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U lfric strode along the rough track that led from the slave sheds back into the heart of his settlement.

He was satisfied that all was in order and that Brynhild had done her work well in his absence.

The new quarters were basic but would serve.

The shelters were set at a distance from the main habitation but were weathertight and secure so he had every confidence the captives from this most recent raid would survive the coming winter.

It would be a waste to permit otherwise since he had gone to such trouble to acquire them, and good slaves were a valuable commodity.

He might sell a few in the spring if his granary was ready by then.

He nodded to several of his karls as he passed, asking a question here, offering a comment there. Whip-thin hounds trailed after him in anticipation of a morsel or two, but he ignored them.

He had a morsel of his own awaiting him in his longhouse.

His inspection of the new buildings had been quick, but he had lingered over his assessment of his son’s progress with the short sword.

Njal had worked hard and craved his father’s praise.

Ulfric did not disappoint him. He was proud of his son and looked forward to the day the lad would accompany him on a Viking raid.

Ulfric left the boy, his small chest puffed with pride, to continue his practice with the other youngsters.

By now his latest acquisition would be fed and washed, and ready for his attention. He wasted no more time in making his way back to his house.

Brynhild was not there when he entered. Only the young man, Harald, was present, tending the fire. He glanced up as Ulfric entered then leapt to his feet. The thrall appeared nervous, and Ulfric’s instincts were at once on alert.

“Is there a problem, Harald?”

The youth shook his head but did not meet Ulfric’s eyes.

“Where is my sister?” She would usually be at her loom at this time of day, but the apparatus stood idle beside the door.

“I am not sure, Jarl . I believe she may be purchasing grain…”

“Go. Find her. Wait.” The boy paused, already halfway to the door. “Where is the Celtic wench?”

“In your sleeping place, Jarl. Where you left her.”

Ulfric nodded and dismissed the servant. He strode across the room and swept aside the curtain separating his private quarters from the rest.

All looked to be in order. The bath was still there, near enough brim-full of water, and his slave lay on her side in his bed, huddling under a pile of furs.

“Celt?”

She started at the sound of his voice so he knew she heard him, but she did not turn to look at him.

Ulfric approached and sat on the bed beside her. He stretched out his hand to draw the covers from her shoulder. She shivered as his fingers made contact with her skin. She was freezing cold.

By Odin, what is this?

He saw now that there was no fire in this room, but the wench had plenty of bedding in which to wrap herself so should not be in such a state. Her hair was dripping wet, and when he touched the dark locks they were, if anything, colder than her quivering flesh.

“Fiona?” He reached for her now and took her in his arms to pull her close. She was as cold as ice, and as stiff as he drew her to his chest. “What has happened?”

She did not reply, but he could hear her teeth chattering. Her whole body shook against him.

“Harald! Get in here.” He bellowed the summons, but the thrall did not appear by the curtain. Ulfric recalled he had sent him in search of Brynhild. “Anyone. In here. Now.”

A smaller youth scuttled into view. Boyd? He was not great at recalling the names of all his thralls.

“What has been going on here?” demanded Ulfric as the lad shrank before him.

“It… We… The lady commanded it.”

“Commanded what? Tell me.”

“The water… For the bath, Jarl …”

“What about it?” He glared at the slave who shifted from one foot to the other, his features plainly terrified.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Ulfric extricated himself from Fiona’s frigid form and strode to the foot of the bed.

As he peered into the tub he saw slivers of ice still floating on the surface of the water.

“By Thor’s balls,” he breathed, incredulous. “Why did she do that?”

“It was the lady’s wish, Jarl. She told us we would be whipped if?—”

Ulfric silenced the miserable slave with a wave of his arm. “Get that shifted and a new tub brought in. A large one, the one I use. Then fill it with hot water. Get others to help, as many as you can find. And send someone in to light a fire in here. Quick, or I shall take a whip to you myself.”

The boy shot past Ulfric to grasp the handle on the side of the tub but with the weight of the water he was unable to lift it.

Neither could he drag it unaided. With another curse Ulfric grabbed the other handle and helped the boy to heft the icy bath from his quarters.

He left the lad to run for the new tub and summon such assistance as he might.

Ulfric returned to Fiona, dragging his leather tunic over his head as he did so.

Back in his bed Fiona still lay, shivering, her eyes open and wary.

Ulfric flung himself beside her and gathered her in his arms again.

This time her chilled torso was in direct contact with his bare skin.

It was like hugging a block of ice, but he wrapped his arms around her to share his warmth as he had the previous night.

He dragged a blanket over the pair of them when Harald scuttled in with an armful of kindling and started to set a fire in the cold grate.

The servant worked quickly, clearly anxious to be out of the furious Viking’s immediate orbit, and soon a small blaze crackled in the corner of the chamber. Harald scurried away.

“She… She…”

“Hush. I know. It is over now. I am here.”

“The water, so c-cold. She made me…”

“I am sorry. I should have…” What? What should he have done?

“She said I w-would be whipped if I did not do as she instructed. And you t-told me I must obey her, as well as y-you.” It was all his little Celt could do to get the words past her chattering teeth.

“I know. It was not your fault.”

“I… I hate the cold. And I am terrified of the whip.” She was weeping now, her sobs soft and low and heartrending in her misery. Ulfric cursed his own stupidity; he should not have left her here alone.

He held her in his arms as Boyd, Harald, and two other youths trooped in and out.

First they delivered the large bathtub normally reserved for him and others of his immediate kin, then they staggered back and forth bearing a succession of buckets brimming with water.

He was gratified to see the steam rising from each one as they passed him, their heads bowed.

None was prepared to meet his furious gaze or to face his wrath, though Ulfric knew it would be futile to heap the blame upon helpless servants. They did as they were told. They had no choice, just like Fiona.

When the water level was within a few inches of the brim Ulfric dismissed the servants with instructions that he was not to be disturbed again, for any reason. If—when—Brynhild returned they were to inform her that he wished his sister to await him in the longhouse. He had much to say to her.

“Time for another bath, little Celt. A hot one this time.”

She actually whimpered, as though she did not trust his words.

Ulfric wasted no more time. She needed to be warmed up.

He cradled her in his arms, her nude body still trembling though he believed she was already thawing a little.

The fire had helped, the warm water would speed the process.

He stood and carried her to the tub, then bent to allow her to dip her shackled foot in the steaming water.

“How does that feel?”

“It is hot…”

“Too hot? I can have them bring?—”

“No! No, it is good. Thank you.”

Ulfric supported her as she slowly lowered herself into the warmth, then as she sank back against the edge of the tub. Her eyelids lowered and her lips curled in an expression of utter contentment. She would be all right. This time.

He knelt beside the tub and for the first time allowed his gaze to drift over her nakedness.

This was his first glimpse of her breasts, though he had known the plump curves would be quite breath-taking when he finally bared them.

He had been right. Her nipples were hard, swollen, and he promised himself he would ensure they remained so even after the effects of the frigid bath were gone.

He ventured further, admired her softly rounded belly.

Under the water he could make out the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.

He longed to touch her, to explore her thoroughly now he had her here, but first he must see to her comfort.

He stood and fetched a lump of soap made of the kernels of horse chestnuts, and found a rough flannel on the floor.

He assumed the latter had been previously supplied by Brynhild, but it would do for his purposes.

He dipped the cloth in the hot water and rubbed the soap in to create a lather, then went to work.

Kneeling behind Fiona, he started on her shoulders.

He drew the soaped flannel across them, first the left, then the right.

He kept his touch light initially, then increased the pressure as he sensed that she was starting to relax.

He lifted each arm in turn and soaped those, then dropped the flannel into the water and continued with just his hands.

He stroked her slender limbs, then urged her to lean forward as he turned his attention to her back.