Page 25

T aranc said nothing. He scrutinised the vehement features of the woman at his feet, could all but feel the heat of the crackling rage which coursed through her stiff frame.

There was a familiarity to the set of her jaw, the determined glint in her deep blue eyes though he could not entirely place it.

Of one thing he had no doubt, however. In that moment, he knew Brynhild Freysson spoke the truth.

He could not account for the misapprehension, but he did not doubt that it had been a mistake. Ulfric had got it wrong, Fiona too. Brynhild had her faults. No one could deny that and they were many, but attempted murder was not among them.

He stood and paced the length of the fishing boat, adjusted the blanket he had wrapped around his waist, then turned to view the fast disappearing shoreline of the Norse lands.

What to do now? He could order Eiliefr to turn the vessel about and take her home, but he was not entirely certain the man would obey.

Ten pieces of silver could be very persuasive.

Even if the fisherman could be cajoled, Taranc was not prepared to return to Hafrsfjord as that would mean his own recapture and he had no intention of delivering himself back into slavery.

He might set Brynhild ashore elsewhere and leave her, but he could not be certain she would be able to make her way safely back to Skarthveit alone.

What reception might she expect when she got there? If she got there. Ulfric would be far from happy to see her. To all intents and purposes, Brynhild Freysson had no home to go back to.

And if, by some unlikely chance, she was able to convince her brother to allow her to remain, what would that mean for Fiona?

Brynhild believed the Celtic slave to have lied to Ulfric, and that lie had cost Brynhild dear.

She would not forgive it, and he had only to recall the glint of ruthless determination in the Norsewoman's eyes as she delivered the most powerful of reasons for accepting her word, to know that Fiona would never be safe from her now.

If Brynhild wanted to kill an enemy, she would. She would not fail. Fiona was now her enemy, of that there could be no doubt.

He drew in a long sigh and tilted his head back to peruse the heavens as though inspiration might be found there. Perhaps it might. Taranc made up his mind.

He returned to drop down on his haunches beside Brynhild.

"Very well, I accept your explanation. You are telling the truth. It was a misunderstanding. A dangerous one, and one which might have ended in tragedy, but I do believe you that it was not done on purpose."

"You do?" She eyed him with suspicion. "Why? Why would you believe me if my own brother would not?"

"Did you say to him what you just said to me? About not failing if you had truly set out to murder Fiona?"

"Of course I did not."

"Then you have your answer, lady. It is not a pleasant thought, I grant you, but I do believe you to be ruthless enough, and clever enough, not to fail at such an endeavour. Fiona lives, as you have pointed out, so..."

"You will take me home. I shall explain to Ulfric, again. He will believe me this time."

Taranc offered her a tight smile. "I am sorry, lady, for it is not quite so simple."

She narrowed her azure eyes. "Of course it is exactly so simple. Turn the boat around. Now."

He shook his head. "We cannot return. I would be recaptured and back to hauling rocks for Ulfric or some other Viking. This is not a prospect I am prepared to contemplate."

"I would tell them?—"

"No, lady. We are not going back. You might convince Ulfric, or you might not. If you were to fail, he would not allow you to remain at Skarthveit. That much is obvious."

"I could go to my other brother, Gunnar. His settlement is to the north."

"You know the way? The location?" Taranc would be happy enough to consider a slight diversion. Perhaps this might offer a solution after all.

She shook her head. "I have never been there, but?—"

"Lady, I am not about to spend a Nordic winter tramping across your land in search of your brother's village."

"You need not come."

"Do not even think of such madness. Alone, you would perish in the attempt."

"I would not. I?—"

"Enough. You have been unjustly served, perhaps, though the dear Lord knows you contributed to the ill which has befallen you. That is of no matter now. You will come with me to Scotland, and?—"

"I will not! I shall not. I refuse."

Taranc gestured about him, at the small vessel, the expanse of sea which surrounded them.

"I hardly think you are in any position to refuse.

You are aboard this boat, and we are bound for Scotland, so.

.." He shrugged. It was a pity, he supposed, and she had a right to resent the circumstances in which she found herself.

But it was done now, and they must make the best they might of the situation.

"You should eat, and we have some fresh water on board. Then you might sleep for a while."

He rose to his feet, intending to seek out sustenance for his reluctant passenger.

His own leggings were dangling from the rail, his leather belt in front of him on the bench.

He picked up the belt and reached for the dagger he kept tucked in a small scabbard there.

He would use it to slice off a few chunks of cheese for his captive.

She moved fast, faster than he expected, certainly. Brynhild's hand shot out from within the folds of the blanket. She grabbed the knife before he could get his hands on it, then she scrambled to her feet.

"Turn us about. Now. We return to Hafrsfjord or... or I shall kill the pair of you and sail the boat back myself.

Taranc and Eiliefr exchanged a look. They both knew she would fail.

One woman, even with a knife, could not fell two grown men, one of them an escaped slave intent upon hanging on to his freedom and the other a Viking karl with every intention of living to enjoy the benefits of his new-found wealth.

Even if she could subdue them, she had no more chance of successfully steering back into the port than she might sprout wings and take to the air.

"Brynhild, think." Taranc edged around in front of her outstretched arm, his eyes on the glinting blade. He always kept his weapon sharp. "This is madness. You cannot possibly?—"

"Be quiet," she interrupted him. "Turn the boat about."

"No. We are going on, to Scotland." He kept his tone low, so as not to alarm her further. Best if she were to see the folly of her actions and relinquish the weapon.

Brynhild scrambled to her feet, her actions awkward as she required her spare hand to anchor the edges of the blanket at her front.

She glared at Taranc and jabbed the knife at him.

Her actions were more desperate than threatening since several feet separated them still and she had no hope of drawing blood.

"Give me the knife." He held out his hand. "This will get you nowhere, and if I have to take that knife from you it will earn you a whipping you will never forget."

"You have no right to touch me, to threaten me. I am the Viking here, you are but a thrall, and?—"

"My apologies, lady. I did not intend to threaten you." He ventured a pace forward, bringing him almost within range of the blade.

"Then you will return me to my home? Now?"

"That is not possible, as I have explained. And I did not threaten you. That was a promise."

"A promise? I?—"

Taranc took advantage of her momentary surge of frustrated outrage to make his move.

He lunged low and to her right, grasping the hem of the blanket and tugging it down, hard.

Brynhild lost her slender grip on the fabric and it slithered to the deck to leave her standing naked before him.

As she instinctively reached to cover herself he leapt forward again to grab the wrist of the hand holding the knife and squeezed.

Her fingers sprang apart and the knife rattled to the deck.

Taranc kicked it toward Eileifr who calmly reached down and picked it up.

The fisherman offered Taranc a casual nod as he returned to his sails.

Meanwhile Taranc had his work cut out as Brynhild fought him with all she had. She shrieked and wriggled and clawed at him, seeking, he was quite convinced, to put out both his eyes before she was done. She even sank her teeth into his forearm when an opportunity presented itself.

Despite Brynhild's determined efforts, the eventual outcome was never in doubt.

Taranc wrestled her to the deck and pinned her wrists above her head with one hand.

He was angry, his arm throbbed like a fucking demon and he had managed to lose his own blanket in the skirmish though that did not bother him overmuch.

She might feel differently. He did not forget her extreme reaction when he had tackled her to the ground the previous night.

He searched her hostile, contorted features for evidence of similar terrors but found none.

Thus reassured, he allowed his far from disinterested gaze to roam the length of her, taking in the fullness of her perfectly upturned breasts topped with pretty pink nipples which tightened in the chill air.

He considered taking one between his lips to taste the plump sweetness of it, but that would have to wait.

He ventured further, admiring the softly curling blonde hair between her thighs, the long, shapely legs which were crossed tight at the thigh as though she might bar his entrance.

As well she might. He was no abuser of women. If she said 'no', then...

With his free hand he swept the length of her pale blonde hair back from her face and offered her a tight smile.

"Let me go. Do not touch me..." Her voice hitched, panic starting to bubble forth.

He had expected as much. Taranc softened his features. "You are safe, lady, apart from the whipping you have earned, naturally."