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B rynhild perched in the saddle before her captor, shifting her weight as best she might to protect her punished bottom.

The Celt helped by drawing her up onto his lap and allowing her to wedge her foot under his leg to provide the anchorage she needed.

His arm was about her waist and he held her secure.

She would not fall, however hard the mare galloped.

After the delay in the forest he seemed intent upon making up the lost time, and for her part Brynhild had abandoned any attempt to thwart him in that.

This was not to say that she was at ease, however. Quite the reverse. Her head whirled. She was confused, baffled, and she did not care for the sensation at all.

Worse, she was scared. Not of the arrogant, slack-witted oaf who thought to carry her off and believed he might subdue her by taking a switch to her bottom.

She had not the slightest doubt she would find a way to elude Taranc before much longer, definitely once they arrived in Hafrsfjord.

Did he think no one there would recognise the sister of the Jarl of Skarthveit?

That none would rush to her aid should she scream for help?

The Celt was a fool, and he would likely die for his stupidity.

No, Brynhild did not fear the Celt. She feared herself.

What had happened to her, back there in the forest?

One moment she was running for her life, ready to fight if she must and die in the attempt.

The next she found herself prone on the forest floor, the stars swirling above her in the inky blackness, the weight of a strong, determined male pressing her into the ground.

In those moments, she had been a girl again, helpless, vulnerable, desperate to escape the man who pinned her to the ground but unable to lift so much as a finger in her own defence.

His voice grated in her ears, harsh and guttural, demanding, accusing.

Her nostrils were filled with his odour, so strong she could almost taste it.

He was real. He was here…back, after all these years and she was in his power all over again.

Brynhild gave herself a mental shake. It had been a hallucination, a nightmare …

there was no other explanation. She did not confuse the spectre from her childish imaginings with the thrall who now held her captive.

But this Taranc had been there. He had been beside her when she emerged from the horror, his voice soft, reassuring her, coaxing her back into the present where the earth did not shake, her wits did not betray her and her courage was intact.

He had held her while she wept, saying nothing, demanding nothing, simply waiting for her to return to her senses.

And now he asked if he was the cause of her breakdown.

As if he held that level of power over her. No man did, nor ever would again.

The Celt sought an explanation. He was not the only one, and he, too, would be disappointed.

Even if she did properly understand what had happened, and if she had wished to confide in this escaped slave, Brynhild did not believe she could have found the words to tell him.

And she did not choose to. It was private, her secret, buried even deeper this time and she would never allow that vision from her past to emerge again.

Thus fortified, Brynhild turned her thoughts to the rest. An idiot he may be, but this Taranc had planned his escape well and she had no notion how he might have accomplished that.

She knew for a fact that he, along with all the thralls, had spent the entirety of the previous day toiling on the beach.

The harbour was coming along slowly but her brother was determined to make as much progress as they might before the winter halted the work.

At no stage, as far as she could work out, had this man had any opportunity to creep into their settlement and steal a horse, even less lead the beast away and conceal it in the surrounding woods.

He had somehow managed to steal Ulfric's finest cloak, and that did not leave her brother's chamber except for when he wore it. Had Taranc entered their longhouse?

He had food too, and probably other supplies in that leather sack he slung from the saddle. Did he have blankets in there, purloined from Brynhild's own stores? Weapons? Had he stolen other valuables from Skarthveit? Coin that he might use to bribe a boatman?

It was not possible that he had achieved all of this unaided so he must have had an accomplice. Fiona. It had to be. Who else? So much for Ulfric's unshakable trust in his little bed-slave.

The other part of the puzzle concerned her own presence here.

Why had the escaping slave taken her? It would have been far simpler, and safer, to make his bid for freedom alone.

It was not as though she had done anything to aid him, quite the reverse.

She had complicated everything, surely. He must intend to offer her for ransom, or in exchange for his betrothed.

Or perhaps she was a hostage, offering him some semblance of security if he should be challenged.

It had to be that, nothing else made sense.

Satisfied that she had arrived at the truth of the matter, Brynhild turned her thoughts to planning her escape.

She would demand that the fishermen of Hafrsfjord come to her aid and she had no doubt that they would.

This Taranc would soon enough find himself back in her brother's slave barn. If he was lucky.

The Celt tugged on the reins and brought their mount to a halt.

The harbour of Hafrsfjord lay at the foot of the hill, the surface of the sea glittering as the backdrop.

It was a fine night, chilly but not overly cold and the next day promised to be fair enough.

Within the next hour or so the people of the port would begin to stir and go about their business.

That would see an end to this Celt's tyranny over her.

She tilted her chin up and drew the shreds of her dignity about her as they descended into the coastal town.

The Celt headed for the small fishing vessel which was moored at a distance from the rest. Brynhild recognised the craft at once.

It was owned by Eileifr, one of Ulfric's own karls and unless she was very much mistaken that was he, seated on the deck as though he was expecting them.

The fisherman got to his feet at their approach and leapt onto the quay.

"Eiliefr?" Taranc murmured the name, keeping his voice low so as not to alert others. Their mare's hooves were still muffled and although Brynhild cast her gaze wildly from left to right she saw no one else. No matter, Eileifr was her brother's man and he would have to do.

"You know me?" she demanded.

"Aye, lady," confirmed the fisherman, though his eyes were on Taranc.

"All is in readiness? We may leave at once?" Taranc addressed Eiliefr, and both ignored Brynhild.

"Aye, within minutes. You have the money?"

"I do." Taranc reached into the saddle bag and withdrew a purse. Coins jangled within.

"Ten pieces of silver, the Jarl said."

"It is all there. You may count it." Taranc tossed the purse to the man who tipped the contents into his hand.

Seemingly satisfied, he nodded once to the Celt. "Bring her aboard. We shall be away before first light."

Taranc dismounted from the horse and reached up to help Brynhild down. Stunned, she slid down into his arms, then staggered on the rough cobbles of the quayside.

What was happening? The man said he knew her, yet was still prepared to see her taken aboard his fishing vessel by an escaping slave and carried away from these shores. Worse, he had been paid to take them, and the Jarl was aware of the bargain.

Ten pieces of silver, the Jarl said. At last it all fell into place.

Ulfric had made this deal. He had provided the payment, and no doubt the rest—supplies, horse, his own cloak!

There had been no other accomplice. In all likelihood, there had been no escape, really, since Ulfric had known all along what was intended and Taranc had his permission to be here in Hafrsfjord, embarking on the voyage home.

But the Celt had no right to abduct her.

That was impossible and she would die before she would go meekly with him.

Whatever deal had been struck between her brother and this man, Ulfric would never have countenanced such disloyalty, such wickedness.

They had quarrelled lately, that was true, but he was her brother and he loved her.

Surely Eileifr must realise that this was all wrong.

She turned to the fisherman. "You must help me. My brother will reward you, he?—"

Eileifr had the grace to shuffle before her and found it necessary to inspect his shoes most carefully, but he made no move to come to her aid.

The karl dropped the coins back into the purse and tied it to his belt, then vaulted back over the rail to land on the deck of his boat.

"If you can manage the lady, I shall get us under way.

The tide is good, and the wind fair. We will make good time. "

"But—"

Brynhild's protest was cut off as Taranc stepped forward. Was that compassion she detected in his green-eyed gaze? Why? Why should he feel sorry for her?

Taranc took her elbow and urged her toward the boat. "I shall lift you aboard, lady. Do not worry, I shall not drop you."

"No!" She shook off his hand and backed away. "My brother will kill you for this. Both of you. Are you quite mad?"

"Best you keep her quiet. The Jarl wants no fuss. He was most definite on that. Get her away under cover of darkness, he said, and no one else is to know." Eileifr busied himself loosening ropes in readiness for setting sail. "Let's not be wasting time now."