Page 22

At a loss, Taranc acted on instinct again.

He wrapped her in his arms and turned her to face his chest. He half-expected her to struggle, to try to escape his hold but her resistance was entirely spent.

Instead, she scrambled toward him as though she sought to crawl right inside his rough tunic.

Her sobs became louder, more despairing, wrenching from her as the pent-up grief poured forth.

Taranc just held her, stroking her hair and muttering words of comfort which he doubted she would comprehend as he rocked her back and forth.

At last the anguished weeping subsided. Brynhild sniffled and gulped, her body shuddering as she fought to regain control. Taranc willed himself to be patient and was rewarded when, eventually, she turned her tear-ravaged face toward him.

"I am sorry. I do not know what happened. I... I..."

"Hush," he murmured into her hair. "It is all right."

"But—"

"We shall talk, if you wish it. And soon. But now, we go to Hafrsfjord."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "H-Hafrsfjord? But, why?"

"Is it not obvious, little Viking? We need a boat. We are going to the land of the Celts."

She shook her head. "I cannot. No, it is impossible. My brother will come, he will stop you, and?—"

Taranc laid one finger over her lips, the merest of pressure, just enough to halt the flow of words. "We go to Hafrsfjord. Come."

He got to his feet and extended his hand to her.

This time Brynhild accepted his assistance and fell into step at his side as he led the way back through the woodland to where the mare waited patiently.

Given the episode in the forest Taranc was tempted to forgo the promised spanking.

The last thing he needed was another emotional outpouring.

His mind was made up when Brynhild regarded him from beneath her still-damp lashes.

"You will beat me again. Because I tried to escape."

It was a statement. She fully expected him to carry out his threat. Not to do so, whatever the reason, would be unwise.

Taranc inclined his head. "I shall, yes." He glanced about them. "You will lean against that tree, over there, and raise your skirts."

"The switch?"

He nodded. "Six strokes this time. I shall increase your punishment by two strokes every time I have cause to discipline you so you might do well to bear that in mind."

"You do not frighten me, Celt."

No? Taranc thought otherwise but made no comment. He found her defiance in the face of a switching somewhat reassuring. She would accept this well enough.

He gestured with his thumb. "The tree, lady. Let us be done with this and on our way."

Obedient as a lamb now, she moved to position herself before the tree he indicated then turned to regard him over her shoulder. "You will require your cloak back. Or should I say, my brother's cloak."

Taranc offered her a tight smile as he extracted a prepared switch from the half dozen or so he had stashed in his saddlebag. "A fine garment, lady. Your work?"

"Of course." She removed it from her shoulders and offered it to him.

Taranc took it and set it to one side, then accepted Brynhild's own cloak which she duly unfastened and slid from her body. He folded that and laid it on top of his own. "Can you manage?" He had not untied her hands.

"I believe so. You will require me to lift my skirt?"

"Naturally. A switching is always on the bare buttocks. I find it more effective that way and I would not wish you to harbour any illusions regarding your future obedience."

"You are a barbarian."

"Aye, if you say so." He swung the switch through the air and noted the widening of her eyes at the high-pitched whistle it made as it rent the air. "And I am a barbarian in a hurry, so if you would be so kind...?"

Brynhild offered him a hostile glare, then she turned to face the tree.

She bent to grasp the hem of her skirt and wasted no time in dragging the fabric up and around her waist. Her apparent lack of modesty surprised Taranc, not least given her state of near collapse earlier when she found herself lying beneath him on the ground, but he chose not to analyse this conundrum quite yet.

Brynhild managed to secure the fabric of her skirt by tucking it under the band of woven wool which served as a belt, though a fold of it did dangle down partly obscuring her right buttock. This would not do.

"Allow me." Taranc stepped forward and lent his aid, securing the skirt at the back as well as in the front as Brynhild had done. Satisfied, he stepped back. "Six strokes. Are you ready."

“I do not understand this. What good does this do? Why do you waste time here, punishing me for doing what you must have known I would, when you could press on to Hafrsfjord?”

Taranc paused. “You Vikings are not averse to meting out a spanking when it is deserved. I know your brother to be of that persuasion and I hardly think you have escaped such chastisement your entire life, Brynhild.”

“No, not even when I was a child, though perhaps, on occasion my mother considered it. Now, as a woman grown, it makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. You and I find ourselves thrown together by circumstances. I do not know how long we shall be in one another’s company, but I expect it to be a while.

Your obedience and submission are vital, to my safety, and did you but know it, to yours also.

This way, if you cross me, I shall punish you, and then the matter will be closed.

I have no wish to constantly drag up past hurts, and a spanking puts an end to the matter.

We need never speak of your wrong-doing again. You will be forgiven.”

“Why would I desire your forgiveness?” she glared at him over her shoulder as she snarled the words. “You are a Celt, a thrall, a runaway slave. You will be recaptured soon enough, and?—“

Taranc’s patience was at an end, and the infernal woman did have a point. He had precious little time to waste. “You may not want my forgiveness, but you shall have it anyway. Once you have taken your spanking. Are you ready?”

"Just do it, Celt." She managed to inject a note of real venom into her tone. His rebellious Viking was back.

She hissed when the first stroke landed across her right buttock.

Taranc paused to allow her to regain her composure, admiring the faint stripe which bloomed across her pale flesh.

The four wheals from earlier already decorated her pretty arse and he would take care to avoid the exact same spots. He selected his next target.

Brynhild let out a squeal when he laid the switch on her left cheek, but she did not move.

She managed not to actually scream until he reached number five. Taranc was impressed. The sixth stroke landed across the backs of both thighs and he knew it hurt. She screamed again and danced on the spot.

"Stand still. I have finished, but you will remain as you are while I ready the horse."

She leaned forward to rest her forehead against the bark of the tree but offered no protest. Taranc allowed himself a few moments to admire the glorious sight of her punished bottom, the stripes he had placed there criss-crossing each other, a deep, sensual pink in contrast with her milky skin.

This Viking might consider herself his enemy, and he supposed she was right. Still, he could appreciate a beautiful woman when her bottom was bared to him.

It did not take him long to ready the mare. He returned to where Brynhild waited, her shoulders bent as she gripped the tree. Was she crying?

Taranc resisted the temptation to explore the stripes, to feel the raised ribbons beneath his fingers and to listen to her gasps of pleasure or pain as he did so.

He would not touch her unless she gave her permission.

Instead he made short work of releasing her skirt from its confines, front and back and dropped the fabric to cover her lower body once more.

"Ready?"

"No," she snapped.

So, not crying, then . "I thought as much. Surely we do not need to repeat this exercise so soon?"

"I hate you." She turned and marched toward the little mare.

Did she? She had every reason to, and as little as an hour ago Taranc would not have cared one way or the other. He followed her back to the horse and was both surprised and pleased when she allowed him to assist her into the saddle. He handed her back her cloak, then swung up behind her.

"You might find it more comfortable to rest on my thighs."

She said nothing, but adjusted her position as he suggested.

"So, my Viking. Onward to Hafrsfjord." Taranc nudged the horse with his heels and they were in motion again.

The mare was a sturdy little beast and maintained a steady canter despite the double weight upon her back.

Taranc was not called upon to remind the animal of the need for haste and soon he considered the time he had lost in the forest recovered.

Thus reassured, his thoughts turned to the incident which puzzled him.

He turned over the sequence of events in his mind, though why he should entertain any real interest in the cause of his captive's extreme distress was somewhat beyond him.

The Viking woman possessed no such finer feelings nor compassion, and it was these failings which had led to her kidnapping.

She was not deserving of his sympathy or concern.

He should just leave it and concentrate his efforts on making certain they both left these God forsaken, frigid shores with all the speed he could muster.

But he could not. She had been fine, or what passed for fine with Brynhild Freysson, right up until he had lunged for her and brought her to the ground. That was when everything had changed.

"What happened, back there?" He opted for the direct approach.

"I do not know what you mean." Her spine stiffened and she continued to stare straight ahead.

"Liar. What happened, back there in the forest? You were terrified. Of me?"

"I have told you, I am not afraid of you, Celt."

"Yet you were. It was there, in your face, your body. You were paralysed by fear. Then you sobbed as though your heart was broken."

"Do I not have the right? I have been abducted from my home, beaten, threatened. I am entitled to be upset."

"It was more than that. I caused your terror, or so it seemed, but did it really have anything to do with me at all?"

"No!" She turned to peer up at him over her shoulder. "It had nothing whatsoever to do with you. Not then, not now."

He tried another tack. "I would wish to avoid causing you such distress again. Perhaps if I knew?—"

"It is not your concern, Celt." Her tone hardened and she became even more rigid in his arms. Brynhild was again the haughty Nordic lady and she drew that imaginary cloak of superiority about her as she lifted her chin to gaze at the route ahead.

"If you wish not to distress me, then release me.

Allow me to return to my home, my family.

Continue on to your homeland if you are determined upon it, and if you are able to secure a boat, which I doubt will prove as simple as you imagine. But leave me here."

Taranc sighed. He was getting nowhere on this but he did not consider the matter closed. Far from it.

They passed a large outcrop of flat rocks, then a tree which had been struck by lightning.

Taranc recalled the landmarks described by Ulfric and knew that they were nearing Hafrsfjord.

The sky had not yet started to lighten, but it would in the next hour or so.

He preferred to arrive at the port just before dawn if he could manage it, before the townspeople started to rise, but with the full day’s sailing ahead of them.

Taranc nudged the mount to a full gallop and covered the remaining five miles until the rooftops of the small port came into sight at the foot of the next hill they crested. He reined in the horse and strained his eyes in the thinning gloom to pick out what he sought.

Yes. There. A small fishing boat was moored at a jetty just outside the main town. The craft bobbed on the water, sails rigged and ready to go. Taranc turned the horse in the direction of the boat and urged the mare forward again.