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The shuttle fell from her nerveless fingers with a clatter. "But I shall. I shall object. I do not wish to marry. Never. I cannot."

"Why can you not? It makes sense that we should. It is expected."

"It does not. It makes no sense at all."

"Enough. We are to wed and that is an end to it." He strode to where she stood, bent to retrieve her dropped shuttle and placed it back in her hands. "You will soon become used to the idea." He dropped a careless kiss on the top of her head and turned to leave her.

The shuttle left her hand before Brynhild could so much as consider the recklessness of her actions. It hit him square between his shoulders. She stood, transfixed, as he turned to face her again.

"Oh, Brynhild, I had so hoped we were beyond all this." His tone was low, deathly quiet. Again, he picked up the tool from the floor, but this time he set it upon the table to his side. He turned his attention to Annag who had witnessed the entire exchange with wide-eyed dismay.

"Cousin, you will accompany Brynhild to the coppice and show her where the finest switches are to be found.

Help her to select a decent bundle, perhaps five or six, and none of them thicker than the width of my finger.

Trim them well, I wish to see no sharp edges or thorns.

Then you, Annag, may go about your business and you, Brynhild, will return here with the switches. "

"I shall not. This is unfair. You cannot?—"

"Twelve strokes. Do you wish for more?"

"But..."

"Fourteen. Do not make matters worse."

Brynhild opened her mouth and would have surely deepened her plight but Annag seized her sleeve and tugged her from the dwelling. Once outside she rounded on the girl. "He is a brute. An idiot. Does he think me some foolish wench to be dazzled by his offer? I shall not marry him."

Annag narrowed her eyes, unimpressed by Brynhild's outburst. "But you will. Everyone knows that you will. You must, for you live here with our chief as his wife already. He is doing the right thing in summoning the priest."

"I do not live as his wife. We... I..."

"You should not have thrown the shuttle at him."

On that point, at least, Brynhild could agree. She clenched her buttocks in fearful anticipation. Why had she not stopped to think?

"The coppice?"

"It is this way." Annag set off along a narrow track between the tall heather which bordered their home. Brynhild saw no alternative but to follow.

An hour later, and five switches to the good, Brynhild made her way back to their house. Annag parted from her at the edge of the village and offered a reassuring pat on the arm. "'Twill soon be done, and switching is not so bad. Not really."

It had seemed perfectly unpleasant enough to Brynhild the first time she experienced it, in the forest as they left Skarthveit. She saw no compelling reason to amend her view now. Her footsteps slowed as she approached the door.

"Do not keep me waiting, girl." The stern voice from within brought her scurrying back inside.

Taranc sat at the table, a mug of ale by his hand. He glanced over the bundle of switches and nodded his approval when she laid them on the bench by his side. Then he reached for the pitcher and poured a mug for Brynhild and shoved it toward her.

"Drink. You will need it. Then you will undress and lie across the table."

Resigned to her fate Brynhild obeyed, though her expression was sullen as she swallowed the pungent liquid.

Would she ever become accustomed to this strong, brackish brew?

She set the mug down and removed her leather sandals then started to unfasten the brooch which held her loose smock in place.

Soon the garment was folded on the bench next to the switches.

She regarded Taranc, hopeful that he might relent and allow her to retain her cotton leine.

His impatient frown soon dispelled such foolishness and she pulled the undergarment over her head.

He pointed to the table as he rose to his feet. With a sob of frustration and bitter resentment at this treatment Brynhild turned to drape herself over the smooth wood.

"I see the marks from your previous punishments have completely disappeared."

"You knew that already. You have seen often enough since I share your bed."

"Ah yes. I believe I prefer your bottom adorned with my marks. It reminds me who is master here."

"I do not believe you need to be reminded," she spluttered.

"And yet, I find myself needing to evade your unprovoked attacks within my very house. The home I have welcomed you into, offered to share with you. And from behind, at that. It was not well done of you, Brynhild."

"You were high-handed. Haughty."

"I am sorry you found it to be so, but it is of no consequence. You will not raise your hand to me, whatever grievance you may claim."

"Yet you may do this to me?"

"As I have said, I am master here. You will submit. And you will obey. Fourteen strokes, we agreed, did we not?"

" You decreed it. I have agreed to nothing."

"You will take the fourteen strokes, then you will apologise for your belligerence and your regrettable behaviour. Are we quite clear on that, Viking?"

She dragged in a shuddering breath. "Yes, Celt. We are clear."

He selected two switches and gripped them in his fist, then laid the ends on her upturned buttocks.

He tapped her skin with them causing her to flinch, then he lifted the pair and brought them down hard on her pale cheek.

Fire sizzled, the pain flared then seeped deep into her tissues as he drew the ends of the branches slowly across her tender backside.

He teased her, played with her, tickling her clenching bottom with the switches until she lay still.

"You may grip the opposite side of the table with your fingers, and be sure to remain exactly where you are. No wriggling, and certainly no reaching back to protect your bottom with your hands. And please, try not to make too much noise since it unsettles everyone within earshot."

She barely had time to nod her understanding of his instructions before he raised the switches again and this time brought them down on her other buttock. The stroke was harder, hotter. Brynhild let out a yelp as the hurt sank into her flesh. Only two so far, twelve still to go.

Sweet Odin, why could she not hold her tongue and keep her temper in check?

He wasted little time in delivering the strokes he had promised, each one harsher, fierier than the last. Brynhild tried to be quiet but by the seventh stroke she could contain her screams no longer.

After the ninth she relinquished her grip on the edge of the table and reached for her smarting bottom, convinced her entire backside was aflame.

Taranc took her wrist in his hand and laid it in the small of her back, then brought the other to join it.

He held them there as he laid the final five strokes across the backs of her thighs, one below the other in rapid succession.

Brynhild danced and shrieked and pleaded for him to stop, but he ignored her desperate screams. Only after the final stroke had been laid did he set the switches aside and release her wrists.

"You may apologise, and make it as pretty as you can for I shall expect a decent show of contrition." His tone was stern, uncompromising.

Arrogant Celtic bastard!

She would have loved to defy him, to refuse to allow him the satisfaction of her surrender, but she was hurting. She was humiliated, intimidated, defenceless and entirely vulnerable, and convinced he would not hesitate to repeat the punishment if she did not do as he wanted now.

"I am sorry," she muttered, the words muffled by the wooden table top.

"Louder, if you please, for I fear I did not hear you."

"I am sorry. I apologise for throwing the shuttle at you."

"Ah, thank you. I am glad we have arrived at an understanding on this and I hope it will not prove necessary to revisit this discussion.

As for the other matter we were considering, on further reflection I do believe the prospect of marriage between us would be perilous enough without the added complication of a reluctant bride.

Since you have made it clear that you truly do not wish to be my wife, then please consider my offer withdrawn. "

"What? You would allow this?"

"I will have no forced bride, Brynhild. But there is one further point I wish to make, and for this I will require you to spread your legs for me. Now.”

It was the first time he had actually asked this of her, though she had parted her thighs for him many times by now in the relative safety and privacy of their bed.

Never, though, as she lay face down over the table, in the light of day, her punished bottom throbbing and glowing before his very eyes.

"Please, do not hurt me." Pride fled. She was pleading in earnest, terrified of what he might decide to do to demonstrate his power over her.

He leaned forward to bring his mouth close to her ear. His words were soft now, his tone hushed and soothing. "I have hurt you all I intend to this day, and I would never do so in this way. You know that, do you not?"

"I... I do not know anything. Please..."

"Trust me." He placed his booted foot between her bare ones and nudged her ankles apart. "Open your eyes, Viking. Look at me."

Brynhild turned her head, then forced her eyelids apart and met his mossy gaze, the irises the rich, deep hue of the pine trees which surrounded her home in the Norseland. She longed for the safety and security of her old home, the certainty that nothing, no one would touch her there.

He edged her feet further apart and Brynhild forgot to fight. She forgot to breathe as he spread her beneath him, then laid his palm on her heated skin. He caressed her bottom, first one whipped buttock then the other as she squirmed under his touch.

"Be still," he admonished, though there was no roughness in his tone now.

She obeyed, unable to break his gaze as he slipped his fingers into the deep furrow between her buttocks and slid them down to her core.

He reached her tight rear hole and paused to linger there as Brynhild groaned in utter mortification.

Then he continued on, rubbing between her soft folds and inserting two fingers into her slick channel.

She tensed as the shaft of pure pleasure arrowed through her.

The walls of her quim contracted about his fingers as he inserted a third.

He was stretching her, his touch not so gentle now, more demanding, but it felt good.

She wanted more. And less. She wanted it all, and she wanted none of it.

"Stop. Please, do not?—"

He withdrew his fingers, only to plunge them deep again, thrusting hard. Her climax was upon her in moments, deep and all-consuming, the most potent yet. She let out a harsh cry, more of a sob than an expression of pleasure, then shook as her body convulsed.

Taranc continued to stroke his fingers in and out of her, dragging every last shiver and shudder of her release from her reluctant body. Only when she lay spent and motionless beneath him did he cease his driving thrusts and withdraw his digits from her still spasming cunny.

He straightened and went to grab a blanket from the bed then returned to wrap it about her.

He aided her to her feet, then lifted her in his arms and sat down in the chair with her limp form cradled on his lap.

Brynhild clung to him, heedless now of the tenderness in her buttocks, the still burning flesh of her thighs.

"Why did you do that?" she whimpered.

He did not respond at once, just rubbed his face in her tangled hair. At last he raised his head, then tipped up her chin with his fingers so she had no choice but to meet his eyes again.

"You know all about pain, and fear. You hide, as though it were in your power to protect yourself.

But the pain never goes away, and it never will.

However, pleasure is close, so close you can actually touch it if you will just allow it to flourish.

You must see that now. Cowards hide, but it takes courage to trust. You are no coward, my Viking.

I know that. Neither am I. When you are ready to tell me, I shall be ready to listen. "