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“ H ave you managed to stay out of trouble this day?” Ulfric affected a stern demeanour as he regarded the diminutive figure who perched before him on the end of his bed, though in reality he knew of no cause to take issue with her. A pity, perhaps, since he would enjoy spanking her.

Fiona nodded. “Your sister had to go to the market in Hafrsfjord to sell her cloth and procure new dyes. She was gone from first light.”

He frowned. There had been no serious incidents since that first day when Fiona had become entangled in Brynhild’s weaving, but it was clear that tension simmered below the surface. He would speak with his sister—again.

“Why does she dislike me so? I have done nothing to deserve it. She finds fault with me constantly, threatens me with the whip, or the stocks. She refuses to allow me to help with Njal. Nothing I do pleases her.” Fiona peered up at him, a picture of misery, then continued.

“I know that she is your sister, and you have said I must obey her. I do try, but she calls me whore and slut and I know her intention is to goad me into retaliating in order that she can convince you to take a switch to me again. She was not here today, and it was peaceful. I spent the time with Hilla. I learned more of your tongue; we washed clothes at the river and I could understand a little of what the other women were saying. And Njal even tried to teach me to play hnefatafl with him but I fear I proved a poor opponent. We had fun together, but as soon as Brynhild returned, I came in here to stay out of her way.”

There were tears in Fiona’s eyes. He sighed.

He had no desire to see his little Celt reduced to hiding away in his bedchamber but he understood her reasons for doing so.

Brynhild’s bitterness had not lessened in the weeks since he had brought Fiona to Skarthveit.

Perhaps he owed his captive an explanation, at least.

“She is not a cruel or unreasonable person, not at heart.”

Fiona made a disparaging sound in her throat. Ulfric could understand why the slave felt as she did. He pressed on.

“Brynhild is unhappy, and bitter, and this is why she behaves as she does.”

“She is not unhappy. She smiles and laughs with everyone but me. The other slaves like her, she is kind to them, and she adores Njal. Her anger is directed at me alone.”

“She was to be married.”

Fiona gaped at him, wide-eyed. “Then, why is she…?”

“Her betrothed died, in a raid on a Celtic settlement on Orkney.” He paused, and moved to sit beside Fiona on the mattress.

“It was two years ago, but she has never recovered from the loss. I fear that she never will. Brynhild adored Eirik Bjarkesson and when he was killed it was as though a light was extinguished within her. The ceremony was to take place on his return and she had already moved to live with his family in their settlement, Bjarkesholm, about twenty miles to the north of here. On hearing of his death she returned to my longhouse and has made her home with us. I value her assistance, especially with Njal, but it would be better for Brynhild to take another man to wed. She needs her own hall, her own family…”

“I am sorry for her loss, though I cannot find much sympathy for a man who lost his life wreaking death and fear upon innocent villagers. And I still do not comprehend how this explains your sister’s hostility toward me. There are other slaves here…”

“But no other Celts. Brynhild detests all Celts; she blames them for the death of her betrothed.”

“That is ridiculous. Had he not gone raiding?—”

“That is our way and I make no apology for it, nor would Eirik. He died doing what he was born to do and resides now in Valhalla with all our ancestors who lost their lives in battle. The Celt who swung the axe which felled him perished also in that skirmish, but this is not enough for Brynhild, nor for Eirik’s family who hold me and mine responsible for his loss. ”

“You? But how…?”

“I commanded that raid. Eirik was on my longship and I should have protected him. My wife was also of the Bjarkesson family and her loss has exacerbated matters. Astrid died unexpectedly of a fever just a few weeks after Eirik was lost. It could not be helped but she died in my longhouse, so her kin added that tragedy to their grievances against me. I have offered goods and slaves in reparation, which the people of Bjarkesholm have accepted, but they always seek more and continue to blame me. The blood feud is not resolved and I see no prospect of peace between our families, which is one of the reasons I have needed to construct a harbour here at Skarthveit. I no longer have access to the moorings at Bjarkesholm, and Hafrsfjord is too far away to offer a practical alternative.”

“All this over the death of two people, one of them by misfortune at that? Had this not happened, you might not have had need of slaves, you might not have attacked Pennglas…”

“Possibly. Probably. But we are where we are. I just wanted you to better understand the circumstances, and perhaps in knowing you might manage to get along with Brynhild. Maybe, a little…”

“Thank you, Viking. I do prefer to know, but I fear it will not help since your sister’s wrath is irrational. I am not responsible for her misery but I fear she will never accept me, never let me be.”

Ulfric suspected she was right, but was never a man to dwell on that which he could not change.

He would seek to reason with Brynhild again, encourage her to consider other suitors among the many who would be glad of her hand.

His sister was beautiful, accomplished, an adept homemaker and she could run a farming homestead with ease.

Eirik might be gone, but Brynhild could still make a good life for herself if she would just let go of the past.

He was not unsympathetic to his sister’s feelings. He had grieved for Astrid, but had known he must move on, for Njal if not for himself. He dismissed those musings for now and turned his thoughts to the more pleasing matter of the slight figure beside him.

“Remove your clothing, little Celt, and spread your legs.”

As ever, Fiona was quick to obey. She had not relished her role in his household at the outset, he had no illusions on that score, but she had quickly discovered a lurking enthusiasm for the pleasure he offered her.

Fiona was a sensual little creature, quick to arouse, responsive and appreciative of his attention.

He had fucked her almost daily since her arrival, and swore he would never tire of burying his cock within her hot, tight little body.

He relaxed back onto his bed as she disrobed before him, then he beckoned her to lean over him and place one of her nipples in his mouth.

He had taught her well, instructed her in what pleased him and made note of what she seemed to most enjoy. Now he suckled lazily on one engorged bud as he squeezed and tugged on the other with his fingers. He increased the pressure until she squealed, then he pinched harder still.

Fiona was starting to pant so he thrust his spare hand between her thighs.

She was dripping, her cunt wet and welcoming as he drove his fingers into her.

It was the work of moments to find that sweet spot just inside and to rub mercilessly until she started to convulse around his digits. He dragged his fingers out.

“On your hands and knees, wench.”

She hastened to obey, quickly placing herself on all fours, her bottom raised up higher than her shoulders.

Ulfric took his time undressing, pausing often to drop a sharp slap on one upturned buttock or the other.

Fiona’s hips quivered in response and her cunny glistened as her arousal pooled.

When he was naked he moved to kneel behind her and positioned the head of his cock between the lips of her cunt.

“Do you like that, wench?”

“Yes,” she ground out.

“You want more?”

“Yes. Yes!”

He slapped her bottom again, then inched in, just a fraction further.

“How much more?”

“All. I want all of it. All of you.”

He leaned over to lift her heavy mass of dark curls and murmur right into the shell of her ear. “Then you will beg me for it, my slave.”

“Please, Viking, I need you to fill me…”

“Is that all? I suspect you can do better than that if you try.” He started to withdraw his cock.

“No! Do not stop, please. I need you inside me, all of you.”

“All?”

“Yes, all. Deep, and hard, and… and… Oh, sweet Jesus, please, I cannot wait. I need you so much I might die of longing.”

“I doubt you will. You want me to fuck you? Is that it, my little Celt?”

“Yes, Viking,” she ground out.

“Then say it.” His tone was silky smooth as he murmured into her ear. “Say exactly what it is you want from me.”

“I want you to fuck me. I want you to drive your cock into me, right to the root. I want you to fuck me until I scream, and then to fuck me more. Is that clear enough for you, Viking? Have I made my wishes understood?”

“Ah, yes, I believe you have.” He bit the sensitive skin below her ear. “Have I told you that I love it when you beg so beautifully, your voice thick with lust and laden with desire?”

“Viking, I…. oh! Oh…”

He drove his cock deep into her welcoming passage and sighed at her tightness. She gripped him like a fist, her muscles contracting as though she sought to hold him prisoner within her body. She had no need, he was going nowhere for some time yet.

She reached her climax first. She usually did, he preferred it that way.

He found her pleasure almost as heady as his own and would not allow her to leave his bed less than fully sated.

As her tremors subsided, he reached around to stroke her engorged clit until she writhed and convulsed for him again.