Chapter Eleven

Taranc said nothing. He scrutinised the vehement features of the woman at his feet, could all but feel the heat of the crackling rage that coursed through her stiff frame. There was a familiarity to the set of her jaw, the determined glint in her deep blue eyes though he could not entirely place it. Of one thing he had no doubt, however. In that moment, he knew Brynhild Freysson spoke the truth.

He could not account for the misapprehension, but he did not doubt that it had been a mistake. Ulfric had got it wrong, Fiona too. Brynhild had her faults. No one could deny that and they were many, but attempted murder was not among them.

He stood and paced the length of the fishing boat, adjusted the blanket he had wrapped around his waist, then turned to view the fast disappearing shoreline of the Norse lands. What to do now? He could order Eiliefr to turn the vessel about and take her home, but he was not entirely certain the man would obey. Ten pieces of silver could be very persuasive. Even if the fisherman could be cajoled, Taranc was not prepared to return to Hafrsfjord as that would mean his own recapture and he had no intention of delivering himself back into slavery. He might set Brynhild ashore elsewhere and leave her, but he could not be certain she would be able to make her way safely back to Skarthveit alone.

What reception might she expect when she got there? If she got there. Ulfric would be far from happy to see her. To all intents and purposes, Brynhild Freysson had no home to go back to.

And if, by some unlikely chance, she was able to convince her brother to allow her to remain, what would that mean for Fiona? Brynhild believed the Celtic slave to have lied to Ulfric, and that lie had cost Brynhild dear. She would not forgive it, and he had only to recall the glint of ruthless determination in the Norsewoman's eyes as she delivered the most powerful of reasons for accepting her word, to know that Fiona would never be safe from her now.

If Brynhild wanted to kill an enemy, she would. She would not fail. Fiona was now her enemy, of that there could be no doubt.

He drew in a long sigh and tilted his head back to peruse the heavens as though inspiration might be found there. Perhaps it might. Taranc made up his mind.

He returned to drop down on his haunches beside Brynhild.

"Very well, I accept your explanation. You are telling the truth. It was a misunderstanding. A dangerous one, and one which might have ended in tragedy, but I do believe you that it was not done on purpose."

"You do?" She eyed him with suspicion. "Why? Why would you believe me if my own brother would not?"

"Did you say to him what you just said to me? About not failing if you had truly set out to murder Fiona?"

"Of course I did not."

"Then you have your answer, lady. It is not a pleasant thought, I grant you, but I do believe you to be ruthless enough, and clever enough, not to fail at such an endeavour. Fiona lives, as you have pointed out, so… "

"You will take me home. I shall explain to Ulfric, again. He will believe me this time."

Taranc offered her a tight smile. "I am sorry, lady, for it is not quite so simple."

She narrowed her azure eyes. "Of course it is exactly so simple. Turn the boat around. Now."

He shook his head. "We cannot return. I would be recaptured and back to hauling rocks for Ulfric or some other Viking. This is not a prospect I am prepared to contemplate."

"I would tell them—"

"No, lady. We are not going back. You might convince Ulfric, or you might not. If you were to fail, he would not allow you to remain at Skarthveit. That much is obvious."

"I could go to my other brother, Gunnar. His settlement is to the north."

"You know the way? The location?" Taranc would be happy enough to consider a slight diversion. Perhaps this might offer a solution after all.

She shook her head. "I have never been there, but—"

"Lady, I am not about to spend a Nordic winter tramping across your land in search of your brother's village."

"You need not come."

"Do not even think of such madness. Alone, you would perish in the attempt."

"I would not. I—"

"Enough. You have been unjustly served, perhaps, though the dear Lord knows you contributed to the ill which has befallen you. That is of no matter now. You will come with me to Scotland, and—"

"I will not! I shall not. I refuse."

Taranc gestured about him, at the small vessel, the expanse of sea that surrounded them. "I hardly think you are in any position to refuse. You are aboard this boat, and we are bound for Scotland, so…" He shrugged. It was a pity, he supposed, and she had a right to resent the ci rcumstances in which she found herself. But it was done now, and they must make the best they might of the situation. "You should eat, and we have some fresh water on board. Then you might sleep for a while."

He rose to his feet, intending to seek out sustenance for his reluctant passenger. His own leggings were dangling from the rail, his leather belt in front of him on the bench. He picked up the belt and reached for the dagger he kept tucked in a small scabbard there. He would use it to slice off a few chunks of cheese for his captive.

She moved fast, faster than he expected, certainly. Brynhild's hand shot out from within the folds of the blanket. She grabbed the knife before he could get his hands on it, then she scrambled to her feet.

"Turn us about. Now. We return to Hafrsfjord or… or I shall kill the pair of you and sail the boat back myself."

Taranc and Eiliefr exchanged a look. They both knew she would fail. One woman, even with a knife, could not fell two grown men, one of them an escaped slave intent upon hanging on to his freedom and the other a Viking karl with every intention of living to enjoy the benefits of his newfound wealth. Even if she could subdue them, she had no more chance of successfully steering back into the port than she might sprout wings and take to the air.

"Brynhild, think." Taranc edged around in front of her outstretched arm, his eyes on the glinting blade. He always kept his weapon sharp. "This is madness. You cannot possibly—"

"Be quiet," she interrupted him. "Turn the boat about."

"No. We are going on to Scotland." He kept his tone low, so as not to alarm her further. Best if she were to see the folly of her actions and relinquish the weapon.

Brynhild scrambled to her feet, her actions awkward as she required her spare hand to anchor the edges of the blanket at her front. She glared at Taranc and jabbed the knife at him. Her actions were more desperate than threatening since several feet separated them still and she had no hope of drawing blood.

"Give me the knife." He held out his hand. "This will get you nowhere, and if I have to take that knife from you it will earn you a whipping you will never forget."

"You have no right to touch me, to threaten me. I am the Viking here, you are but a thrall, and—"

"My apologies, lady. I did not intend to threaten you." He ventured a pace forward, bringing him almost within range of the blade.

"Then you will return me to my home? Now?"

"That is not possible, as I have explained. And I did not threaten you. That was a promise."

"A promise? I—"

Taranc took advantage of her momentary surge of frustrated outrage to make his move. He lunged low and to her right, grasping the hem of the blanket and tugging it down, hard. Brynhild lost her slender grip on the fabric and it slithered to the deck to leave her standing naked before him. As she instinctively reached to cover herself, he leapt forward again to grab the wrist of the hand holding the knife and squeezed. Her fingers sprang apart and the knife rattled to the deck. Taranc kicked it toward Eileifr who calmly reached down and picked it up. The fisherman offered Taranc a casual nod as he returned to his sails.

Meanwhile Taranc had his work cut out as Brynhild fought him with all she had. She shrieked and wriggled and clawed at him, seeking, he was quite convinced, to put out both his eyes before she was done. She even sank her teeth into his forearm when an opportunity presented itself.

Despite Brynhild's determined efforts, the eventual outcome was never in doubt. Taranc wrestled her to the deck and pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. He was angry, his arm throbbed like a fucking demon and he had managed to lose his own blanket in the skirmish though that did not bother him overmuch. She might feel differently. He did not forget her extreme reaction when he had tackled her to the ground the previous night. He searched her hostile, contorted features for evidence of similar terrors but found none. Thus reassured, he allowed his far from disinterested gaze to roam the length of her, taking in the fullness of her perfectly upturned breasts topped with pretty pink nipples that tightened in the chill air. He considered taking one between his lips to taste the plump sweetness of it, but that would have to wait. He ventured further, admiring the softly curling blonde hair between her thighs, the long, shapely legs that were crossed tight at the thigh as though she might bar his entrance.

As well she might. He was no abuser of women. If she said ‘no,' then…

With his free hand he swept the length of her pale blonde hair back from her face and offered her a tight smile.

"Let me go. Do not touch me…" Her voice hitched, panic starting to bubble forth.

He had expected as much. Taranc softened his features. "You are safe, lady, apart from the whipping you have earned, naturally."

Her eyes widened. "Wh-whipping. What do you intend to do?"

"We are at eight strokes, I believe, by my reckoning." He glanced over his shoulder. "We shall use the mast, I think…"

"The mast? What? You cannot—"

It was time to be firm, to assert his authority if they were to have any peace on this voyage. "Lady, you do not command here. I do, and I have already warned you of the consequences if you disobey or otherwise vex me. Eight strokes. Now, get up."

He released her wrists and rose to his feet. He did not miss the startled widening of her eyes when she found herself staring at his semi-erect cock, the darkening of her pupils as the implications of his arousal sank in. He could not help his response to her and was not about to apologise for it, but he did not need her to succumb to panic now. Taranc grinned at her as he retrieved the blanket and tied it around his waist again then offered her his hand to assist her up. She was not reassured. Brynhild shrank away from him, shaking her head. "No, please do not do this. I am sorry, I—"

"Up. Now." The sudden evaporation of her previous belligerence was not lost on him. Neither was her shock at the sight of his erection but Taranc was not entirely convinced. He would not put it past her to dissemble, to seek to manipulate him even now. He deliberately hardened his tone. "You may submit willingly, or not, but the end will be the same." He leaned down to offer his hand again.

Brynhild groped behind her for the blanket and managed to snag a corner of the fabric. She clasped it around her once more as she scrambled to her feet, ignoring his offer of assistance. Her chin tilted at a defiant angle as she glared at him, then eyed the mast with distaste. So much for her nervous apprehension and apparent contrition.

Taranc gestured to her to precede him to the mast where Eileifr waited with a length of narrow rope. Her steps slow, Brynhild did as he instructed, coming to a halt below the billowing sail. She looked up, then back over her shoulder at Taranc. "Shall I lean against it, then?"

"You will hug the mast, lady, and Eileifr, if you would be so good as to secure her wrists? Not too tight, but we must be sure she will not shift at an inopportune moment."

"That will not be necessary, I—"

"Eileifr." At Taranc's curt command the karl stepped forward and reached for Brynhild's wrists. She stepped away from him, her eyes blazing.

"Keep your hands off me. I will not permit this." She tucked her hands further within the folds of the blanket.

Taranc had heard enough. He leaned forward to murmur in her ear. "Ten, lady. And the count will increase with every act of defiance, every refusal to obey. Are you really so set on adding to your punishment? You will spend a great deal more time than you might care to imagine lashed to that mast if you do not have a care. "

She spun to glower at him, and he could not miss the glisten of unshed tears. Whether it was her pride that suffered or genuine fear of the pain to come he did not know, but at last he believed the true Brynhild Freysson was starting to reveal herself. Now was the time to press his advantage. He nodded toward the mast. "Hug it, lady. And you will have no need of the blanket for the next little while."

She considered his words for several moments, then positioned herself before the mast and extended her arms about its girth. She did not yet relinquish the blanket. The colourful weave draped her slender shoulders as she leaned forward to rest her cheek on the smooth curve of the wood. She lowered her eyelids and gnawed on her lower lip with her teeth as Eileifr quickly tied her wrists together on the other side of the beam.

Yes, she was scared, and Taranc believed this was real. Her submission might be forced, but she recognised his power over her however much she might deplore it and had abandoned her attempts to resist, to refuse to cooperate. She might yet learn a valuable lesson this day.

Taranc took the blanket and tugged it away from her body. Brynhild flinched as the cool morning air caressed her naked back. She opened her eyes to meet his gaze, her expression fearful. "Please…" she mouthed.

Taranc moved in close and lifted the heavy length of her unbound hair that cascaded down her back. He draped it over her shoulder and on impulse bent to kiss the top of her head. "This will be quick, Brynhild. I promise. And you will come to no harm."

She closed her beautiful azure eyes again, and nodded.

Taranc wasted no time in retrieving his belt, which had been flung to the deck in the scramble for the knife. He removed the empty sheath and folded its length so he could grasp the metal buckle within his fist. He walked back to where his captive leaned against the solid wooden pole, her body shivering. The marks of her previous punishment still streaked her pale buttocks, and Taranc believed he had never seen a sight more beautiful. Brynhild Freysson might be the most difficult, complicated, and frankly demanding woman he had ever encountered, but she was without doubt the most lovely. If their circumstances were different…

He gave himself a mental shake. The circumstances were not different. They were what they were—awkward, dangerous, and bloody inconvenient. He would do what must be done, and she would bear what she could not avoid. What came next he had not the faintest notion, but he would feel his way through this… somehow.

"Are you ready?"

Her lips tightened into a grimace. She made no further response.

"Ten strokes. I shall count. You may make all the din you like since we are far out of port and none but the gulls will hear you."

A single tear escaped the corner of her eye and snaked its way across her pale cheek. Despite her reluctance to embrace the mast a few minutes ago he noted that she gripped it like a devoted lover now.

The belt whistled through the air. Brynhild let out a startled yelp even before the leather connected with her quivering rump then danced on the spot as the stripe bloomed on her skin.

"One." Taranc shifted his stance to lay the next stroke a little lower and swung again.

"Two," he announced as Brynhild gasped and whimpered against the mast. She clung to the beam as though drawing comfort from its solid warmth.

"Three." He paused to allow her to take several much-needed breaths as she hopped from one foot to the other. Her bottom glowed red and he could almost feel the heat from where he stood.

"Are you all right?" He was impressed at her fortitude thus far, but felt compelled to ask even so.

Her answer was a tight nod and a flattening of her lips. Her body was rigid, her punished buttocks clenching hard as she anticipated the next stroke.

"It is less painful if you soften your bottom," he advised.

"How do you know? Is this something you learnt from your betrothed? How often did you tie Fiona up and whip her naked bottom?"

A fair enough question, he surmised, though he considered it ill-judged of her to ask it right now. He was tempted to increase the punishment by a further two strokes but decided that might be unduly harsh. "No, I never had occasion to do so. I always found Fiona to be sweet-natured and compliant. You, lady, are an entirely different matter."

And privately, he thanked the sweet Lord for that.

"Four," he counted. "Five. Six. Seven."

On the eighth stroke Brynhild let out a high-pitched scream. Her bottom sported a dizzying array of bright red stripes, the lines raised and livid in the brightening morning light. She moaned softly between the strokes and he was glad he had not added more. She was close to her limit now.

"Two more, then we are done here. You can do this, my fierce little Viking."

She managed a quick nod, as though his confidence inspired her. Perhaps it did, and if so he would not let her down. The final two strokes would be delivered to her thighs, and would hurt more than the rest. This was where her lesson would be learnt, where the difference would be made. He intended her to remember this day's work.

"Nine."

Brynhild screeched at the top of her lungs as the leather wrapped itself around both her thighs. "You bastard, that hurts so much. I cannot… No more… Stop. Stop !"

Taranc did not stop. Neither did he draw out the agony. He swung one last time and dropped the final stroke in exactly the same place. Brynhild screamed again, clawing and grabbing at the mast as though she might climb up it to escape him. Her shoulders shook, her sobs were noisy and gulping and her breath came in ragged, tortured gasps. Taranc tossed the belt to the deck and moved in close to wrap his arms about the shivering form.

Brynhild went motionless, though she still wept. He lifted her hair to kiss her neck, the delicate spot just below her ear. She did not resist the intimacy, nor did she draw away when he pressed his lower body against hers.

"We are done. You are forgiven and you have survived."

She shook her head, her eyes still closed. Tears streamed across her ravaged cheeks. "It will never be done, never be over. It is not enough to survive."

Taranc paused, puzzled. Did she mean the whipping, or had her thoughts fled elsewhere? "Brynhild…?"

"It hurts. It hurts so much…"

He flattened his palm against the scorching flesh of her bottom. The heat permeated his hand and he rubbed gently. Brynhild sighed and he fancied that her tight body relaxed, though he may have been mistaken. He caressed her again as though he might smooth the hurt away and she writhed under his hand.

"Is that better?"

"Yes. A little…"

"Good." He repeated the motion, his palm tracing a circular path across her buttocks.

"Why are you doing this? You meant to hurt me."

"I did, and it is finished now. Now, I want you to feel safe and to know that you may trust me."

"I do trust you."

Did she? Certainly, in this moment, she gave every appearance that she might be coming to do so. Taranc decided to push his advantage. "Spread your legs for me, little Viking."

"Why?" Instantly she was on the alert, anxious and wary. She clamped her thighs together.

"You know that I am not immune to you. You saw as much. Now, I wish to discover if you are aroused by me. By this…" He drew his palm across her bottom again, pausing at the furrow between her buttocks but exploring no fu rther.

"I… of course I am not. Why should I be?"

"May I, Brynhild?" He pressed his palm against her flaming flesh.

She shook her head. "Please, no…"

"You do trust me," he reminded her softly. "You said as much."

She rested her forehead against the unyielding wood and rolled her face from side to side. "This is different. I cannot."

"Why? What is it that you cannot do?"

"I cannot open my legs for a man. Not you, not any man. Never. Never again."

"Brynhild, tell me." There was more, much more, he knew it.

"You do not wish to know. You cannot. No one would."

"Tell me," he repeated. "Why can you not spread your legs for me?"

"I am worthless. Unlovable. I am cold, and… and…"

Taranc tightened his embrace about her. "You are many things, my Viking, but not cold. Never cold."

"You do not like me. You said as much."

Had he said that? He could not recall. Certainly he had not intended to create that impression. He might dislike many of the things she did, and in particular her cruelty to Fiona, but he could not take serious issue with the woman who now trembled in his arms.

"I do like you. How could I not? You are beautiful, and resilient, brave, and sensual. And we have already agreed that you are both capable and determined. You are a fine woman, Brynhild Freysson, who any man would be honoured to take as his wife, were you to have him."

"But not you."

"Me?" He paused to consider her unexpected remark. "I would wed you in a heartbeat, my lovely Viking, but I fear we would spend the rest of our lives tearing each other apart."