugged. She might please herself.

Another hour passed. Hafrsfjord still lay a good four hours' ride away, but they were making brisk progress and Taranc saw no reason not to pause for a bite to eat and a mouthful of the fine ale supplied by Ulfric. He reined in the horse and offered his hand to Brynhild. "We shall halt here for a few minutes. "

She ignored his offer of assistance and grabbed the front of the saddle with her bound hands before slithering down to the ground. Her legs seemed to crumple beneath her and she landed heavily upon her knees.

Foolish woman. Taranc kept his opinion to himself as he dismounted and took her elbow to help her up. She would have shaken off his hand but he did not permit that, holding onto her until he was certain she was steady. Then he slung the reins over a tree branch and walked around the mare to access the bag he had slung from the saddle. A hunk of cheese and a lump of bread was not the finest fare he might have hoped for, but it would do. He withdrew the food and returned to offer it to Brynhild.

Or he would have, were she still where he had left her.

For fuck's sake! He spun around, scanning the darkness. The woman could barely stand, how had she managed to make a break for it, and in silence? She had had but a few scant seconds, and—

There! The snap of a twig betrayed her direction. Taranc had the moonlight to thank for the brief glimpse of a slender shape slipping between the trees some fifty or so paces from where he stood, but it was enough. He stuffed the bread and cheese back into the bag and set off after her at a dead sprint.

He had to acknowledge that she was determined in her attempt to elude him. Brynhild abandoned all semblance of stealth once she heard his pursuit and ran as though her life depended upon it. He did not really blame her, it probably seemed so to her. Still, he had warned his captive what would be the result if she tried such foolishness again. She would live to bitterly regret this ridiculous impulse, but first he had to get his hands upon the recalcitrant wench.

Had her wrists not been bound he had no doubt she would have been harder to catch. Not impossible, but harder. The Viking's long legs ate up the ground and she leapt over fallen trees and roots with an agility he envied. Still, Taranc was gaining upon her and it was but a matter of time. His lungs burned as he closed the distance, but he managed to come within an arm's length.

"Stop, lady. Give it up and I shall not hurt you. Much."

"May you rot in your own filth, Celt," came the panting response.

So be it. Taranc found one final burst of speed and hurled himself at the woman in front of him. He caught a handful of her cloak. It was enough to tip her off balance and she lost her footing. The pair tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over in the undergrowth as Taranc sought to subdue the wriggling, screaming demon he had grabbed. She landed a decent kick to his shin. Taranc grunted, muttered a curse she could not possibly understand despite her passable Gaelic. Brynhild's struggles became more furious, more desperate. She clawed at his face with her bound hands, screaming at the top of her lungs.

How did she still have the breath to screech like that? It was all he could do to gasp out a half-decent obscenity.

Taranc had had enough. He grasped the leather strap he had used to bind her wrists and dragged her hands above her head, pinning them there. His weight was on top of her, one leg slung across her hips to pin her to the ground. He used his free hand to cover her mouth. The bloody screaming had to stop.

Brynhild went still. No, not still, he amended. She froze. Where one moment he was wrestling with a woman crazed, the next he could have been lying on top of a corpse. Brynhild was stiff, absolutely rigid, not even breathing as far as he could tell. He instantly removed his hand from her mouth and was relieved to detect the light feathering of her breath on his fingers.

Taranc leaned his weight on his elbow but did not relinquish his hold on her hands. He leaned over her and gazed into her face, and was stunned by what he saw there.

Terror. Blind, abject terror. Her eyes were dark, the irises almost completely obliterated by her pupils, but he believed she no longer saw him. Her nostrils flared, her lips were parted, and he could swear her teeth were chattering. Gone was the angry, resentful, spitting and fighting she-cat of just moments ago to be replaced by a frightened, beaten girl.

It was exactly as before, on the day he had saved her from being trampled by the horse.

Taranc released his grip on her wrists and rolled off her. Still Brynhild did not move. She appeared paralysed by her fear of him, unable to defend herself or even plead for her life.

Taranc knelt at her side. "I am sorry… I did not mean…"

She flinched as though he struck her.

"Brynhild, you are safe. I shall not harm you."

Her breath came in shallow gasps now, and the blue of her eyes slowly returned as panic receded. Still she stared straight up, at some point beyond Taranc. She started to shake so he dragged off his cloak and wrapped it around her although she already wore her own. She had reason to fear him, to fear the spanking she must know to expect, but this reaction went far beyond that and he did not believe it to be feigned. Brynhild was in a place of her own imagining, a place he did not comprehend where she had found danger and terror and helplessness. He had caused this, and he did not care for it at all.

"Brynhild? Little Viking? Speak to me. Please." He lowered his tone, his words gentle as he sought to coax her back into the here and now. The merest hitch of her breath betrayed that she heard him. "Brynhild, I shall help you to sit up. Is that all right?"

He did not know why, but it seemed important to seek her permission before he touched her again.

"May I?"

She closed her eyes, and she nodded. Just once, but it was clear enough. He slid his hand under her shoulders and eased her from the ground. "Take deep breaths. We shall wait here until you are ready to move."

He was in a hurry. Hafrsfjord beckoned. Why had he promised her all the time she might need?

Her eyes remained closed and she lifted her hands to cover her face. Brynhild leaned forward, her head bowed now, and her shoulders started to shake. She was weeping.

At a loss, Taranc acted on instinct again. He wrapped her in his arms and turned her to face his chest. He half-expected her to struggle, to try to escape his hold but her resistance was entirely spent. Instead, she scrambled toward him as though she sought to crawl right inside his rough tunic. Her sobs became louder, more despairing, wrenching from her as the pent-up grief poured forth. Taranc just held her, stroking her hair and muttering words of comfort that he doubted she would comprehend as he rocked her back and forth.

At last the anguished weeping subsided. Brynhild sniffled and gulped, her body shuddering as she fought to regain control. Taranc willed himself to be patient and was rewarded when, eventually, she turned her tear-ravaged face toward him.

"I am sorry. I do not know what happened. I… I…"

"Hush," he murmured into her hair. "It is all right."

"But—"

"We shall talk, if you wish it. And soon. But now, we go to Hafrsfjord."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "H-Hafrsfjord? But, why?"

"Is it not obvious, little Viking? We need a boat. We are going to the land of the Celts."

She shook her head. "I cannot. No, it is impossible. My brother will come, he will stop you, and—"

Taranc laid one finger over her lips, the merest of pressure, just enough to halt the flow of words. "We go to Hafrsfjord. Come."

He got to his feet and extended his hand to her. This time Brynhild accepted his assistance and fell into step at his side as he led the way back through the woodland to where the mare waited patiently. Given the episode in the forest Taranc was tempted to forgo the promised spanking. The last thing he needed was another emotional outpouring. His mind was made up when Brynhild regarded him from beneath her still-damp lashes.

"You will beat me again. Because I tried to escape."

It was a statement. She fully expected him to carry out his threat. Not to do so, whatever the reason, would be unwise.

Taranc inclined his head. "I shall, yes." He glanced about them. "You will lean against that tree, over there, and raise your skirts."

"The switch?"

He nodded. "Six strokes this time. I shall increase your punishment by two strokes every time I have cause to discipline you so you might do well to bear that in mind."

"You do not frighten me, Celt."

No? Taranc thought otherwise but made no comment. He found her defiance in the face of a switching somewhat reassuring. She would accept this well enough.

He gestured with his thumb. "The tree, lady. Let us be done with this and on our way."

Obedient as a lamb now, she moved to position herself before the tree he indicated then turned to regard him over her shoulder. "You will require your cloak back. Or should I say, my brother's cloak."

Taranc offered her a tight smile as he extracted a prepared switch from the half dozen or so he had stashed in his saddlebag. "A fine garment, lady. Your work?"

"Of course." She removed it from her shoulders and offered it to him.

Taranc took it and set it to one side, then accepted Brynhild's own cloak which she duly unfastened and slid from her body. He folded that and laid it on top of his own. "Can you manage?" He had not untied her hands.

"I believe so. You will require me to lift my skirt?"

"Naturally. A switching is always on the bare buttocks. I find it more effective that way and I would not wish you to harbour any illusions regarding your future obedience."

"You are a barbarian."

"Aye, if you say so." He swung the switch through the air and noted the widening of her eyes at the high-pitched whistle it made as it rent the air. "And I am a barbarian in a hurry, so if you would be so kind…?"

Brynhild offered him a hostile glare, then she turned to face the tree. She bent to grasp the hem of her skirt and wasted no time in dragging the fabric up and around her waist. Her apparent lack of modesty surprised Taranc, not least given her state of near collapse earlier when she found herself lying beneath him on the ground, but he chose not to analyse this conundrum quite yet.

Brynhild managed to secure the fabric of her skirt by tucking it under the band of woven wool that served as a belt, though a fold of it did dangle down, partly obscuring her right buttock. This would not do.

"Allow me." Taranc stepped forward and lent his aid, securing the skirt at the back as well as in the front as Brynhild had done. Satisfied, he stepped back. "Six strokes. Are you ready?"

"I do not understand this. What good does this do? Why do you waste time here, punishing me for doing what you must have known I would, when you could press on to Hafrsfjord?"

Taranc paused. "You Vikings are not averse to meting out a spanking when it is deserved. I know your brother to be of that persuasion and I hardly think you have escaped such chastisement your entire life, Brynhild."

"No, not even when I was a child, though perhaps, on occasion my mother considered it. Now, as a woman grown, it makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense. You and I find ourselves thrown together by circumstances. I do not know how long we shall be in one another's company, but I expect it to be a while. Your obedience and submission are vital to my safety, and did you but know it, to yours also. This way, if you cross me, I shall punish you, and then the matter will be closed. I have no wish to constantly drag up past hurts, and a spanking puts an end to the matter. We need never speak of your wrongdoing again. You will be forgiven."

"Why would I desire your forgiveness?" She glared at him over her shoulder as she snarled the words. "You are a Celt, a thrall, a runaway slave. You will be recaptured soon enough, and—"

Taranc's patience was at an end, and the infernal woman did have a point. He had precious little time to waste. "You may not want my forgiveness, but you shall have it anyway. Once you have taken your spanking. Are you ready?"

"Just do it, Celt." She managed to inject a note of real venom into her tone. His rebellious Viking was back.

She hissed when the first stroke landed across her right buttock. Taranc paused to allow her to regain her composure, admiring the faint stripe that bloomed across her pale flesh. The four wheals from earlier already decorated her pretty arse and he would take care to avoid the exact same spots. He selected his next target.

Brynhild let out a squeal when he laid the switch on her left cheek, but she did not move.

She managed not to actually scream until he reached number five. Taranc was impressed. The sixth stroke landed across the backs of both thighs and he knew it hurt. She screamed again and danced on the spot.

"Stand still. I have finished, but you will remain as you are while I ready the horse."

She leaned forward to rest her forehead against the bark of the tree but offered no protest. Taranc allowed himself a few moments to admire the glorious sight of her punished bottom, the stripes he had placed there crisscrossing each other, a deep, sensual pink in contrast with her milky skin.

This Viking might consider herself his enemy, and he supposed she was right. Still, he could appreciate a beautiful woman when her bottom was bared to him.

It did not take him long to ready the mare. He returned to where Brynhild waited, her shoulders bent as she gripped the tree. Was she crying?

Taranc resisted the temptation to explore the stripes, to feel the raised ribbons beneath his fingers and to listen to her gasps of pleasure or pain as he did so. He would not touch her unless she gave her permission. Instead he made short work of releasing her skirt from its confines, front and back and dropped the fabric to cover her lower body once more.

"Ready?"

"No," she snapped.

So, not crying, then . "I thought as much. Surely we do not need to repeat this exercise so soon?"

"I hate you." She turned and marched toward the little mare.

Did she? She had every reason to, and as little as an hour ago Taranc would not have cared one way or the other. He followed her back to the horse and was both surprised and pleased when she allowed him to assist her into the saddle. He handed her back her cloak, then swung up behind her.

"You might find it more comfortable to rest on my thighs."

She said nothing, but adjusted her position as he suggested.

"So, my Viking. Onward to Hafrsfjord." Taranc nudged the horse with his heels and they were in motion again.

* * *

The mare was a sturdy little beast and maintained a steady canter despite the double weight upon her back. Taranc was not called upon to remind the animal of the need for haste and soon he considered the time he had lost in the forest recovered. Thus reassured, his thoughts turned to the incident that puzzled him. He turned over the sequence of events in his mind, though why he should entertain any real interest in the cause of his captive's extreme distress was somewhat beyond him. The Viking woman possessed no such finer feelings nor compassion, and it was these failings that had led to her kidnapping. She was not deserving of his sympathy or concern. He should just leave it and concentrate his efforts on making certain they both left these Godforsaken frigid shores with all the speed he could muster.

But he could not. She had been fine, or what passed for fine with Brynhild Freysson, right up until he had lunged for her and brought her to the ground. That was when everything had changed.

"What happened, back there?" He opted for the direct approach.

"I do not know what you mean." Her spine stiffened and she continued to stare straight ahead.

"Liar. What happened, back there in the forest? You were terrified. Of me?"

"I have told you, I am not afraid of you, Celt."

"Yet you were. It was there, in your face, your body. You were paralysed by fear. Then you sobbed as though your heart was broken."

"Do I not have the right? I have been abducted from my home, beaten, threatened. I am entitled to be upset."

"It was more than that. I caused your terror, or so it seemed, but did it really have anything to do with me at all?"

"No!" She turned to peer up at him over her shoulder. "It had nothing whatsoever to do with you. Not then, not now."

He tried another tack. "I would wish to avoid causing you such distress again. Perhaps if I knew—"

"It is not your concern, Celt." Her tone hardened and she became even more rigid in his arms. Brynhild was again the haughty Nordic lady and she drew that imaginary cloak of superiority about her as she lifted her chin to gaze at the route ahead. "If you wish not to distress me, then release me. Allow me to return to my home, my family. Continue on to your homeland if you are determined upon it, and if you are able to secure a boat, which I doubt will prove as simple as you imagine. But leave me here."

Taranc sighed. He was getting nowhere on this but he did not consider the matter closed. Far from it.

They passed a large outcrop of flat rocks, then a tree that had been struck by lightning. Taranc recalled the landmarks described by Ulfric and knew that they were nearing Hafrsfjord. The sky had not yet started to lighten, but it would in the next hour or so. He preferred to arrive at the port just before dawn if he could manage it, before the townspeople started to rise, but with the full day's sailing ahead of them.

Taranc nudged the mount to a full gallop and covered the remaining five miles until the rooftops of the small port came into sight at the foot of the next hill they crested. He reined in the horse and strained his eyes in the thinning gloom to pick out what he sought.

Yes. There. A small fishing boat was moored at a jetty just outside the main town. The craft bobbed on the water, sails rigged and ready to go. Taranc turned the horse in the direction of the boat and urged the mare forward again.