Page 26

Her eyes widened. "Wh-whipping. What do you intend to do?"

"We are at eight strokes, I believe, by my reckoning." He glanced over his shoulder. "We shall use the mast, I think..."

"The mast? What? You cannot?—"

It was time to be firm, to assert his authority if they were to have any peace on this voyage. "Lady, you do not command here. I do, and I have already warned you of the consequences if you disobey or otherwise vex me. Eight strokes. Now, get up."

He released her wrists and rose to his feet.

He did not miss the startled widening of her eyes when she found herself staring at his semi-erect cock, the darkening of her pupils as the implications of his arousal sank in.

He could not help his response to her and was not about to apologise for it, but he did not need her to succumb to panic now.

Taranc grinned at her as he retrieved the blanket and tied it around his waist again then offered her his hand to assist her up.

She was not reassured. Brynhild shrank away from him, shaking her head.

"No, please do not do this. I am sorry, I?—"

"Up. Now." The sudden evaporation of her previous belligerence was not lost on him.

Neither was her shock at the sight of his erection but Taranc was not entirely convinced.

He would not put it past her to dissemble, to seek to manipulate him even now.

He deliberately hardened his tone. "You may submit willingly, or not, but the end will be the same.

" He leaned down to offer his hand again.

Brynhild groped behind her for the blanket and managed to snag a corner of the fabric.

She clasped it around her once more as she scrambled to her feet, ignoring his offer of assistance.

Her chin tilted at a defiant angle as she glared at him, then eyed the mast with distaste.

So much for her nervous apprehension and apparent contrition.

Taranc gestured to her to precede him to the mast where Eileifr waited with a length of narrow rope. Her steps slow, Brynhild did as he instructed, coming to a halt below the billowing sail. She looked up, then back over her shoulder at Taranc. "Shall I lean against it, then?"

"You will hug the mast, lady, and Eileifr if you would be so good as to secure her wrists? Not too tight, but we must be sure she will not shift at an inopportune moment."

"That will not be necessary, I?—"

"Eileifr." At Taranc's curt command the karl stepped forward and reached for Brynhild's wrists. She stepped away from him, her eyes blazing.

"Keep your hands off me. I will not permit this." She tucked her hands further within the folds of the blanket.

Taranc had heard enough. He leaned forward to murmur in her ear.

"Ten, lady. And the count will increase with every act of defiance, every refusal to obey.

Are you really so set on adding to your punishment?

You will spend a great deal more time than you might care to imagine lashed to that mast if you do not have a care. "

She spun to glower at him, and he could not miss the glisten of unshed tears.

Whether it was her pride which suffered or genuine fear of the pain to come he did not know, but at last he believed the true Brynhild Freysson was starting to reveal herself.

Now was the time to press his advantage.

He nodded toward the mast. "Hug it, lady.

And you will have no need of the blanket for the next little while. "

She considered his words for several moments, then positioned herself before the mast and extended her arms about its girth.

She did not yet relinquish the blanket. The colourful weave draped her slender shoulders as she leaned forward to rest her cheek on the smooth curve of the wood.

She lowered her eyelids, and gnawed on her lower lip with her teeth as Eileifr quickly tied her wrists together on the other side of the beam.

Yes, she was scared, and Taranc believed this was real. Her submission might be forced, but she recognised his power over her however much she might deplore it and had abandoned her attempts to resist, to refuse to cooperate. She might yet learn a valuable lesson this day.

Taranc took the blanket and tugged it away from her body. Brynhild flinched as the cool morning air caressed her naked back. She opened her eyes to meet his gaze, her expression fearful. "Please..." she mouthed.

Taranc moved in close and lifted the heavy length of her unbound hair which cascaded down her back. He draped it over her shoulder and on impulse bent to kiss the top of her head. "This will be quick, Brynhild. I promise. And you will come to no harm."

She closed her beautiful azure eyes again, and nodded.

Taranc wasted no time in retrieving his belt which had been flung to the deck in the scramble for the knife.

He removed the empty sheath and folded its length so he could grasp the metal buckle within his fist. He walked back to where his captive leaned against the solid wooden pole, her body shivering.

The marks of her previous punishment still streaked her pale buttocks, and Taranc believed he had never seen a sight more beautiful.

Brynhild Freysson might be the most difficult, complicated and frankly demanding woman he had ever encountered, but she was without doubt the most lovely.

If their circumstances were different...

He gave himself a mental shake. The circumstances were not different.

They were what they were—awkward, dangerous and bloody inconvenient.

He would do what must be done, and she would bear what she could not avoid.

What came next he had not the faintest notion, but he would feel his way through this… somehow.

"Are you ready?"

Her lips tightened into a grimace. She made no further response.

"Ten strokes. I shall count. You may make all the din you like since we are far out of port and none but the gulls will hear you."

A single tear escaped the corner of her eye and snaked its way across her pale cheek. Despite her reluctance to embrace the mast a few minutes ago he noted that she gripped it like a devoted lover now.

The belt whistled through the air. Brynhild let put a startled yelp even before the leather connected with her quivering rump then danced on the spot as the stripe bloomed on her skin.

"One." Taranc shifted his stance to lay the next stroke a little lower and swung again.

"Two," he announced as Brynhild gasped and whimpered against the mast. She clung to the beam as though drawing comfort from its solid warmth.

"Three." He paused to allow her to take several much-needed breaths as she hopped from one foot to the other. Her bottom glowed red and he could almost feel the heat from where he stood.

"Are you all right?" He was impressed at her fortitude thus far, but felt compelled to ask even so.

Her answer was a tight nod and a flattening of her lips. Her body was rigid, her punished buttocks clenching hard as she anticipated the next stroke.

"It is less painful if you soften your bottom," he advised.

"How do you know? Is this something you learnt from your betrothed? How often did you tie Fiona up and whip her naked bottom?"

A fair enough question, he surmised, though he considered it ill-judged of her to ask it right now.

He was tempted to increase the punishment by a further two strokes but decided that might be unduly harsh.

"No, I never had occasion to do so. I always found Fiona to be sweet-natured and compliant.

You, lady, are an entirely different matter. "

And privately, he thanked the sweet Lord for that.

"Four," he counted. "Five. Six. Seven."

On the eighth stroke Brynhild let out a high pitched scream. Her bottom sported a dizzying array of bright red stripes, the lines raised and livid in the brightening morning light. She moaned softly between the strokes and he was glad he had not added more. She was close to her limit now.

"Two more, then we are done here. You can do this, my fierce little Viking."

She managed a quick nod, as though his confidence inspired her.

Perhaps it did, and if so he would not let her down.

The final two strokes would be delivered to her thighs, and would hurt more than the rest. This was where her lesson would be learnt, where the difference would be made.

He intended her to remember this day's work.

"Nine."

Brynhild screeched at the top of her lungs as the leather wrapped itself around both her thighs. "You bastard, that hurts so much. I cannot... No more... Stop. Stop !"

Taranc did not stop. Neither did he draw out the agony.

He swung one last time and dropped the final stroke in exactly the same place.

Brynhild screamed again, clawing and grabbing at the mast as though she might climb up it to escape him.

Her shoulders shook, her sobs were noisy and gulping and her breath came in ragged, tortured gasps.

Taranc tossed the belt to the deck and moved in close to wrap his arms about the shivering form.

Brynhild went motionless, though she still wept. He lifted her hair to kiss her neck, the delicate spot just below her ear. She did not resist the intimacy, and nor did she draw away when he pressed his lower body against hers.

"We are done. You are forgiven and you have survived."

She shook her head, her eyes still closed. Tears streamed across her ravaged cheeks. "It will never be done, never be over. It is not enough to survive."

Taranc paused, puzzled. Did she mean the whipping, or had her thoughts fled elsewhere? "Brynhild...?"

"It hurts. It hurts so much..."

He flattened his palm against the scorching flesh of her bottom.

The heat permeated his hand and he rubbed gently.

Brynhild sighed and he fancied that her tight body relaxed, though he may have been mistaken.

He caressed her again as though he might smooth the hurt away and she writhed under his hand.

"Is that better?"

"Yes. A little..."

"Good." He repeated the motion, his palm tracing a circular path across her buttocks.

"Why are you doing this? You meant to hurt me."

"I did, and it is finished now. Now, I want you to feel safe and to know that you may trust me."

"I do trust you."

Did she? Certainly, in this moment, she gave every appearance that she might be coming to do so. Taranc decided to push his advantage. "Spread your legs for me, little Viking."

"Why?" Instantly she was on the alert, anxious and wary. She clamped her thighs together.

"You know that I am not immune to you. You saw as much. Now, I wish to discover if you are aroused by me. By this..." He drew his palm across her bottom again, pausing at the furrow between her buttocks but exploring no further.

"I... of course I am not. Why should I be?"

"May I, Brynhild?" He pressed his palm against her flaming flesh.

She shook her head. "Please, no..."

"You do trust me," he reminded her softly. "You said as much."

She rested her forehead against the unyielding wood and rolled her face from side to side. "This is different. I cannot."

"Why? What is it that you cannot do?"

"I cannot open my legs for a man. Not you, not any man. Never. Never again."

"Brynhild, tell me." There was more, much more, he knew it.

"You do not wish to know. You cannot. No one would."

"Tell me," he repeated. "Why can you not spread your legs for me?"

"I am worthless. Unlovable. I am cold, and… and..."

Taranc tightened his embrace about her. "You are many things, my Viking, but not cold. Never cold."

"You do not like me. You said as much."

Had he said that? He could not recall. Certainly he had not intended to create that impression. He might dislike many of the things she did, and in particular her cruelty to Fiona, but he could not take serious issue with the woman who now trembled in his arms.

"I do like you. How could I not? You are beautiful, and resilient, brave and sensual. And we have already agreed that you are both capable and determined. You are a fine woman, Brynhild Freysson, who any man would be honoured to take as his wife, were you to have him."

"But not you."

"Me?" He paused to consider her unexpected remark. "I would wed you in a heartbeat, my lovely Viking, but I fear we would spend the rest of our lives tearing each other apart.”