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T aranc sought the correct word to describe the woman in his arms. He settled upon brittle.

Lady Brynhild, the proud Viking lady, sister to the Jarl of Skarthveit sat the horse with a stiffness he could not entirely attribute to the switching he had dealt her, though without doubt that played its part.

She held her body straight, her spine rigid and unyielding as she refused to lean back against him.

It was as though she could not bring herself to be in contact with his body, to touch him at all.

He flattened his lips in irritation. She would learn the hard way that comfort should be had where it might be found. In her situation, he was the only source and she would do well to remember that.

They rode in tense silence for perhaps an hour.

It was Taranc's intention to travel through the night and, with luck, reach Hafrsfjord shortly before first light.

The fishing vessel promised by Ulfric should be waiting for them in the small harbour there and he saw no cause to doubt it.

The Jarl had been as good as his word up to now.

Taranc hoped to enter the port under cover of darkness and put to sea before the inhabitants of Hafrsfjord were up and about. The fewer who saw them, the better.

This evening had gone more or less to plan thus far.

He had bargained on spirited resistance by Brynhild and she had not disappointed him.

It was to be hoped that the sore bottom which must pain her with every jolt and roll of the mount beneath her would be sufficient reminder of the perils of crossing him again.

They would see. He was not averse to issuing a further demonstration of his mastery of her fate should that prove necessary.

He might have been able to dredge up a little more in the way of sympathy for the Viking's plight were it not for the many tales he had heard of Brynhild's ill treatment of Fiona.

Though he knew her to be mean of spirit and malicious, Taranc could not help believing that the taciturn woman who now shared his mount might shatter into a thousand pieces at the slightest jolt.

She had a quick temper and would think nothing of venting it upon those who could not defend themselves.

She was not deserving of his compassion.

Still, this night's work was not her punishment. It was not for him to seek retribution for the hurts done to Fiona. Her banishment from her home was the forfeit she had paid and he had no cause to compound Brynhild's misery.

"You should sleep, lady. I will make sure you do not fall." A decent enough offer, in Taranc's view, given the circumstances.

Brynhild did not favour him with so much as a reply. She continued to stare straight ahead, her shoulders stiff and unmoving, her silence unrelenting even though he had removed the gag once they were mounted and on their way again and she was free to speak should she so desire.

Taranc shrugged. She might please herself.

Another hour passed. Hafrsfjord still lay a good four hours' ride away, but they were making brisk progress and Taranc saw no reason not to pause for a bite to eat and a mouthful of the fine ale supplied by Ulfric.

He reined in the horse and offered his hand to Brynhild. "We shall halt here for a few minutes."

She ignored his offer of assistance and grabbed the front of the saddle with her bound hands before slithering down to the ground. Her legs seemed to crumple beneath her and she landed heavily upon her knees.

Foolish woman. Taranc kept his opinion to himself as he dismounted and took her elbow to help her up.

She would have shaken off his hand but he did not permit that, holding onto her until he was certain she was steady.

Then he slung the reins over a tree branch and walked around the mare to access the bag he had slung from the saddle.

A hunk of cheese and a lump of bread was not the finest fare he might have hoped for, but it would do.

He withdrew the food and returned to offer it to Brynhild.

Or he would have, were she still where he had left her.

For fuck's sake! He spun around, scanning the darkness. The woman could barely stand, how had she managed to make a break for it, and in silence? She had had but a few scant seconds, and?—

There! The snap of a twig betrayed her direction.

Taranc had the moonlight to thank for the brief glimpse of a slender shape slipping between the trees some fifty or so paces from where he stood, but it was enough.

He stuffed the bread and cheese back into the bag and set off after her at a dead sprint.

He had to acknowledge that she was determined in her attempt to elude him.

Brynhild abandoned all semblance of stealth once she heard his pursuit and ran as though her life depended upon it.

He did not really blame her, it probably seemed so to her.

Still, he had warned his captive what would be the result if she tried such foolishness again.

She would live to bitterly regret this ridiculous impulse, but first he had to get his hands upon the recalcitrant wench.

Had her wrists not been bound he had no doubt she would have been harder to catch.

Not impossible, but harder. The Viking's long legs ate up the ground and she leapt over fallen trees and roots with an agility he envied.

Still, Taranc was gaining upon her and it was but a matter of time.

His lungs burned as he closed the distance, but he managed to come within an arm's length.

"Stop, lady. Give it up and I shall not hurt you. Much."

"May you rot in your own filth, Celt," came the panting response.

So be it. Taranc found one final burst of speed and hurled himself at the woman in front of him.

He caught a handful of her cloak. It was enough to tip her off balance and she lost her footing.

The pair tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over in the undergrowth as Taranc sought to subdue the wriggling, screaming demon he had grabbed.

She landed a decent kick to his shin. Taranc grunted, muttered a curse she could not possibly understand despite her passable Gaelic.

Brynhild's struggles became more furious, more desperate.

She clawed at his face with her bound hands, screaming at the top of her lungs.

How did she still have the breath to screech like that? It was all he could do to gasp out a half-decent obscenity.

Taranc had had enough. He grasped the leather strap he had used to bind her wrists and dragged her hands above her head, pinning them there.

His weight was on top of her, one leg slung across her hips to pin her to the ground.

He used his free hand to cover her mouth. The bloody screaming had to stop.

Brynhild went still. No, not still, he amended.

She froze. Where one moment he was wrestling with a woman crazed, the next he could have been lying on top of a corpse.

Brynhild was stiff, absolutely rigid, not even breathing as far as he could tell.

He instantly removed his hand from her mouth and was relieved to detect the light feathering of her breath on his fingers.

Taranc leaned his weight on his elbow but did not relinquish his hold on her hands. He leaned over her and gazed into her face, and was stunned by what he saw there.

Terror. Blind, abject terror. Her eyes were dark, the irises almost completely obliterated by her pupils, but he believed she no longer saw him.

Her nostrils flared, her lips were parted and he could swear her teeth were chattering.

Gone was the angry, resentful, spitting and fighting she-cat of just moments ago to be replaced by a frightened, beaten girl.

It was exactly as before, on the day he had saved her from being trampled by the horse.

Taranc released his grip on her wrists and rolled off her. Still Brynhild did not move. She appeared paralysed by her fear of him, unable to defend herself or even plead for her life.

Taranc knelt at her side. "I am sorry... I did not mean..."

She flinched as though he struck her.

"Brynhild, you are safe. I shall not harm you."

Her breath came in shallow gasps now, and the blue of her eyes slowly returned as panic receded.

Still she stared straight up, at some point beyond Taranc.

She started to shake so he dragged off his cloak and wrapped it around her although she already wore her own.

She had reason to fear him, to fear the spanking she must know to expect, but this reaction went far beyond that and he did not believe it to be feigned.

Brynhild was in a place of her own imagining, a place he did not comprehend where she had found danger and terror and helplessness.

He had caused this, and he did not care for it at all.

"Brynhild? Little Viking? Speak to me. Please." He lowered his tone, his words gentle as he sought to coax her back into the here and now. The merest hitch of her breath betrayed that she heard him. "Brynhild, I shall help you to sit up. Is that all right?"

He did not know why, but it seemed important to seek her permission before he touched her again.

"May I?"

She closed her eyes, and she nodded. Just once, but it was clear enough. He slid his hand under her shoulders and eased her from the ground. "Take deep breaths. We shall wait here until you are ready to move."

He was in a hurry. Hafrsfjord beckoned. Why had he promised her all the time she might need?

Her eyes remained closed and she lifted her hands to cover her face. Brynhild leaned forward, her head bowed now, and her shoulders started to shake. She was weeping.