Page 14

"We shall try our luck, then. First, I must fashion a fine pole like yours." Taranc had selected a decent length of willow on his way down to the river and now sat on the bank to whittle away the sharp twigs protruding from the edges. "Do you have spare line I might borrow, if you please?"

"Aye, I brought some. Here. And spare hooks." The boy tugged free a sack which he had suspended from the belt at his waist, the bag almost dangling to the ground. He shoved it at Taranc. "Take what you need. I shall find you some worms."

"Thank you." Taranc proceeded to attach the line and tied a hook to the end, then waited for the boy to return with bait.

Soon the pair were gazing contentedly upon their bobbing lines though Taranc doubted the creatures of the deep would venture their way unless Njal could manage to restrain his high-pitched chatter.

That seemed unlikely so he resigned himself to a pleasant if fish-free evening and settled onto his back to stare up into the inky blackness peppered by a thousand glittering stars.

Did the same brilliant display sparkle in the skies over Scotland? Had the season changed there also or did the summer still bathe their land in her warm glow?

"I have one. Look! Look, I have a fish!" Njal leapt up and hopped from one foot to the other pointing at his rod.

The pole had almost jerked free of the ground where Njal had jammed one end, and Taranc grabbed for it before the entire paraphernalia disappeared into the river.

He sat up and beckoned the boy to his side.

"We must reel it in. Take care, now. You do not wish to lose your supper."

Njal took the rod from Taranc and, face contorted in blissful concentration, he started to wind the line around the pole.

Soon the splashing on the surface of the river showed them the location of the trapped fish.

It looked to Taranc as though Njal had taken a sizable trout and he tilted his chin in acknowledgement of the feat.

"You do indeed appear to have the touch, my young friend. Let us hope I can do as well. We would welcome a nice fillet of plump trout to augment our rations in the slave barn this night."

"You may have this one," offered Njal as he landed the squirming fish and knelt to extract his hook from the upper lip of the gasping mouth.

The trout gleamed silver in the moonlight, his bright scales catching the thin glimmers of light as the creature waggled and twitched on the bank, then lay still.

"No, that one is yours. The next is mine."

Njal merely grinned as he reloaded his hook with fresh bait and tossed the line back into the water.

The boy caught a smaller trout next, then a decent salmon. Taranc's admiration was not feigned. This lad would never want for a decent meal. He, on the other hand...

"What are you doing here?" The strident tone brought them both whirling to their feet.

Brynhild stood a few feet away, her fine blue cloak billowing in the crisp breeze.

She gathered it to her, clutching the soft wool to her chest. Her head was bare, her magnificent pale blonde hair lifting in the wind.

She was furious, her eyes a deep and brilliant blue as she glowered first at Taranc then at her nephew.

Njal shuffled, awkward at first then opted to attempt to mitigate his transgression by gesturing to his impressive catch.

"We are fishing, aunt. Is it not a fine night for it? My father allows me to come here in the evening, as long as I do not stay too late. It is early still, and look, we have caught trout, salmon?—"

"You will be fortunate not to catch the flat of my palm across your disobedient little backside, young man. Did I not expressly tell you to stay well away from the thralls?" She paused to eye Taranc with undisguised distaste. "In particular, Celts."

"Taranc is my friend."

The lad was nothing if not loyal, especially in the face of his aunt's mounting anger. Still, Taranc could not allow him to make matters worse for himself if that might be avoided.

"It is getting late, perhaps. And you have thoroughly humiliated me with your fishing prowess. I know when I am well beaten so let us call it a night for now."

"But—"

"Your aunt is right, you should be heading for your home now, and your bed. I shall do likewise, and I will see you soon."

"Oh no, you shall not see my nephew soon. I forbid it. I—" Brynhild stepped forward to take the boy by the arm and started to tug him away from the river bank. "And you." She turned to glare at Taranc over her shoulder, "You shall be flogged for being outside after dark. I shall tell Dagr, and?—"

Njal wriggled free and planted himself in front of her, his small body quivering with indignant yet impotent rage. "You shall not have him flogged. You shall not! He is my friend, I told you. My father will not allow it, and?—"

"Go home. Now." Brynhild's tone was low and uncompromising. "I shall deal with you when I get there."

"But—"

Taranc interrupted his further protests. "It is all right, lad. Do not worry about me. Go straight home, now, as your aunt has told you. I shall see to your rod, your bag of tackle and your fish. You may collect them from the slave barn whenever you like."

"I already told you, you and the other thralls may have the fish."

"That is most generous, Njal. I thank you on behalf of all. Now, I must bid you good night."

The lad hesitated a further few seconds, then ventured a glance into his aunt's stern features. Whatever he saw there was sufficient to convince him of the wisdom of leaving without further ado. He turned and sprinted away across the springy meadow grass.

Taranc watched him out of sight, then bowed politely to Brynhild. "Lady, " he murmured as be bent to wind Njal's line around his pole.

He expected Brynhild to stalk off after her nephew, but she did not.

Instead, she remained where she stood, her eyes narrowed in a malevolent glare which remained fixed upon him as he busied himself clearing up his own fishing rod.

That task accomplished he attached each of the three landed fish to hooks from Njal's bag in readiness to hang them from his own belt for the journey back to the slave barn.

All set to leave himself, he made to pass the still fuming Norsewoman.

"You will excuse me," he murmured.

"Why?"

He glanced at her, surprised. "Because I am leaving."

"I mean, why are you spending time with my nephew. What do you plan to do?"

"Plan? Nothing." Well, nothing that concerns the boy, at least . "He is lonely, and curious. There is no harm in him. And I mean him no ill."

"I do not believe you."

Taranc's slender patience frayed. "And I do not care what you believe. Good night."

She moved fast, he would allow her that much.

He barely even saw the slender hand which snaked from within the confines of her cloak to land a resounding slap across his cheek, and certainly he had no opportunity to dodge that first blow.

Not so the second. As she drew back her hand to strike him again he grabbed her wrist and squeezed, only relaxing his grip marginally when she let out a startled squeal.

"I shall let the first slap go, since you are a woman and no doubt consider yourself provoked. But you shall not raise your hand to me again, lady, lest you wish to find yourself upended across my lap and spanked. Do I make myself clear on this?"

"How dare you? Let go of me! I shall?—"

"Do I make myself clear?" His grip remained firm despite her frantic tugging to be free.

At last, with no other choice if she was to be released, Brynhild gave a sharp nod. "Very well, I shall not slap you."

"Excellent decision. And I shall not spank you. This time. Instead…"

He bent his head, lowered his face to hers.

Taranc took in the startled expression, the widening of her kingfisher-blue eyes as his mouth descended to brush across hers.

Despite his words of just moments ago he was without doubt inviting another slap and the Viking woman could hardly be blamed for delivering it.

Her mouth was soft under his, her breath warm in the cool evening.

She parted her lips as though unable to prevent her artless response and his tongue found the seam of her mouth.

She opened fractionally more, and it was enough.

He slipped his tongue between her lips and caressed the inner surface of her teeth with the tip.

Her hands were on his shoulders, and she clung to him, her fingers curling into his rough tunic. The sane part of his mind expected a protest, expected her to shive him away, to screech her outrage, to summon her guards but the madness which drove him now ignored all of that.

What am I doing? I don’t even like this haughty, cruel woman.

His cock disagreed. His rampant erection liked her perfectly well and tented his pants in instant recognition of the Norsewoman’s ample charms. He deepened the kiss, tunnelling his fingers through her blonde locks to hold her head still.

Brynhild let out a soft moan, followed by a gasp.

Now, at last and somewhat belatedly, she stiffened in his arms and sought to be free.

Fuck!

Taranc broke the kiss and released her, his own breath less than steady. Brynhild backed away, her stunned expression one he found he did not entirely care for.

“You… you should not have done that.”

Probably not.

“Why…? I do not understand…”

Neither did he.

“Go! Go Back to the slave barn. Now!”

A decent plan, at last.

Taranc stepped back to execute an exaggerated bow. "Sleep well, Lady Brynhild."