Chapter Fourteen

The pace of life was slow in her new home. Brynhild was not unhappy, exactly, but neither could she truly settle in to her new life. Something seemed amiss to her, awry somehow. She did not belong, could not allow herself to be drawn into the intimacies of village life despite the friendliness and acceptance she encountered. Initially wary, and suspicious of her presence here, the villagers quickly seemed to accept her among them. Annag was friendly, Murdina and Morag too. Taranc was kind enough, and considerate. He insisted that Brynhild make such changes as she considered needful to the house they shared, that she make it her home too.

But it was all based upon a lie. The people of Aikrig did not know the truth. They were unaware of the cruelties and injustice Brynhild had heaped upon one of their number. If they but knew of her treatment of Fiona, they would reject her. They would hate her, and she would deserve their antipathy.

Although the dialect was unfamiliar, Brynhild spoke enough of their Gaelic to be able to converse easily. She learned the names of the serfs who shared their village, and quickly came to understand the respect commanded by Taranc. He had always been a dominant presence, even as a thrall in her own land. He was a natural leader, she was ready to acknowledge, but here in his own environment he was truly formidable. People obeyed him without question. They sought his counsel, listened to his opinions, and no one gainsaid him.

Even Dughall, lord of Pennglas, respected Taranc's judgment.

The old man had summoned the pair of them to his manor house in Pennglas the day after their arrival. Brynhild had awoken that morning to the memory of Taranc's most unusual and evocative caresses the previous evening. She had no recollection of having been put to bed though she could recall most vividly the explosion of intense pleasure he had created as she lay helpless in the bathtub. She had been stunned, drawn to the erotic sensation, unable to resist and repulsed by her own vulnerability.

Now, in the cold light of a grey Scottish morning, she did not dare to make reference to what had happened between them, afraid he might insist upon repeating the experience.

It was not so much that Brynhild did not wish to recapture that sensual, heady delight, more that she feared she might fail if she attempted to do so. The disappointment would crush her.

"We go to Pennglas," Taranc announced as they broke their fast on oatcakes and the thick porridge prepared by Annag. "Dughall wishes to meet you. He will have questions, concerning his daughter."

"What will you tell him?"

"The truth. That she has found happiness with her Viking."

"I mean, what will you tell him about me. And Fiona."

"There is nothing to tell. What is past is past."

"But, he is her father…"

"Fiona is happy, content in her new life. That is what he needs to know. "

And so the falsehood continued. Taranc appeared to be correct in his assessment. Dughall, lord of Pennglas greeted them cordially enough on the steps of his manor house.

"It is a delight to see you safely returned to us, Taranc, and I am pleased to meet your lovely companion also." He seized Taranc's hand and shook warmly, then hugged the Celt to him. Next he kissed Brynhild on each cheek. "Welcome to your new home, my dear. I hope you will feel able to visit an old man, if you have time to spare. I do miss the company of my own daughter and this house lacks the warmth of a beautiful young woman to fill my chilled hall."

"I would be pleased to call upon you, if that would please you, my lord," she murmured.

Brynhild did not miss the slight smile of approval that flitted across Taranc's handsome features.

"He is lonely," Taranc observed as they made their way back down to the coast after their visit. "Both his children are lost to him. He had expected grandchildren when Fiona and I were married, but now…"

"I shall go to see him," announced Brynhild. "I shall go often." It seemed the least she could do.

Her guilt grew with every day that passed. She recalled with bitter, unrelenting clarity each and every act of malice she had visited upon the Celtic slave whilst Fiona had been under her power. She had missed no opportunity to add to the girl's misery, and had done so for no better reason than ugly jealousy. It was true that Brynhild had worked hard to build the life she enjoyed under her brother's roof, and Fiona represented a threat to all of that, but none of it was of the thrall's choosing. It had started the first moment she laid eyes on the newcomer and recognised at once that Ulfric was smitten. The freezing bath, the whippings she convinced Ulfric to mete out, the constant haranguing and finding fault with all that the girl attempted to do. It had been beneath her, all of it. A woman of the Jarl should behave better, should be an example to those who looked up to her. She could see that now, and Brynhild bitterly regretted her actions. She was deeply ashamed, and her sense of guilt now threatened to mar her new life.

Remorse ate at her but it was too late to make amends. She had wronged Fiona, and would gladly seek forgiveness for those crimes if that were possible but she never expected to see her victim again. Fiona remained in Skarthveit, and Brynhild would never be able to return there. She would have no opportunity to offer her apology, to seek Fiona's forgiveness.

Instead, to all intents and purposes, she had taken over Fiona's old life here in Scotland. The villagers of Aikrig and Pennglas treated her with a respect she did not deserve, they accepted and welcomed her among them as though she were one of their own.

She and Taranc shared a bed, and as they lay beneath the furs and blankets in the darkness, Taranc would insist upon reigniting the sensual fires he had started to stoke. He did not, after all, disappoint her. Indeed, his touch seemed both effortless and faultless, and Brynhild came to trust her body's helpless response to him. He was gentle with her, but insistent and she no longer refused to spread her legs for his erotic exploration. He offered her pleasure that she did not deserve but found impossible to resist.

"You are wet for me, my greedy little Viking. So hot and wet and tight. I knew that you would be." She quivered as he slid his fingers inside her, stunned by the slick juices that pooled between her legs and eased his way. How had he known it would be so? She had never dreamed, never even imagined…

Her release came quickly now, easily. She never failed to marvel at the twist and curl of arousal as it burgeoned within her core, rising up, gripping her, then suddenly taking control of her scrambled senses to send her spinning into some weightless, swirling place where lights sparkled and the sound of rushing water echoed within her ears. Afterwards she would lie in his arms, warm and spent and utterly sated. And riddled with unassuaged guilt .

Taranc preferred to sleep naked. Brynhild found his casual approach to nudity disconcerting at first. She tried hard to avert her eyes, to not study his erect cock, to ignore the nudge of his swollen, solid erection against her hip as he wrapped her in his arms at night. She found herself both fascinated and fearful of his unashamed maleness, but fear won out. She was curious, wondered what it would feel like to take that hard erection between her hands and rub her fingers along the length of it, perhaps even taste the droplets of clear fluid that she noticed would leak from the end occasionally. But she did not dare. She knew what such foolishness would lead to, and however sweet the sensual web her handsome Celt might spin about her, she could not, would not go that far.

She knew better, knew the dangers. Taranc may seem gentle now. He may appear solicitous, knowing her body's needs and teasing out her response, giving her pleasure yet seeking nothing for himself. But men were at heart unpredictable and once lust took hold they could not control their urges. He would hurt her, she knew it. Always, it came back to that.

There would be pain, humiliation. The pleasure he employed with such skill to tempt her was merely an illusion, a trick of the gods—male gods, of course—designed to lure in the naive and the recklessly bold. She would not be fooled, not again.

A month passed before he spoke to her of marriage once more. Brynhild was at the loom he had acquired for her and installed within their home. She loved the new apparatus and took enormous pleasure in arranging the warp and weft, threading the yarn and blending the muted colours to create the soft designs she preferred. Annag stood at her side, watching in rapt fascination as the fabric evolved before her eyes. Brynhild had promised to teach her to weave, and the girl was proving to be an eager pupil.

At first she thought she misheard him.

"I am sorry, what did you say? "

"We are to wed at Michaelmas, a fortnight from now. My mother will help you with the arrangements, though there is not much to do since the feast is to take place anyway, and—"

"Wed? We are not to be wed. You said so. You said we would not be suited."

"I did, and I still think ours will be a turbulent union, but I have come around to the notion. So, two weeks from today. I shall send word to the abbey at Balseach to summon one of the brothers from there. He can perform the ceremony at the manor house in Pennglas. I am sure Dughall will not object."

The shuttle fell from her nerveless fingers with a clatter. "But I shall. I shall object. I do not wish to marry. Never. I cannot."

"Why can you not? It makes sense that we should. It is expected."

"It does not. It makes no sense at all."

"Enough. We are to wed and that is an end to it." He strode to where she stood, bent to retrieve her dropped shuttle, and placed it back in her hands. "You will soon become used to the idea." He dropped a careless kiss on the top of her head and turned to leave her.

The shuttle left her hand before Brynhild could so much as consider the recklessness of her actions. It hit him square between his shoulders. She stood, transfixed, as he turned to face her again.

"Oh, Brynhild, I had so hoped we were beyond all this." His tone was low, deathly quiet. Again, he picked up the tool from the floor, but this time he set it upon the table to his side. He turned his attention to Annag, who had witnessed the entire exchange with wide-eyed dismay.

"Cousin, you will accompany Brynhild to the coppice and show her where the finest switches are to be found. Help her to select a decent bundle, perhaps five or six, and none of them thicker than the width of my finger. Trim them well, I wish to see no sharp edges or thorns. Then you, Annag, may go about your business and you, Brynhild, will return here with the switches."

"I shall not. This is unfair. You cannot—"

"Twelve strokes. Do you wish for more?"

"But…"

"Fourteen. Do not make matters worse."

Brynhild opened her mouth and would have surely deepened her plight but Annag seized her sleeve and tugged her from the dwelling. Once outside she rounded on the girl. "He is a brute. An idiot. Does he think me some foolish wench to be dazzled by his offer? I shall not marry him."

Annag narrowed her eyes, unimpressed by Brynhild's outburst. "But you will. Everyone knows that you will. You must, for you live here with our chief as his wife already. He is doing the right thing in summoning the priest."

"I do not live as his wife. We… I…"

"You should not have thrown the shuttle at him."

On that point, at least, Brynhild could agree. She clenched her buttocks in fearful anticipation. Why had she not stopped to think?

"The coppice?"

"It is this way." Annag set off along a narrow track between the tall heather which bordered their home. Brynhild saw no alternative but to follow.

* * *

An hour later, and five switches to the good, Brynhild made her way back to their house. Annag parted from her at the edge of the village and offered a reassuring pat on the arm. "‘Twill soon be done, and switching is not so bad. Not really."

It had seemed perfectly unpleasant enough to Brynhild the first time she experienced it, in the forest as they left Skarthveit. She saw no compelling reason to amend her view now. Her footsteps slowed as she approached the door .

"Do not keep me waiting, girl." The stern voice from within brought her scurrying back inside.

Taranc sat at the table, a mug of ale by his hand. He glanced over the bundle of switches and nodded his approval when she laid them on the bench by his side. Then he reached for the pitcher and poured a mug for Brynhild and shoved it toward her.

"Drink. You will need it. Then you will undress and lie across the table."

Resigned to her fate, Brynhild obeyed, though her expression was sullen as she swallowed the pungent liquid. Would she ever become accustomed to this strong, brackish brew? She set the mug down and removed her leather sandals then started to unfasten the brooch that held her loose smock in place. Soon the garment was folded on the bench next to the switches. She regarded Taranc, hopeful that he might relent and allow her to retain her cotton leine. His impatient frown soon dispelled such foolishness and she pulled the undergarment over her head.

He pointed to the table as he rose to his feet. With a sob of frustration and bitter resentment at this treatment, Brynhild turned to drape herself over the smooth wood.

"I see the marks from your previous punishments have completely disappeared."

"You knew that already. You have seen often enough since I share your bed."

"Ah, yes. I believe I prefer your bottom adorned with my marks. It reminds me who is master here."

"I do not believe you need to be reminded," she spluttered.

"And yet, I find myself needing to evade your unprovoked attacks within my very house. The home I have welcomed you into, offered to share with you. And from behind, at that. It was not well done of you, Brynhild."

"You were high-handed. Haughty."

"I am sorry you found it to be so, but it is of no consequence. You will not raise your hand to me, whatever grievance you may claim."

"Yet you may do this to me?"

"As I have said, I am master here. You will submit. And you will obey. Fourteen strokes, we agreed, did we not?"

" You decreed it. I have agreed to nothing."

"You will take the fourteen strokes, then you will apologise for your belligerence and your regrettable behaviour. Are we quite clear on that, Viking?"

She dragged in a shuddering breath. "Yes, Celt. We are clear."

He selected two switches and gripped them in his fist, then laid the ends on her upturned buttocks. He tapped her skin with them, causing her to flinch, then he lifted the pair and brought them down hard on her pale cheek. Fire sizzled, the pain flared then seeped deep into her tissues as he drew the ends of the branches slowly across her tender backside. He teased her, played with her, tickling her clenching bottom with the switches until she lay still.

"You may grip the opposite side of the table with your fingers, and be sure to remain exactly where you are. No wriggling, and certainly no reaching back to protect your bottom with your hands. And please, try not to make too much noise since it unsettles everyone within earshot."

She barely had time to nod her understanding of his instructions before he raised the switches again and this time brought them down on her other buttock. The stroke was harder, hotter. Brynhild let out a yelp as the hurt sank into her flesh. Only two so far, twelve still to go.

Sweet Odin, why could she not hold her tongue and keep her temper in check?

He wasted little time in delivering the strokes he had promised, each one harsher, fierier than the last. Brynhild tried to be quiet but by the seventh stroke she could contain her screams no longer. After the ninth she relinquished her grip on the edge of the table and reached for her smarting bottom, convinced her entire backside was aflame. Taranc took her wrist in his hand and laid it in the small of her back, then brought the other to join it. He held them there as he laid the final five strokes across the backs of her thighs, one below the other in rapid succession. Brynhild danced and shrieked and pleaded for him to stop, but he ignored her desperate screams. Only after the final stroke had been laid did he set the switches aside and release her wrists.

"You may apologise, and make it as pretty as you can for I shall expect a decent show of contrition." His tone was stern, uncompromising.

Arrogant Celtic bastard!

She would have loved to defy him, to refuse to allow him the satisfaction of her surrender, but she was hurting. She was humiliated, intimidated, defenceless, and entirely vulnerable, and convinced he would not hesitate to repeat the punishment if she did not do as he wanted now.

"I am sorry," she muttered, the words muffled by the wooden table top.

"Louder, if you please, for I fear I did not hear you."

"I am sorry. I apologise for throwing the shuttle at you."

"Ah, thank you. I am glad we have arrived at an understanding on this and I hope it will not prove necessary to revisit this discussion. As for the other matter we were considering, on further reflection I do believe the prospect of marriage between us would be perilous enough without the added complication of a reluctant bride. Since you have made it clear that you truly do not wish to be my wife, then please consider my offer withdrawn."

"What? You would allow this?"

"I will have no forced bride, Brynhild. But there is one further point I wish to make, and for this I will require you to spread your legs for me. Now."

It was the first time he had actually asked this of her, though she had parted her thighs for him many times by now in the relative safety and privacy of their bed. Never, though, as she lay face down over the table, in the light of day, her punished bottom throbbing and glowing before his very eyes .

"Please, do not hurt me." Pride fled. She was pleading in earnest, terrified of what he might decide to do to demonstrate his power over her.

He leaned forward to bring his mouth close to her ear. His words were soft now, his tone hushed and soothing. "I have hurt you all I intend to this day, and I would never do so in this way. You know that, do you not?"

"I… I do not know anything. Please…"

"Trust me." He placed his booted foot between her bare ones and nudged her ankles apart. "Open your eyes, Viking. Look at me."

Brynhild turned her head, then forced her eyelids apart and met his mossy gaze, the irises the rich, deep hue of the pine trees that surrounded her home in the Norseland. She longed for the safety and security of her old home, the certainty that nothing, no one would touch her there.

He edged her feet further apart and Brynhild forgot to fight. She forgot to breathe as he spread her beneath him, then laid his palm on her heated skin. He caressed her bottom, first one whipped buttock then the other as she squirmed under his touch.

"Be still," he admonished, though there was no roughness in his tone now.

She obeyed, unable to break his gaze as he slipped his fingers into the deep furrow between her buttocks and slid them down to her core.

He reached her tight rear hole and paused to linger there as Brynhild groaned in utter mortification. Then he continued on, rubbing between her soft folds and inserting two fingers into her slick channel. She tensed as the shaft of pure pleasure arrowed through her. The walls of her quim contracted about his fingers as he inserted a third. He was stretching her, his touch not so gentle now, more demanding, but it felt good. She wanted more. And less. She wanted it all, and she wanted none of it.

"Stop. Please, do not—"

He withdrew his fingers, only to plunge them deep again, thrusting hard. Her climax was upon her in moments, deep and all-consuming, the most potent yet. She let out a harsh cry, more of a sob than an expression of pleasure, then shook as her body convulsed.

Taranc continued to stroke his fingers in and out of her, dragging every last shiver and shudder of her release from her reluctant body. Only when she lay spent and motionless beneath him did he cease his driving thrusts and withdraw his digits from her still spasming cunny.

He straightened and went to grab a blanket from the bed then returned to wrap it about her. He aided her to her feet, then lifted her in his arms and sat down in the chair with her limp form cradled on his lap. Brynhild clung to him, heedless now of the tenderness in her buttocks, the still burning flesh of her thighs.

"Why did you do that?" she whimpered.

He did not respond at once, just rubbed his face in her tangled hair. At last he raised his head, then tipped up her chin with his fingers so she had no choice but to meet his eyes again.

"You know all about pain and fear. You hide, as though it were in your power to protect yourself. But the pain never goes away, and it never will. However, pleasure is close, so close you can actually touch it if you will just allow it to flourish. You must see that now. Cowards hide, but it takes courage to trust. You are no coward, my Viking. I know that. Neither am I. When you are ready to tell me, I shall be ready to listen."