Page 31

T he pace of life was slow in her new home.

Brynhild was not unhappy, exactly, but neither could she truly settle in to her new life.

Something seemed amiss to her, awry somehow.

She did not belong, could not allow herself to be drawn into the intimacies of village life despite the friendliness and acceptance she encountered.

Initially wary, and suspicious of her presence here, the villagers quickly seemed to accept her among them.

Annag was friendly, Murdina and Morag too.

Taranc was kind enough, and considerate.

He insisted that Brynhild make such changes as she considered needful to the house they shared, that she make it her home too.

But it was all based upon a lie. The people of Aikrig did not know the truth. They were unaware of the cruelties and injustice Brynhild had heaped upon one of their number. If they but knew of her treatment of Fiona, they would reject her. They would hate her, and she would deserve their antipathy.

Although the dialect was unfamiliar, Brynhild spoke enough of their Gaelic to be able to converse easily.

She learned the names of the serfs who shared their village, and quickly came to understand the respect commanded by Taranc.

He had always been a dominant presence, even as a thrall in her own land.

He was a natural leader, she was ready to acknowledge, but here in his own environment he was truly formidable.

People obeyed him without question. They sought his counsel, listened to his opinions and no one gainsaid him.

Even Dughall, lord of Pennglas, respected Taranc's judgment.

The old man had summoned the pair of them to his manor house in Pennglas the day after their arrival.

Brynhild had awoken that morning to the memory of Taranc's most unusual and evocative caresses the previous evening.

She had no recollection of having been put to bed though she could recall most vividly the explosion of intense pleasure he had created as she lay helpless in the bathtub.

She had been stunned, drawn to the erotic sensation, unable to resist and repulsed by her own vulnerability.

Now, in the cold light of a grey Scottish morning, she did not dare to make reference to what had happened between them, afraid he might insist upon repeating the experience.

It was not so much that Brynhild did not wish to recapture that sensual, heady delight, more that she feared she might fail if she attempted to do so. The disappointment would crush her.

"We go to Pennglas," Taranc announced as they broke their fast on oatcakes and the thick porridge prepared by Annag. "Dughall wishes to meet you. He will have questions, concerning his daughter."

"What will you tell him?"

"The truth. That she has found happiness with her Viking."

"I mean, what will you tell him about me. And Fiona."

"There is nothing to tell. What is past is past."

"But, he is her father..."

"Fiona is happy, content in her new life. That is what he needs to know."

And so the falsehood continued. Taranc appeared to be correct in his assessment. Dughall, lord of Pennglas greeted them cordially enough on the steps of his manor house

“It is a delight to see you safely returned to us, Taranc., and I am pleased to meet your lovely companion also.” He seized Taranc’s hand and shook warmly, then hugged the Celt to him.

Next he kissed Brynhild on each cheek. “Welcome to your new home, my dear. I hope you will feel able to visit an old man, if you have time to spare. I do miss the company of my own daughter and this house lacks the warmth of a beautiful young woman to fill my chilled hall.”

“I would be pleased to call upon you, if that would please you, my lord,” she murmured.

Brynhild did not miss the slight smile of approval which flitted across Taranc's handsome features.

"He is lonely," Taranc observed as they made their way back down to the coast after their visit. "Both his children are lost to him. He had expected grandchildren when Fiona and I were married, but now..."

"I shall go to see him," announced Brynhild. "I shall go often." It seemed the least she could do.

Her guilt grew with every day which passed.

She recalled with bitter, unrelenting clarity each and every act of malice she had visited upon the Celtic slave whilst Fiona had been under her power.

She had missed no opportunity to add to the girl’s misery, and had done so for no better reason than ugly jealousy.

It was true that Brynhild had worked hard to build the life she enjoyed under her brother’s roof, and Fiona represented threat to all of that, but none of it was of the thrall’s choosing.

It had started the first moment she laid eyes on the newcomer and recognised at once that Ulfric was smitten.

The freezing bath, the whippings she convinced Ulfric to mete out, the constant haranguing and finding fault with all that the girl attempted to do.

It had been beneath her, all of it. A woman of the Jarl should behave better, should be an example to those who looked up to her.

She could see that now, and Brynhild bitterly regretted her actions.

She was deeply ashamed, and her sense of guilt now threatened to mar her new life.

Remorse ate at her but it was too late to make amends.

She had wronged Fiona, and would gladly seek forgiveness for those crimes if that were possible but she never expected to see her victim again.

Fiona remained in Skarthveit, and Brynhild would never be able to return there.

She would have no opportunity to offer her apology, to seek Fiona’s forgiveness.

Instead, to all intents and purposes, she had taken over Fiona’s old life here in Scotland. The villagers of Aikrig and Pennglas treated her with a respect she did not deserve, they accepted and welcomed her among them as though she were one of their own.

She and Taranc shared a bed, and as they lay beneath the furs and blankets in the darkness Taranc would insist upon reigniting the sensual fires he had started to stoke.

He did not, after all, disappoint her. Indeed, his touch seemed both effortless and faultless, and Brynhild came to trust her body's helpless response to him.

He was gentle with her, but insistent and she no longer refused to spread her legs for his erotic exploration.

He offered her pleasure which she did not deserve but found impossible to resist.

"You are wet for me, my greedy little Viking.

So hot and wet and tight. I knew that you would be.

" She quivered as he slid his fingers inside her, stunned by the slick juices which pooled between her legs and eased his way.

How had he known it would be so? She had never dreamed, never even imagined. ..

Her release came quickly now, easily. She never failed to marvel at the twist and curl of arousal as it burgeoned within her core, rising up, gripping her, then suddenly taking control of her scrambled senses to send her spinning into some weightless, swirling place where lights sparkled and the sound of rushing water echoed within her ears.

Afterwards she would lie in his arms, warm and spent and utterly sated. And riddled with unassuaged guilt.

Taranc preferred to sleep naked. Brynhild found his casual approach to nudity disconcerting at first. She tried hard to avert her eyes, to not study his erect cock, to ignore the nudge of his swollen, solid erection against her hip as he wrapped her in his arms at night.

She found herself both fascinated and fearful of his unashamed maleness, but fear won out.

She was curious, wondered what it would feel like to take that hard erection between her hands and rub her fingers along the length of it, perhaps even taste the droplets of clear fluid which she noticed would leak from the end occasionally.

But she did not dare. She knew what such foolishness would lead to, and however sweet the sensual web her handsome Celt might spin about her, she could not, would not go that far.

She knew better, knew the dangers. Taranc may seem gentle now.

He may appear solicitous, knowing her body's needs and teasing out her response, giving her pleasure yet seeking nothing for himself.

But men were at heart unpredictable and once lust took hold they could not control their urges.

He would hurt her, she knew it. Always, it came back to that.

There would be pain, humiliation. The pleasure he employed with such skill to tempt her was merely an illusion, a trick of the gods—male gods, of course—designed to lure in the naive and the recklessly bold. She would not be fooled, not again.

A month passed before he spoke to her of marriage once more.

Brynhild was at the loom he had acquired for her and installed within their home.

She loved the new apparatus and took enormous pleasure in arranging the warp and weft, threading the yarn and blending the muted colours to create the soft designs she preferred.

Annag stood at her side, watching in rapt fascination as the fabric evolved before her eyes.

Brynhild had promised to teach her to weave, and the girl was proving to be an eager pupil.

At first she thought she misheard him.

"I am sorry, what did you say?"

"We are to wed at Michaelmas, a fortnight from now. My mother will help you with the arrangements, though there is not much to do since the feast is to take place anyway, and?—“

"Wed? We are not to be wed. You said so. You said we would not be suited."

"I did, and I still think ours will be a turbulent union, but I have come around to the notion.

So, two weeks from today. I shall send word to the abbey at Balseach to summon one of the brothers from there.

He can perform the ceremony at the manor house in Pennglas. I am sure Dughall will not object."