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F iona entered the longhouse just as Ulfric emerged from their sleeping chamber, his chest bare.

She winced at the ugly wound that traversed his right shoulder, the result of a lucky strike by one of Olaf’s men.

Or unlucky, depending on how the matter was to be viewed.

Ulfric had slain the man for his trouble, adding one more to the tally of his enemy’s losses.

One more reason for the Bjarkessons to pile fuel upon the already crackling fire of their hatred, one more crime for them to heap at her Viking’s door.

She knew that Ulfric deeply regretted the souring of relations between the two families.

By contrast, Fiona was scathing in her reaction.

At best she considered Olaf Bjarkesson a fool; at worst, a would-be murderer.

She strongly suspected he was responsible for Brynhild’s disappearance, though Ulfric stubbornly refused to lay that at Olaf’s door.

She smiled at Ulfric. “Mairead is with Quinn and Briana. They are friends, from before…” She broke off, uncertain. ‘Before’ seemed such a long time ago now, a different life, different loyalties.

Ulfric nodded, unperturbed. “I see. And Njal?”

“Donald is here also, he accompanied his mother. Njal asked if he might remain with them this night. I saw no harm. Cedric, Briana’s husband, is there also, and?—”

“Yes, that will be perfectly fine. I am glad Donald and Njal are friends.”

“Gunnar would have come to our aid too had he been at his home when your summons arrived. Mairead brought all the men who remained at Gunnarsholm with her, though, and insisted on coming herself even though she is again pregnant.”

“I know. My messenger missed my brother by just two days. How long will Mairead stay with us?”

“She hopes to return home tomorrow. Will she be safe, do you think?”

Ulfric shrugged but did not appear unduly worried. “Bjarkesson lost many of his men. He will require time to recover, to regroup. I do not expect any further trouble from him for a while.”

“I expect you are right.” She sat at the table. “Does your wound pain you?”

He flexed his arm and rolled his shoulder. “A little. It will heal and there is no sign of infection.”

“Thank the Lord. Shall I re-dress it for you?”

“Aye, if you will.” He came to sit beside her. “We shall talk as you do it.”

“Talk?” She scooted to their chamber to find the clean linens she would use, and hurried back to stand before him. “Is there a matter we should discuss?”

“There is. You called me a fool. Twice. I promised to reacquaint your bottom with my switch as punishment for your impertinence. Surely this had not slipped your mind, little Celt.”

Her heart lurched. “It had not, Viking, but the words were spoken during a heated exchange. I am quite sure that neither of us really meant what we said.”

“At least one of us did, I can assure you. Ouch! Did you do that on purpose?” He glared at her, his kingfisher-blue eyes narrowing.

“There is no need to look at me like that. I did not, though I should have.” She wrapped the binding around his wound with care, pulling the ends tight and securing them beside his neck.

Then she tipped up her chin and sought for courage to stand up to him and his unjust dictates.

“You may not beat me, Viking. I am not your slave any longer.”

“I am still master here. I may have anyone whipped if I judge them needful of the chastisement.” He lowered his tone. “I do consider you needful, little Celt.”

“But, I helped you. And I was right, about the thralls.”

“Indeed you were, and I will readily own that they, and you, turned the fight in our favour. We were victorious because of you.”

“Then—”

“But that does not excuse your belligerence. I require a meek and submissive woman by my side, not one who will squawk insults at me in the middle of my own settlement, within the hearing of my men.”

“Squawk? I will have you know I do not squawk. I never have.” Outraged, Fiona faced him, her fists planted on her hips. “And if you do not wish to be called a fool within your men’s hearing, you should ensure that your lackwit behaviour is restricted to private settings. I only said what?—”

He silenced her with one uplifted finger. “Enough, my sweet. Let us not compound matters.”

“But…”

He lifted his injured shoulder again. “As you can see, my switching arm is somewhat impaired so I fear I will not be able to afford you the exquisite experience you truly deserve. I could make you wait, of course. A couple of weeks would make no real difference, and when I am fully restored to health I could lay a couple of dozen fine stripes across your delightful behind. I doubt you will be so ready to insult me in public again.”

Fiona covered her bottom with her hands and stepped back, horrified. “That is cruel, both the punishment and forcing me to wait. Two weeks? I cannot wait two weeks. I would… I would…”

“Quite so. My exact thoughts, little Celt. You were always an impatient little soul. I, too, prefer to resolve this matter today. I wonder, would you be so good as to fetch me some rope, two pieces, at least ten feet in length. I shall also require a lamp and do please make sure it is fully laden with cod liver oil. And a blanket, rolled up. Oh, and whilst you are about it, perhaps you would bar the door from the inside. I have a suspicion you may feel moved to speak rudely to me again in the next hour or so, and I would bear in mind your comments regarding privacy.”

Speechless, Fiona gaped at him. Rope? A lamp? A blanket? A barred door? What did he mean to do to her?

Ulfric smiled, his expression pleasantly bland. “Please be quick about it, my sweet. And when you have collected the items we shall need I would suggest you also bank up the fire. You will be naked for the next few hours and I know how you detest the cold.”

Still she remained, rooted to the spot.

“Move, Fiona. And while you are at it, you should breathe also. You are going quite red in the face. Be quick, or I might yet resort to a thorough switching in a fortnight’s time.”

His words finally penetrated and spurred her into action. Her head whirling, Fiona rushed to seek out a lamp and a jug of cod liver oil. She poured the liquid into the bowl of the lamp and set it on the table.

“Leave the jug. I may require a lubricant.”

She groaned, his meaning perfectly clear. He intended to fuck her arse, then. Well, it could have been worse…

She was quickly able to procure a blanket from their chamber and placed it on the bench next to the table.

The rope was more difficult to obtain as they did not tend to store such supplies indoors.

She had to run to the shed beside the longhouse where their cattle spent the winter, and there she procured two suitable lengths.

He would use it to tie her up, she was certain, though why he needed quite so much of it she could not fathom.

Back in the longhouse she shut and barred the door, then laid the rope on the table beside the lamp.

“Good. Are you happy with the fire or would you prefer to throw more wood on it before we start?”

With a gulp she picked up the largest of the logs heaped next to the fire pit and dropped it onto the glowing embers.

Within seconds, flames licked around the edges of the knobbed bark and the firewood caught alight.

For good measure, Fiona added a second log then stood back as the heat rose to warm her already heated cheeks.

“You will undress for me now.”

He spoke from behind her, his tone low and oddly seductive.

“You mean to do it here? Not in our chamber?”

“Yes, here. On this table.”

“On the table,” she squeaked, turning to face him. “You intend to fuck me on the table?”

“I might well do, yes. So, naked. Now.” His voice firmed, that stern timbre creeping in. She recognised that tone, the one that would tolerate no further questions, no more delays.

As quickly as her shaking fingers could accomplish the task Fiona released the shoulder pin that held her cloak in place, then pulled the pinafore she usually wore up and over her head.

Her loose linen smock was all that remained, and her leather shoes.

She kicked those off and nudged them under the table, then she tugged the smock down over one shoulder.

It slithered to the floor easily enough and she stepped from the pool of fabric to stand nude before him.

Ulfric’s eyes gleamed, the blue darkening to a midnight shade.

As she watched, his cock swelled within his woollen trousers, tenting the garment.

Fiona knew a moment’s triumph; she always loved the knowledge of how she affected him.

Should she offer to kneel before him and suck his cock?

That usually softened his mood somewhat.

Before she could make such a suggestion he tilted his head toward the table. “You will lie on the top, on your back, your arms above your head and your feet wide apart. Will you require help in climbing up?”

“N-no, I do not believe so.” She ignored the rope and the lamp, which he had moved down to one end, and scrambled up to sit on the table, her knees tucked up beneath her chin. She looked up at him, then slowly lay back and lifted her arms.

Ulfric did not speak to her. He selected the first of the lengths of rope and tied one end around her right wrist. Then he passed the rest under the table, and secured the other end to her left wrist. Fiona tried an experimental tug and found no give at all.

“Not too tight? I want you held still, but not uncomfortable.”

“I… I am fine, Viking. Thank you.”

“Good. Lift your hips.”

She obeyed, and was surprised when he rammed the rolled-up blanket under her bottom. She had assumed, foolishly, that he meant for her to have it as a pillow.

“Now you will bend your knees and spread them wide. Show me your delectable cunt, my little Celt.”

“Do you have to be quite so… explicit?” She obeyed his directions, despite her grumbling.