Page 19

He clenched his teeth, determined not to succumb to the insistent pressure of her inner walls as they contracted around his cock.

She rolled and gyrated her hips, seeking more friction, more sensation, harder, faster, deeper.

And Ulfric responded, pounding her with his solid cock until she screamed her release to the rafters.

Only then did he relax his iron grip on his own pleasure and allow his aching balls to empty into her snug passage.

He had much to consider. Ulfric set a brisk pace as he made his way down to the rocky outcrop that was to be transformed into his own harbour, suited to landing fishing craft and to encourage trade.

His longships required no such special treatment.

They were of shallow draught and could be pulled up onto any beach, which was why they were so effective for raiding.

He could swoop in from the sea, his men could be ashore in seconds and the attack on any unsuspecting and ill-prepared coastal settlement would be swift and sure.

That had been his approach all those weeks ago at Pennglas on the Scottish coast, and it had earned him his delightful little Celtic captive.

Now he had her, all he had to do was keep her safe from his sister’s spite.

Or just keep her.

His thoughts turned to the tall, tawny-haired Celt, the thrall who Fiona had declared to be a fine man and one she dearly loved.

Ulfric was not an unfair man by nature and he would grant that the Celt was possessed of a certain presence, and he lacked neither courage nor honour.

He had sought to protect Fiona despite being in chains and likely to perish for his efforts.

Ulfric’s admiration was grudging, but he gave it.

He was also aware from the reports he received from Dagr, his slave master, that Taranc was among the strongest of his workers and a natural leader of the others.

The Celt had turned out to be a fine acquisition, but his presence here spelled danger also.

This Taranc was just the type to lead an uprising should the thralls become overly discontented with their lot.

Ulfric sought to reduce that possibility by ensuring his slaves were well treated.

Their accommodations were decent, their food good, and they were afforded ample time to rest and enjoy their leisure.

Freedom aside, he did not believe their lives to be significantly harsher here in Skarthveit than they had been in their own land.

Consequently, there was little or no unrest among his slaves and the construction of his harbour was proceeding apace.

Ulfric reached the headland and paused for a moment to survey the scene below.

A couple of dozen thralls toiled to move rocks from the back of the beach the half mile or so along the coast to the deeper water mooring that was to be developed into the safe harbour he required.

There, others carried them, one by one, to their required positions and dropped them into the churning sea at the foot of the craggy outcrop.

Eventually they would form a rough barrier that would exclude the worst of the elements in winter and offer safe mooring for the fishing fleet Ulfric intended to build.

Fish would always feed his community, ensure the wellbeing of those who relied upon him.

Speaking of which… Ulfric smiled at the sight of his own little Njal as the lad paced back and forth along the outcrop.

The boy was into everything, always curious, always asking questions of him, of his men.

He was fascinated by the construction work and would always run down to the fjord when he could escape the eagle eye of his devoted aunt.

As Ulfric watched from his vantage point high above them, the other object of his thoughts straightened from his labours to say something to the boy.

Taranc towered over the lad, but Njal seemed unafraid of the powerful thrall.

Their conversation was brief, and Njal appeared happy with the answers he had received because he nodded and strutted on to pester someone else.

The wave came from nowhere. Ulfric watched in horror as one moment his son was balancing on the rocks and the next he had vanished into the greedy sea.

He shouted, but no one would hear him, not at this distance.

He broke into a run, scrambling down the hillside in a desperate effort to reach the shore before his boy sank into the freezing depths.

“No, no, please, Odin, not my boy. Not my boy…”

On the outcrop several men had witnessed the incident and now clustered to peer into the water.

They appeared anxious enough, but no one moved to effect a rescue.

Ulfric tore down the incline toward them and swore he would drown the fucking lot of them—slaves, thralls, karls, every last one of them.

The surface of the water broke and he spotted Njal, his tiny arm upraised as though reaching for help that was too far away. Still no one moved.

No, not true. Someone did. One man was dragging off his heavy woollen tunic and kicking away his shoes.

Ulfric’s heart leapt as Taranc dived into the angry waves and covered the distance to reach Njal in just three powerful strokes.

There was a splashing, then the lad went still.

Taranc had him, was pulling him back through the water toward the shore.

Many hands were there to drag the pair back up onto the safety of the rocks and by the time Ulfric arrived on the scene, panting, Taranc was already sitting upright. Njal lay on his side, coughing and gasping but unmistakably alive. Ulfric sank to his knees and took the boy in his arms.

“C-c-cold, Daddy…” The child’s voice was high and thin, his teeth chattering.

Ulfric stood with him in his arms. His priority now was to see his lad safe and warm and to check that he was not injured. He started back up the hill in the direction of the settlement and the warmth of his hearth then stopped and turned back to regard the man who had saved his son’s life.

Taranc reached for his tunic, which had remained dry, though his woollen trousers were soaked. He looked up and met Ulfric’s gaze.

“Thank you.” Meagre enough words, but they were all Ulfric had.

“You are welcome.” The man answered in halting Norse as he pulled his tunic over his head.

“Come.” Ulfric beckoned the man to accompany him as he strode back up the hillside, his son cradled in his arms. “You too require a warm bath and dry clothing.”

Word of the accident preceded them and by the time Ulfric entered his longhouse the bath for Njal was already steaming beside the fire in the centre of the room.

Ulfric handed his son to an ashen-faced Brynhild who quickly stripped him and dumped him in the steaming water.

Meanwhile Ulfric called for another bath to be drawn and pushed Taranc in the direction of the warm fire until it was ready.

“Take off your wet clothes. Fiona, a blanket, quickly.”

His little Celt sprang into action. She fetched a blanket from their bed and rushed to wrap it around Taranc who by now was shivering violently.

“What happened? How…?” Brynhild bent to soothe her nephew’s whimpering as his chilled body began to thaw.

“He slipped, or was washed into the sea by a wave. I was too far away to help, but I saw it all from the headland. By the time I got there this man…” Ulfric gestured to Taranc, now swathed in his finest wool blanket, “this man had dived in and dragged my son from the water. The rest just stood and fucking watched.”

“We are grateful,” Brynhild murmured. “You shall be rewarded for your service?—”

“Not necessary, lady.” Taranc’s reply was curt. “I can swim well, whereas the rest…” He met Ulfric’s angry gaze, his own features steady. “They are not to be blamed.”

“I shall be the judge of that,” retorted Ulfric. “But my sister is right, we owe you much. I would have lost my son but for your actions and I am grateful to you.”

“Then we are even,” replied the Celt.

“Even? How do you arrive at that conclusion?”

“You spared Fiona when your slave master would have slaughtered her by the roadside. It is a life for a life.”

Ulfric furrowed his brow, not entirely in agreement with the Celt’s reasoning.

He would never had permitted Dagr to kill the female slave.

She had been in no danger though he appreciated that Taranc had no way of divining that.

His son, on the other hand, would without doubt be dead now had the Celt not dived into the sea to rescue him.

No, they were not quite even, not in Ulfric’s opinion.

“Hurry up with that bath, this man is frozen. And bring food too, something warm.” His house thralls scurried to do his bidding, though Ulfric noted that Fiona appeared transfixed by the sight of her former betrothed and stood rooted to the spot. “Fiona, is there a problem?”

“What? Oh, no. No, Viking, there is no problem at all.” She turned and stalked back to his sleeping chamber, closing the curtain behind her.

Njal lay curled up in his small cot in the corner of the longhouse, Brynhild at his side. She held the boy’s tiny hand as he slept. Satisfied that his son would suffer no lasting ill effects, Ulfric left in search of Fiona.

She was not in the main room, nor was she in their sleeping chamber when he lifted the curtain to glance inside.

The privy, perhaps…? He waited a few minutes then when she did not reappear he went out in search of her.

Hilla was just outside the longhouse. She hummed to herself as she tended to their chickens.

“Where is Fiona?”

The wench smiled up at him. It struck Ulfric, and not for the first time, that she was no longer a child. He must see to finding her a suitable husband before long.

“She went with the other Celt. I think they are in the meadow…”

The other Celt? Fuck! Had she run away… and with Taranc? The first chance they got… He sprinted off in the direction indicated by Hilla.