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Taranc drew in a shuddering breath. The prospect of another man fucking Fiona disturbed him less than it surely should, but he was concerned for her even so.

They were to have been married, eventually and he bore some responsibility for her now.

Fiona was a lovely woman. They had grown up together, first as playmates, then as a couple.

There had existed an understanding between their families since he was but ten years old and she just five summers, but their betrothal had been formalised a couple of years ago now.

They had been fond of one another from childhood, constant companions and firm friends but she had never struck him as being overly demonstrative.

In a less generous moment he might even describe Fiona as cold, though he knew his own lack of enthusiasm had been as much at fault in their failure to find carnal pleasure in each other.

He would not begrudge Fiona any happiness she might glean from her current predicament and Ulfric Freysson had not seemed unduly cruel.

Nevertheless, the possibility that Fiona's virginity might be taken by force caused him real anguish.

"He had better not harm her..."

"She is my brother's property now. He will do as he sees fit."

"If he?—"

"Silence. The wench is well enough, and will remain so as long as she remembers her place here. All slaves must learn that."

Had Fiona been beaten? The words of this she-Viking certainly implied as much. Taranc eyed the woman with suspicion. "I wish to see her."

"My brother will not permit that. Nor will I."

Taranc was unimpressed. He had already made up his mind that he would seek out Fiona at the earliest opportunity and satisfy himself as to her circumstances.

To accomplish this, he needed the Vikings to relax their guard in order that he might slip between them when he chose to do so.

He bowed his head in apparent acquiescence and briefly considered the other tit-bit of information he had gleaned from this exchange.

The woman before him was sister to Ulfric Freysson. He told himself it was for Fiona's sake that he was relieved the beautiful Norsewoman was not Ulfric's wife.

"Did you mention a granary, lady?" He deliberately softened his tone.

She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly surprised at the change in subject. "I did. That is to be your task, the reason you were brought here. You are to construct the new granary, then you will commence work on our harbour."

"I see. And is there some reason that your menfolk do not build your own granary and harbour? I can hardly imagine the task to be beyond you."

She bristled and regarded him down the length of her straight and, to Taranc's mind, utterly perfect, nose.

"We require the granary to be erected and in use before the onset of winter in less than two months' time so extra labour is necessary in order to accomplish that.

This is why you will commence work at once. We cannot delay."

Ah,we are back to that, are we? Taranc sighed. "Tomorrow, lady. Today, we rest. And we eat. I thank you for the generous gift of the chickens. Did you mention bread, also?"

"Food must be earned. You will begin work today."

"Lady, I give you my word that the granary will be completed before winter, in exchange for your assurance that food will be brought, and straw too in order that we may fashion beds.

The blankets are most welcome, but will not be sufficient.

We will rest, nurse our bruises, and start work on your granary tomorrow, after we are refreshed. "

He could have simply refused to cooperate at all, but saw no point in that.

The Vikings would force them to work, and it would be harder on all.

Maybe by negotiating with their new masters he could secure a better existence for his people, glean some comforts for them in this hostile world.

And he found he rather liked discussing the deal with this beautiful Viking.

She had a way of flushing when riled, and the lush curves lurking beneath her bright yellow linen dress caused his cock to respond in a manner he had never experienced with Fiona.

How strange. And how utterly fucking delightful.

"You cannot know how long it will take to construct the granary. That is an empty promise, Celt. You lie, as do all of your sort. I do not bargain with cheats and frauds. You will obey, and you will do so now."

"Is that it?" Taranc chose to disregard her slurs on his character though they did not pass unnoticed.

He gestured to the foundations of a circular structure located some thirty paces from where they now stood.

The stonework had reached a height of perhaps three or four courses.

"Is that your granary? Or at least the start of it? "

"Aye. That is it," confirmed the Norsewoman.

"Where is the stone to be brought from?"

"The beach." She tilted her chin in the direction of the coast.

"Less than a mile away. It would take the ten of us no more than a month to carry sufficient stone up here, then a further two weeks to complete the building.

Your granary will be ready in six weeks, lady.

Less, if your Vikings help with the labour, or if you use timber for the higher structure which could be cut from yonder forest."

Her brow furrowed. "How do you know all this?"

"You think we never build anything in our own land? This is no different. Six weeks. You have my word on it. Now, do I have yours?"

"What?" She peered at him in confusion.

"The food, and the straw. And a day to rest."

She opened her mouth to reply, and Taranc had little doubt what her response would be. This haughty Viking was unused to negotiating with those she considered beneath her and was about to reject his suggestions. He groaned inwardly. This would prove awkward...

The clatter of cart wheels on the rutted track caught the blonde Norsewoman's attention. "Ah, more firewood. You should have sufficient now. You will help Otto to unload the cart."

Taranc and three more Celts dealt with stacking the logs alongside the first lot, while Otto released the horse from between the shafts of the cart.

This was a larger wagon than the first so the horse was accordingly bigger and somewhat frisky.

The driver muttered something to the Norsewoman who replied in the Nordic tongue.

They both seemed intent upon examining the animal's rear hoof and spoke quietly together.

Taranc listened, frustrated that he could not understand their conversation. This placed him at a disadvantage which he would not countenance. He resolved to make it his business to learn their language as quickly as he might accomplish that feat. He was a fast learner when it suited him.

The cart driver manoeuvred the horse back between the shafts and leaned in to secure the leather straps as the Norsewoman turned to leave. She cast one last glance at Taranc.

"I expect to see you start work within the hour."

He shook his head and watched, arms folded in front of his muscled chest, as she made her way back across the meadow. Despite her ridiculous intransigence, he could not help but admire the gentle sway of her hips as she walked.

A screech from the excitable horse brought him spinning about in time to see the animal rear up between the shafts then lurch forward.

The leather strap attached to the halter snapped and at once the beast was free.

It sprang forward, demolishing the flimsy cart shafts in a volley of flailing hooves as the driver leapt to grab in vain for the dangling reins.

"What the—?" Taranc also made a lunge for the trailing straps but was too far away. The horse reared up on its hind legs then dropped back onto all fours. He stamped, pawed the earth for a few moments, then took off across the meadow at a headlong gallop.

"Lady Brynhild, look out!" The driver yelled his useless warning as the Norsewoman stood transfixed. The crazed horse bore down on her, hooves thundering across the springy grasses as he tore up the distance which separated them.

Taranc did not pause to think. He had but a few yards advantage over the bolting animal but he used them to best advantage.

He sprinted as hard as he was able for the Viking woman and reached her perhaps half a beat before the frenzied horse.

He lunged for her and bore her to the ground.

The pair of them rolled together through the heather as the horse's murderous hooves missed them by fractions of an inch.

Only when he heard the pounding of the hoof beats disappearing into the distance did Taranc lift his head.

The woman—Lady Brynhild—lay motionless beneath him.

Her eyes were open but unfocused, staring at a point beyond his right shoulder.

Her hair had become loosened from the neat plait and covered half her face.

Unthinking, Taranc swept the pale locks aside with his fingertips.

"Are you injured, lady?"

She did not answer.

"Lady? Are you hurt? Did the horse catch you?" Taranc did not think so. He had been on top as they fell so would have taken any blow from the flying hooves. For reasons he could not quite fathom he believed himself miraculously intact.

Still no response. Taranc eased his weight from the slender yet curvy body beneath him and leaned up on one elbow. He cupped the delicately pointed chin in his palm and turned her face toward him, forcing her to meet his eyes. And he saw it.

Terror. Pure, mind-numbing, abject terror. The woman in his arms was rigid with fear.

"It is safe now, lady. Brynhild?" That was the name yelled by the driver, was it not? Taranc attempted a reassuring smile. "The horse will be back in his stable by now. I believe we may risk getting to our feet without fear of being trampled to death."

She lay still for several moments more, then something shifted in her deep blue gaze.

Her eyes darkened, she drew in a ragged breath, and where moments before she had been motionless she burst into a hysterical frenzy of writhing and clawing.

She fought him like a woman possessed and it was then that Taranc realised she did not fear the horse.

Her terror was of him and she was fighting for her life.

He rolled from her at once and leapt to his feet. She scrambled away from him on her bottom, ignoring the hand he offered to help her up. "Let go of me. How dare you touch me. You have no right, no?—"

"Lady, I meant no offence. The horse?—"

"You are not to touch me. I shall have you flogged.

I shall... I shall..." She staggered to her feet and turned her back on him, hugging her arms tight across her middle.

She bent at the waist, and for a moment Taranc thought she might be about to be sick but she settled for several long, heaving breaths.

At last, her senses gathered, she straightened and turned to face him again.

"A thrall may not lay hands upon a woman of the Jarl.

It is a crime punishable by death. You will do well to remember that, Celt. "

He shook his head in exasperation. "Standing in front of a bolting horse tends to yield a similar result. I suggest you bear that in mind, lady."

This woman might be lovely to look upon, but she was every bit as deluded as the ridiculous little slave master who now approached, his whip at the ready.

Taranc executed an exaggerated bow to Lady Brynhild, ignored the pompous karl, and turned to stride back to where his countrymen had watched the bizarre exchange with open mouths.

"Have we any kindling yet? We have a fire to start, chickens to slaughter." His voice was harsher than usual. "And we have a granary to build. We start at first light. Tomorrow."

Neither Brynhild nor Dagr contradicted him. Taranc stalked into the empty slave barn and snarled.

Bloody Vikings! They were mad as a pail full of frogs, the whole fucking lot of them.