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Taranc cocked his head toward the solar. "So, she is pregnant? Mairead? Does he treat her well?"

"'Twould seem so. And aye, he does. He is besotted. Gunnar will want to remain here over the winter, to see the child safely delivered. Will you permit that, given...?" The Viking raised his hands in a gesture of bitter frustration which encompassed all about them.

Taranc pondered that question for several moments.

His could find little to commend Gunnar Freysson to him thus far, but he knew Brynhild had always claimed to be close to her youngest brother and would doubtless enjoy his company.

And Taranc wished no ill will to Mairead.

Still, the decision was not his to make.

"I will not go against Dughall in this. Nor Fiona. If they refuse him their hospitality, he must leave."

Ulfric waited for several moments, then nodded. "Let us hope it does not come to that."

The door from the solar opened and Gunnar emerged. Both men regarded him from their vantage point at the high table.

Taranc heaved a resigned sigh. "Your brother has vented his displeasure upon you most effectively.

I daresay he is even angrier with me for the part I played in Brynhild's fate.

" He stroked his chin thoughtfully, wondering in what condition the Viking might seek to leave it.

For certain, he would not make the matter simple for the Nordic warrior, not this time.

He started to rise. "I suppose we'd better get this over with. "

Ulfric grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his seat. "Wait. See what transpires. If my brother seeks to take issue with you, I believe my sister will actually kill him."

Taranc's derisive snort was his response. "And I fear that you are quite deluded my friend. She would more likely offer to hold his cloak."

"She loves Gunnar. She will be glad enough to see him here, however equivocal her greeting just now.

She and I... well, she has not entirely forgiven my actions though we get by.

But you? My sister adores the very bones of you.

And Morvyn, of course. She has chosen you as her husband and she will protect you with her life.

It is simply the way she is—the Viking way. "

Taranc wished he could believe that.

"Is that also the Viking way?" Taranc nodded to where Gunnar had paused on his way over to the high table where they sat to speak with Donald.

The lad had burst through the outer portal and run headlong the length of the hall, his expression distraught.

The dark Viking stopped his flight and ushered the boy into the vacant window seat, then sat beside him.

Their heads were bowed together, their conversation low but, to Taranc's mind, intense.

"The last time I saw them together, as far as I recall, your brother was purchasing the lad from you as a slave. You drove a hard bargain."

"Aye. A decent purse of silver. I knew he wanted the lad, or more to the point he wanted the mother and the lad came as part of the deal. He was never going to further distress Mairead by haggling over the price he was prepared to pay for her son, so I took advantage. Trade is trade, after all."

Taranc chose not to dignify the remark with an answer. "That does not look like a master talking to a slave," he observed.

"I tend to agree."

They watched as Gunnar stood, ruffled the boy's tawny head and sent him on his way. The lad took a few paces toward the door, then turned to rush back at the tall Norseman. Donald flung his arms about Gunnar's waist and hugged him.

"Maybe your brother has something to commend him after all. We shall see."

Taranc used his foot to slide a chair out from the table with a raucous scrape. He gestured to Gunnar to join them then reached for the pitcher of ale and poured a liberal measure. A generous drop of goodwill might go a long way.

"That is the second time you have introduced me to one of your brothers as your husband.

" Taranc made the seemingly casual observation over their late evening supper.

He and Brynhild had returned from Pennglas an hour earlier, the sleeping Morvyn in his father's arms. Now the lad lay in his own cot beside their bed, wrapped in brightly coloured blankets.

Brynhild shrugged. "It seemed easiest, on both occasions. My brothers hold ... traditional views on such matters."

"And you do not?"

"You know why we are not wed. You yourself believe we are ill-suited. And you are right. It is better as it is."

He might have once harboured such a foolish notion.

"We are happy, are we not?" continued Brynhild.

"I am, certainly." He scratched his nose and tilted his head thoughtfully. "Gunnar wishes to remain here for the winter."

"Yes. He said as much."

"He killed Adair."

She gaped at him. "Are you sure? How do you know this?"

"Ulfric believes so too. Dughall saw what happened that day. He recognised your brother."

She nodded, and he knew that she had not missed the significance of the brief exchange before Mairead was taken ill, though that had turned out to be little more than a ruse to interrupt proceedings which the Celtic woman considered had taken an awkward turn.

He was fast coming to appreciate that the timid and homely little Mairead was far more cunning than she appeared at first sight.

"Dughall will not permit him to remain here." She stated the obvious conclusion, pain and disappointment evident in her features. "I... I had hoped..."

"We must respect lord Dughall's wishes on the matter." He wished it were otherwise, that he could make this thing right for her.

"I know that. Even so, I wish..."

"You know, you could return to your homeland, with Gunnar, when he goes back."

"That is not what I meant. I will not leave. I intend to remain here." Her tone was emphatic as she met his gaze.

"That is your wish? Your choice?"

"I have said so. Do you not believe me?"

He chuckled. "I know better than to doubt your word, my Viking."

"You should, by now. But perhaps I should demonstrate my resolve in this matter even so."

He raised an eyebrow. "How do you propose to accomplish that, little one?"

Without another word she slid from the low bench beside him to kneel at his feet, and shuffled between his spread thighs.

Her nimble fingers worked the fastenings of his trousers and within moments his hard cock sprang free.

She gazed at his erection for a second or two, then smiled up at him. "May I?"

He stroked her pale blonde head and nodded.

Brynhild took his cock between both her palms and drew her hands the length of the shaft.

She rubbed the heel of her right hand over the smooth head, smearing his juices over the slick, shiny crown as she cupped his balls with her left.

She weighed them in her fingers, squeezing, the pressure light at first then firming.

Taranc let out a low groan. "God, I need to fuck you..."

"Hmmm, perhaps. Soon."

Perhaps? He growled his intent.

"First, I shall do this..." She bobbed her head forward and parted her lips to take the crown of his cock into her mouth.

Taranc sank his fingers deeper into her hair and twisted a hank of it in his hands.

He resisted the urge to thrust, to fuck her face hard, but it was a struggle and he believed he might yet lose the fight.

Brynhild moved forward, angling her head to take more of his cock into the warm, wet pocket of her inner cheek.

She scraped her teeth around the sensitive ridge which circled the head, then traced the same course with the tip of her tongue.

She rolled his throbbing, aching balls in her hand and with the other she gripped that portion of his shaft she could not take into her mouth and she pumped her fist up and down his length.

She kept the strokes slow at first, leisurely, taking all the time in the world as she sucked on the head with the cultured daintiness of the highborn lady he knew her to be.

Brynhild Freysson was complex as the stars which adorned the heavens, and as simple as the back of his own hand. He knew her utterly, yet not at all. She exasperated and enchanted him in equal measure. Quite simply, he loved her.

"Brynhild, I?—"

She hummed against his cock sending a frisson of vibration trembling through him. Taranc closed his eyes and allowed his head to drop back. He would spend in her mouth in mere moments unless...

He tightened his grip on her hair and eased her head back. "I want my seed inside you."

She acquiesced, her submissive nod and quiet smile sending a bolt of pure lust arrowing straight to his balls. Christ, this would be quick!

He scooped her up and stepped past the small pallet where their son lay sleeping.

Gently Taranc laid his Viking on their nest of blankets and tugged at the ornate brass pin which held her skirt in place.

The fastening released and her lower body was bared to him.

He paused for a moment, always more than ready to admire her long, slender legs and the triangle of pale blonde curls at their joining.

Brynhild herself made short work of her tunic and the thin cotton leine she wore beneath.

"Are you warm enough?" Annag had tended their fire whilst they were at Pennglas but he could always throw another log or two on the flames.

"Yes, perfectly. Hurry..."

He kicked off his trousers and boots, and divested himself of his knee-length tunic. She was already spread out for him as he moved over her.

"I died a thousand times on the ride back from Castlereagh. I did not know if you... if you..."

"I was safe."

"I did not know that." He buried his face in her neck. "I could not bear to lose you."

"You will not lose me, my Celt. I am yours."

"Mine," he agreed as he thrust his cock into her slick heat.

Brynhild gasped and arched under him. Her fingers closed about his shoulders and she hung onto him as though afraid he might yet slip from her.

She rolled her hips as she squeezed her inner muscles about him.

She was tight, as ever, all heat and wetness and warm, willing welcome.

Her breath came in ragged pants, hoarse and more laboured as her arousal built. She was close, he knew. So was he.

He altered his angle just a fraction, but it was enough to ensure every stroke caressed and teased that sweet inner spot. She needed more, he knew it, so he bent his head to take one turgid nipple between his teeth and bit down lightly. Brynhild groaned. He bit harder and she squealed.

Ah, just right then.

He withdrew his cock, held there for just a few moments, the head just piercing her entrance as she squirmed and quivered on the tangled blankets, clawing at his shoulders and begging him to fill her.

His balls ached, he ground his teeth and flexed his jaw as he forced himself to wait, to make her wait.

She screamed when he at last relented and drove his cock deep again.

The sound reverberated about their house and Morvyn whimpered in his sleep.

Taranc spared a glance over. The child settled again, though the mother did not.

Brynhild wrapped her long legs about his waist and hooked her ankles together in the small of his back.

She abandoned any semblance of restraint and ground her hips against him as her release took her.

His beautiful, sensual Viking clung to him and sank her perfect teeth into his shoulder as passion overwhelmed her.

Taranc drove his cock into her body, again and again, each stroke long and deep and demanding her total response.

He had it, all of it. She convulsed about him, her cunt contracting to grip him like a fist. Moments later he tumbled into his own release with a hoarse cry of triumph, then collapsed, limp, on top of her.

He fell asleep still buried within her, his Viking nestling within his arms.

Two months had passed, and still Gunnar Freysson remained at Aikrig.

He and Mairead had moved into the tiny one-roomed fisherman's cottage she once occupied with her husband.

It was a squash, especially with the two children, and Taranc had offered them the use of a larger dwelling.

Gunnar refused. He insisted theirs would not be a lengthy stay, he merely sought a place to remain for the colder months until it was safe to make the crossing back to the Norseland with his fast-growing family.

He had endured far sparser accommodations on the battlefield and could make do.

Mairead and her children were content to be wherever Gunnar was, so that seemed to settle the matter.

Dughall had made no further reference to the question of his slain son, at least not in Taranc's hearing.

He was not certain if Gunnar and the elderly lord had discussed the heir's death, but assumed they must have since neither was a man to allow an issue of such import lie unresolved.

Taranc would not ask. It was between them.

He knew that Brynhild was enjoying the company of her brothers, and he was proud that she even managed to forge friendships with their wives.

He was under no illusions regarding the effort she had made to build those relationships.

Her natural reserve made it difficult for her to reach out, though she was ready enough to accept that she had wronged Fiona deeply.

She was doing what she could now to make amends, and Fiona's natural generosity of spirit worked in her favour.

They got by, and Vikings and Celts continued to thrive together.

And now, his own family was growing. Brynhild was pregnant again.

She hoped for a daughter. He hoped she would have her wish.

A feast was planned at the manor house to celebrate the good tidings and to invite the blessings of both Christian and Norse deities down upon the coming babe.

Taranc much preferred this approach to the sacrifice of fine livestock, though he suspected a goat would yet be called for even so.