Chapter Sixteen

She slept.

Taranc paused within the doorway, allowed the meagre light from his lamp to wash over the slender figure curled up beneath the rugs on his bed. Her breath came slowly, deeply. She appeared content.

He took but seconds to drop the bar on the inside of the door, remove his own clothing, and douse the lamp before sliding in beside her. Brynhild was naked and warm. He could not resist drawing her to him, her smooth back pressed against the hard, cooler planes of his chest.

Was she still angry with him, resentful that he had taken a switch to her again? Or worse, that he had concluded the matter between them as he had. He did not know why he had done so, but neither could he find it within himself to regret his actions. How could he feel remorse when her pussy had quivered around his digits, when she had clenched and gripped his fingers like a tight gauntlet as she moaned her release? He quirked his lip in the gloom. He would know her mood soon enough.

"You have returned," she whispered in the pitch blackness that shrouded them. "I am glad."

Ah, perhaps not angry, then .

"You are awake."

"I have been waiting for you. You are very late."

He nuzzled her hair. "I am sorry."

"No matter." She rolled over to face him, and reached to lay her palm against his cheek in the dark. "I am sorry too. I… I thought I had driven you away."

"‘Twill take more than a well-aimed shuttle to achieve that, I fear."

"I shall bear that in mind, Celt."

He chuckled. "Are you tired?"

"No, not especially. I… I want…"

"What do you want, my Viking?"

"I want you. I mean, I want to talk to you. I have something to tell you. And… something I must ask of you."

He leaned up on his elbow and peered into the darkness, searching the shadows for a glimpse of her face. He could barely make out her pale features, framed by her bright flaxen hair, but what he could discern was enough to know she was sincere. And very scared.

Of him?

"You have me, little one. And I have you. Whether we marry or not, you are mine."

"Because you took me."

"Aye, and because you stayed. Fate threw us together, but I would not have it otherwise. We shall not wed if that is not your wish, but it changes nothing. You are still mine. Now, and always. You know the truth of this."

"I do," she agreed softly.

"Then we have arrived at an understanding, you and I."

She shook her head. "Not yet, though I hope that we will."

"You speak in riddles, little Viking."

"I… I am not affectionate. I am distant, cold sometimes. I would make a poor wife, you are correct on that score, and a worse lover."

"You are not cold now." He hugged her warm body to him. "And I shall determine whether you make a good lover or not since I consider your judgment on the matter to be flawed." He lowered his head to brush his lips across hers, his voice rough with need when he spoke next. "I want you so much it hurts."

"I want you," she repeated. "I want all of you. But there is much to settle first."

He would have deepened the kiss but instead he drew back. He rolled onto his back and wrapped his arm about her shoulders to pull her to him in the dark.

"Once before, I asked you who had put those notions in your head, the nonsense you just spouted about being cold and unlovable. You refused to tell me. Will you tell me now?"

"I… yes, I will. I want to. I need to."

He kissed the top of her head. "Go on. We shall talk, the two of us. You will tell me what this is all about, and we shall decide what is to be done."

* * *

"But—" Brynhild gaped at him. The past was past, there was nothing to be done.

Taranc seemingly had other ideas. "It has to end. Here, now. Whatever troubles you, it must stop. You must see this."

"It will never stop."

"When did it start?"

"What?" The sudden change of tack threw her. "What do you mean?"

"When did it start? This thing which has you tied in knots and fills you with self-loathing? If you cannot tell me about that, then tell me about the time before."

She could do that. Taranc was making this easy for her, as she should have always known he would. Brynhild drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "It was… a long time ago. I was little more than a child."

"What did you dream of, when you were a child, Brynhild?"

Another question she had not anticipated. "I… I dreamed of growing up, of marrying a fine Viking warrior. I dreamed of a horde of rowdy children running about my longhouse. I would be wealthy, and beautiful, a woman of the Jarl, like my mother."

"I see. Fine dreams. You are beautiful, I have always thought so. Tell me more of your mother."

Brynhild closed her eyes and allowed her head to rest on his chest. She smiled as memories assailed her; the scents, sounds, impressions of her childhood. "My mother was called Solveig, and she was a fine lady. She was stern, we all obeyed her. Apart from my brother, Gunnar. He was her favourite although he was not her natural son. I… I always wanted to please her."

"I see. It is good, is it not, to strive to please your parents?"

"I failed. I disappointed her. She was angry with me. She died angry with me."

"Did she say as much?"

"No, but she must have been, after… after…"

"After," he prompted, his voice low.

"After what she saw. After she found me and… Aelbeart."

She clamped her hand over her mouth as though to ram the name back in whence it came. Until that afternoon with Dughall she had not uttered that hated, feared name for a decade, but now it hung there between them, hovering in the air like a toxic odour. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Aelbeart? A Celtic name if I am not mistaken."

She nodded, no longer able to stem the flow of words. It was as though a dam had burst, and the torrent escaped, unstoppable, sweeping away all before it.

"He was a thrall, a slave in our settlement. My father purchased him, I think. I do not know, he just arrived. He was… handsome."

"I see." Taranc waited, his patience seemingly without end.

"I… I was fourteen years old. Aelbeart would smile at me, offer me flowers sometimes. A daisy head, a rose perhaps. He told me the petals of the cornflower were the same colour as my eyes. I … I have never seen a cornflower."

"He was your friend, this Aelbeart?"

She shook her head, hard. "He was a slave, so no, we could not be friends. But, I watched him. I could not help it. He was… everywhere. Every time I left our longhouse, he would appear at my side. He helped me with my chores, told me I was pretty, and clever, and… and he flattered me. I became confused, infatuated, I suppose, but at the time I just… I just adored him."

"Was he of a similar age to you?"

"No, he was older. Twenty-five summers perhaps, maybe more. I was never quite sure."

"Ah."

"What do you mean? Ah?"

"Nothing. Please continue. Did your family know of your… interest in this slave?"

"Of course not." She gaped at him, shocked at the very suggestion. "I could never tell. Aelbeart said we must keep it a secret."

"Did he say why that was?" Taranc's tone was deceptively soft but Brynhild knew him well enough to be able to detect the undercurrent of suppressed anger. Was it directed at her? She thought not.

"He… he wanted me to help him to escape, eventually. When I was older he said we would go away together, and we would be happy."

"But running away with a slave was not your dream. I of all people should know that, and you just told me so. You were to be a lady of the Jarl, like your mother."

"A life with Aelbeart became my dream. I wanted it. I wanted him. I was wicked, sinful, greedy. It was all my fault. "

"Wicked, sinful, and greedy? What happened?"

"Aelbeart wanted more than just brief and secret flirtations in the fields or around our settlement. He persuaded me to slip away and meet him, sometimes at night after the rest of my family were in bed. I did not want to at first. I was afraid… my father… But I agreed eventually. So, we would meet, walk together, talk. He… he kissed me. And I let him, because I am a slut."

"Who told you that?" he prompted.

"He did. Aelbeart. I said it was wrong, what we were doing, and that I could no longer meet him in secret. He became angry and told me I was no better than a common harlot, a slut who had teased and tempted him, only to let him down when he had trusted me. He said I was beholden to him, I owed him for the sacrifices he had made in being prepared to wait for me. He could have escaped, could have found his freedom, and he would now that he knew I did not care for him as he cared for me." She paused, remembering the heated words, the pleading as she begged Aelbeart not to leave her. "He said I must prove it, that I must prove my love for him or he would have to go. He told me that he was a Celt and that they are a passionate race. There was but one way to prove my love to a Celt, nothing less would suffice." She glanced up at Taranc, his handsome features impassive as he listened to her tale. She rushed to get the rest of it out, to lay it all before him. "I knew no better, not then, so I believed him. I went with him one night to the meadow behind the barn where the grain was stored. It was quiet there, secluded."

"You were barely more than a child."

"Even so, I knew what I was doing. I loved Aelbeart, and this was what I had to do to make him stay. He told me to lie down. He even brought a blanket…"

Taranc said nothing, but he tightened his embrace around her.

"But however much I loved him, and I did, at the time I truly did love him and I wanted to please him and make everything right, I did not like what he did to me. I did not want that. I said so, told him to let me go. He would not. He held me down. He pinned me to the ground. I struggled, cried, pleaded with him to leave me be, to let me go back home. He… he said I could never go home again. Not now. I would tell my father, and Aelbeart would be punished. My father would have had him killed, I know that to be true. I knew it then, also, but I swore I would never tell. It was no use, he would not let me go. I… I thought he meant to murder me. I still believe that he did intend that, and he would have, but for some reason he suddenly stopped and I was able to scramble away. Then my mother happened upon us."

"Solveig? She found you?"

"Yes. I have no notion why or how she knew where I was. But suddenly she was there. She was angry, I had never seen her so incensed. She ordered me to get up, to put my tunic on and to go, to run away home at once and she would deal with Aelbeart. So I ran, my feet bare on the wet grass of the meadow. I heard him yelling after me, screaming at me. He called me those names—slut, harlot, whore. That I was a cold, heartless little bitch, ugly, foul on the inside. He was yelling at my mother too, that it was all my doing and that she had borne a whore for a daughter, that I had lured him there. I was evil and corrupt and a filthy little witch."

"What did Solveig do?"

"She believed him. The evidence was clear enough. She had seen me, lying beneath him, my clothes already removed. What else was she to think?"

"Did she say that?"

"Of course not. She refused to speak of it."

"What happened to Aelbeart?"

"She had him sold, that same night. I never saw him again. He was sent to the slave auction, and we never spoke of him again. But from that night I looked for him everywhere, not in eagerness now but in dread. He had threatened to murder me. He hated me, and he had good reason. He would have his revenge. I feared him, and that fear grew. It became more than I could manage. It consumed me. I knew, deep down I knew it was a delusion, a fantasy, a dark nightmare created by my own guilt and shame and the horror of what almost happened that night but it took root and it festered. I feared all Celts. I hated them with the same passion that he had claimed, and I blamed them, every last one of them, for the loathing I felt every time I caught sight of my reflection in the river."

She paused, then continued, her voice now a low whisper. "I hate them still."

Taranc still held her hand in his. "No, you do not."

"I do. I—"

"I am a Celt. Dughall is a Celt. You do not hate either one of us and we do not hate you."

"But, this is not the same."

"You were a child, badly frightened and confused. It seemed simpler then perhaps, and safer, to assume that all Celts were like this Aelbeart. It was a way to protect yourself. Now, as a grown woman, you must know that not to be so. Not all Celts are evil, as Aelbeart was. He manipulated you for his own ends. He used you and he betrayed you. He would have hurt you and he deserved your hate. There is nothing irrational in the way you feel about him even now, all these years later."

"But—"

"I knew there had to be something of this nature at the root of all this. I saw, the first time I ever met you, when I knocked you to the ground to stop you from being trampled by that horse, then again in the forest. You were paralysed by fear when you found yourself pinned down. I was insensitive, I should have—"

"You were not insensitive. You were kind to me, each time, and that confused me. I… I tried to provoke you, to make you behave as Aelbeart had, as I expected you to, because that would have proved me to be correct in my fears and would have confirmed that all Celts were the same. Bu t you were not the same."

"No? Are we not? Did I not behave just as Aelbeart earlier, after I whipped you? You asked me to stop." He groaned. "I'm an insensitive bastard…"

"No, you are not. That was different…"

"How? How was it different?"

Brynhild took her time before she answered. She needed to think, to sift through and understand her confused emotions. "Because whatever I might have said, I wanted you. I think I always wanted you, though that terrified me at first. You terrified me because I was attracted to you and I feared it would all happen again, that I could not help myself. That it would be like it was with Aelbeart."

"I am not Aelbeart."

"No, you are not. And you have always taken care of me although I did not appreciate that at first." She closed her eyes, reliving the time in the forest when he had witnessed her terror and released her at once, despite the risk to himself, to his escape plans. He had not understood her fears, but he saw and he had responded.

"Yet you judge me, you judge all Celts, by the same harsh standard."

"I am sorry."

"You are forgiven."

Brynhild lay silent, considering his words. She drew in a long, deep breath. "I cannot be forgiven because I have not been punished for my wrongdoing. That is the way, is it not? You explained it to me, before, in the forest before we reached Hafrsfjord. A spanking ends the matter, and wipes away the guilt."

"Brynhild, you do not deserve to be punished because of this Aelbeart. The fault was entirely his, not yours."

"Not because of him. Because of Fiona."

"Fiona? What has any of this to do with her?"

"I… I was angry, hurt, scared. I blamed all Celts for what Aelbeart had done to me, and when I got the chance I took my hatred out on Fiona. And on others from time to time, bu t mostly on her. It… it was wrong of me. It was beneath me and I am deeply ashamed of my actions."

Taranc stroked her hair, combing his fingers through the long strands. "You need to put that behind you. It is in the past and there is nothing you can do about it. Fiona is not here, she is safe and happy with Ulfric, you did her no lasting harm."

"But I could have. How do you know? How can we know?"

"Brynhild, let it go."

"I cannot. I… everyone here is so kind to me. Your people have welcomed me and I know it is because of you, because you kept my secrets and convinced all that I am a good woman, a woman to be respected. But it is a lie. I am not like that."

"You are. You could be, if you—"

"Yes, that is what I mean, what I am asking of you. If you were to punish me for what I did, I could really start over. I would have my pride back, my self-respect. I would deserve the respect of others, including you."

"You know that you have my respect."

"I do not. How can I, when you know what I did?"

Taranc sighed, but Brynhild noted he did not disagree with her. She strengthened her resolve as he continued.

"You wronged Fiona; that is true. Therefore, it is her forgiveness you need, not mine. I have no right to punish you."

"I will never see Fiona again."

"That is probably true, though we can never know what lies ahead."

"I shall not see her again," Brynhild repeated, her tone laced with the certainty she felt. "I shall have no opportunity to set matters right with her. But… but you could act for her, on her behalf. You loved Fiona, you cared about her and wanted to protect her. From me. That is why you agreed to help my brother, is it not?"

"Yes, you know I did. And I have explained my feelings toward Fiona."

"I know, and I do understand that. You were her friend, her betrothed. You were close to her so you could act on her behalf."

"Let me be quite certain I have understood you. You want me to act as some sort of proxy, to punish you for your cruelty to Fiona, and then to forgive you for it."

"Yes. That is it, exactly. I wish to atone for what I did. I need to find a way to redeem myself and make amends. I will accept my punishment, whatever punishment you consider fitting, and from here on I will do all I can to aid Lord Dughall in his advancing years, as Fiona would if she were here. It is all I can think of to do. Is it enough, do you believe?"

"More than enough. And just to be certain that there is no misunderstanding between us on this matter, please know that regardless of any of this you have my respect, and my admiration. You are a proud woman, I love that about you and I always have even though it drives you to do things you might later regret. But I am proud of you, and I am proud of the way you have survived the hardships and cruelty which you have endured. Although I wish the circumstances had been different, I cannot regret bringing you home with me."

Brynhild levered herself up until she knelt beside him on the bed. "So, you will help me then? You will do this thing, for me?"

"Aye, if it is your wish. But if we do this, we do it right. Your punishment will be harsh, and it will be severe. It will have to be, if you are to achieve the vindication you seek."

"I know that. I… I collected some switches on my way back from Pennglas today. They are over there, in the bucket by the door."

"Ah, such dutiful contrition, my Brynhild. That is a promising sign. However, I may have another idea, one equally suited to the gravity of the occasion. A more… intimate solution. "

Brynhild's heart lurched. She had envisaged a switching, or perhaps a session with Taranc's belt. Either would hurt, she knew that well enough, but she would welcome the cleansing powers of the pain. Indeed, she was relying upon it. Now he appeared to be suggesting some other course.

"I am not sure…"

"You have asked my help, so the decision is mine, is it not?" His tone had hardened and Brynhild shivered. She recognised that timbre in his voice, the note that spoke of dominance and a man intent upon imposing his will.

"Yes, Sir," she murmured. "I am in your hands."