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“ C ontemplating escape is a serious crime for a slave. You belong to me. You are my property. Escape would be theft, punishable by a flogging, or worse.”

Fiona shrank back against the furs in their sleeping chamber. Ulfric was furious; she saw his anger in his stern features, the determined set of his jaw. Surely he did not really mean to flog her, she had not actually attempted to get away. She could not be punished merely for her thoughts…

“Worse, you would be putting yourself in grave danger. Here, at Skarthveit, you live under my protection. You are safe. As a runaway slave you would have no rights, no shelter as the winter draws in. You would be a renegade, at the mercy of any karl who might recapture you though I doubt it would come to that. You would not survive even the first few days alone.”

“I would not… I never intended?—”

“You say that, now, as you face me and know that I will punish you. But the thought is here…” He tapped her temple with his fingertip. “It is here in your head. For your own safety you need to let it go, and I will help you to do that.”

“I swear to you, I will never attempt to escape. I know the dangers. Taranc said…”

“I know what he said, I heard him. You will heed his advice, and my instructions.”

“Yes. Yes, I will. There is no need?—”

“There is every need, little Celt. Every need to make sure there is no misunderstanding between us on this matter because your life may well depend upon it.” He regarded her for several moments, his eyes narrowed. “Strip, then come and stand before me.” He was already removing his belt.

Her heart in her mouth, Fiona obeyed. In moments she was nude, trembling as he raked her with eyes the colour of ice.

“Hold out your hands.”

She did so, and he quickly bound her wrists together with a strip of cloth. Seemingly satisfied, he glanced up at the rafters above their heads. Fiona followed his gaze to see a metal ring hanging from one stout beam. Was that new? Surely she would have recalled seeing it before.

“I see you appreciate my latest addition to our comforts here. It will aid me in teaching you the consequences of your foolishness.” As he spoke he bent to pick up a length of rope that had been tucked away beside the bed.

He tossed one end through the hoop, then tied it to the linen between her wrists.

From there it was the work of moments to tug the rope tight, drawing Fiona up onto her toes, her hands stretched high above her head.

“What do you intend to do to me?” Her voice shook. He must hear it, must know how terrified she was.

“What do you think I might have in mind for a wilful little slave who longs to be free of me, even at the cost of her own life? What punishment does such disloyalty deserve, do you think?” His tone was deceptively soft as Ulfric slowly walked around her in a full circle, his appraising gaze reaching every part of her body.

“You cannot blame me for wishing for my freedom. You would feel the same…”

“Would I? Perhaps, but our situations are not similar, my little Celt. For one thing, you are a possession, and I am your master.”

“Please…” Her shoulders already burned from the uncomfortable position and her feet barely reached the earthen floor. “This hurts.”

“And we have barely started. But I wish to make this memorable for you since my earlier efforts have been ineffective. So, shall we proceed?”

“Just… just do whatever you must and let me down.”

“Perhaps I can make you a little more comfortable…” He reached above her to adjust the tension in the rope.

He slackened it enough that she could rest fully on her feet.

Her ankle was now healed so she was able to stand without discomfort though the change offered no respite for her shoulders. “Is that better?”

Fiona nodded.

“Good. So, we shall start with twelve strokes of my belt. Then, if you are able to convince me that you are sufficiently chastened and no longer contemplating fleeing into the mountains to perish, we shall consider the matter of your escape plans closed and move on to a lesson in what it is to be a possession.”

Twelve strokes? With his belt? Fiona was already sobbing.

“I can see that there is little point in asking you to count.”

He moved in close behind her to encircle her waist with his arms. On pure instinct Fiona leaned back into his embrace and sighed as he cupped her breasts in his hands.

“So beautiful, and very precious to me. You need to understand that I will always protect what is mine, and that includes you, little Celt. You know I will never harm you, do you not?”

“But—”

“Twelve strokes. You can bear that, and you will remember it.”

She managed to nod, since she knew that he was right. The whipping would soon be over, and she would survive it. Even so, she trembled when he bent to pick up the belt he had laid on the bed while he secured her to the beam.

Fiona gritted her teeth and prayed that he would be quick. He granted her wish, but still she danced on the spot as the first stroke of his belt wrapped around her buttocks. She managed not to scream, but knew it would not take many more strokes before she would be screeching fit to wake the dead.

Ulfric apparently arrived at the same conclusion. “I would not normally mind a little din from you in the circumstances, but Njal is sleeping and I prefer that you do not disturb him. Open your mouth, little Celt.”

Tears streamed down her face as he pushed a wad of linen between her teeth and secured it there by means of another strip tied behind her head. Then he took up the belt again.

The next three strokes were delivered with his customary efficiency and Fiona bore them well, or so she thought. The gag muffled her squeals, but she was managing to absorb the licks of pure flame as he laid on her punishment.

Why had she spoken so to Taranc? How had she not realised Ulfric was within earshot? Normally she was acutely aware of him whenever he was near. How much had she said?

Enough. Too much . She had voiced her confused feelings regarding Ulfric’s part in her brother’s death, and even repeated Ulfric’s hateful words of that first evening. In so doing she had revealed how much he had hurt her by what he said. He was never supposed to know about that.

Five. Six. She was halfway there and still coping. Just.

Seven. She wailed into the gag and hopped from one foot to the other.

Eight. He walked around to stand before her and cupped her face in his hand. “Are you all right, Fiona?”

She nodded as his image blurred, obscured by her tears.

“Four more, then I will remove the gag if you promise to be quiet for me.” The corner of his lip lifted in a half smile.

He stroked her wet cheek with his fingertips and lowered his forehead to rest it briefly against hers.

“I did not kill your brother, I swear it. If you want, I could attempt to discover who did, but I would not take action against the man. It was a battle, my warriors knew their task and performed it well. I am sorry though, for the grief you have suffered.”

Fiona stared at him, amazed. He had actually apologised to her though she did not blame him, not really.

Adair was a headstrong fool, ever one to act without thinking.

Their father had taken issue with him often enough on the matter.

Adair had no need to confront a mob of Viking raiders armed with just a shovel.

Pennglas was hopelessly overwhelmed, they had no choice but to capitulate and the villagers who did had been spared. Adair need not have died.

Ulfric cupped her chin in his palm. He had more to say to her, it seemed. “The words you heard… they were for Brynhild’s benefit, not yours. You are more to me, much more than just a wench to fuck. You always were.”

She blinked, not comprehending. The gag prevented her from seeking more explanation from him but he seemed to know anyway.

“I hoped to divert her attention from you by seeking to convince her that you were of no consequence and not worth her trouble. It is clear I failed to convince my sister, though you took my words to heart and for that I am sorry. I apologise for hurting you.”

With that he kissed her forehead and proceeded to hurt her some more.

Nine. Ten. Eleven. He paused again, as though gathering his strength for one final assault on her senses.

Twelve. He landed the final stroke across the backs of her thighs and Fiona jumped on the spot, howling against the confines of the gag.

Ulfric came to stand before her again and took his time putting his belt back on. He buckled it around his waist then stood, his arms folded as he considered her quivering form.

Would he release her now? He had not said so, only that he would remove the gag. He stepped forward and did exactly that. She drew in a welcome deep breath through her mouth, then wetted her dry lips with her tongue.

Ulfric saw, and at once produced a mug of ale, which he held to her lips. She sipped, grateful for his consideration.

“Enough?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He set the mug down. “I would know your thoughts, now, on the prospect of escape. Do you properly understand the dangers inherent in such a path?”

“I do. I will not speak of it again.”

“I expect you will not, since you are no fool. But will you think of it?”

“I… I will try not to, Ulfric.”

He considered that for a few moments, then nodded. “Fair enough. And now, do you understand why I spoke as I did to Brynhild?”

“I… yes, I think I do.”

“Taranc was right. You should have spoken to me of it if it bothered you so.”

“I could not.”

He frowned. “Ah, but you could.”

She shook her head, vehement now. “I could not. In all the time I have been here, you have been happy enough to take a switch to me because of something I said rather than something I did. I could not talk to you. I dared not.”

“That will change. And, we shall talk now, little Celt, for we have much to discuss.”

“Will you untie me? My shoulders…”