Page 14 of Her Celtic Captor
Still no response. Taranc eased his weight from the slender yet curvy body beneath him and leaned up on one elbow. He cupped the delicately pointed chin in his palm and turned her face toward him, forcing her to meet his eyes. And he saw it.
Terror. Pure, mind-numbing, abject terror. The woman in his arms was rigid with fear.
"It is safe now, lady. Brynhild?"That was the name yelled by the driver, was it not?Taranc attempted a reassuring smile. "The horse will be back in his stable by now. I believe we may risk getting to our feet without fear of being trampled to death."
She lay still for several moments more, then something shifted in her deep blue gaze. Her eyes darkened, she drew in a ragged breath, and where moments before she had been motionless she burst into a hysterical frenzy of writhing and clawing. She fought him like a woman possessed and it was then that Taranc realised she did not fear the horse.
Her terror was of him and she was fighting for her life.
He rolled from her at once and leapt to his feet. She scrambled away from him on her bottom, ignoring the hand he offered to help her up. "Let go of me. How dare you touch me. You have no right, no?—"
"Lady, I meant no offence. The horse?—"
"You are not to touch me. I shall have you flogged. I shall... I shall..." She staggered to her feet and turned her back on him, hugging her arms tight across her middle. She bent at the waist, and for a moment Taranc thought she might be about to be sick but she settled for several long, heaving breaths. At last, her senses gathered, she straightened and turned to face him again. "A thrall may not lay hands upon a woman of the Jarl. It is a crime punishable by death. You will do well to remember that, Celt."
He shook his head in exasperation. "Standing in front of a bolting horse tends to yield a similar result. I suggestyoubear that in mind, lady."
This woman might be lovely to look upon, but she was every bit as deluded as the ridiculous little slave master who now approached, his whip at the ready. Taranc executed an exaggerated bow to Lady Brynhild, ignored the pompous karl, and turned to stride back to where his countrymen had watched the bizarre exchange with open mouths.
"Have we any kindling yet? We have a fire to start, chickens to slaughter." His voice was harsher than usual. "And we have a granary to build. We start at first light. Tomorrow."
Neither Brynhild nor Dagr contradicted him. Taranc stalked into the empty slave barn and snarled.
Bloody Vikings!They were mad as a pail full of frogs, the whole fucking lot of them.
4
“Aunt Brynhild, are you ill?" Nyal whispered the question, his high little voice shrill with concern.
Brynhild rolled over on her narrow cot to face him from within her nest of furs. "No, I am fine."
"Then why are you still abed? It is light, I have fed the chickens for you, and collected the eggs. I do not know how to milk the cow or I would do that also."
"I shall do it. I am just being a little lazy this morning. If you could give me a few minutes..."
"Father has already left." Her nephew delivered this news as though Brynhild were somehow to blame for this turn of events.
"Ulfric is gone?"
The little face nodded. "Yes. Hunting. He said I am to do as Fiona tells me, until you get up. Will you be very long, Aunt Brynhild?"
"Has she done something to upset you?" If that bloody Celt had harmed so much as a hair on this child's head the wench would pay dearly for it, whatever Ulfric might have to say on the matter.
"No, Fiona is nice. But I cannot understand what she says and she cannot make porridge properly. Hilla is fetching water, and?—"
"I shall come." Brynhild slid her legs from beneath the pile of furs and blankets and placed her feet on the straw which covered the floor of her sleeping alcove. "Would you pass me my tunic, if you please?"
Njal dutifully handed her the plain over-tunic of green and blue wool, the one she normally favoured on cooler days. He chattered merrily as she dressed. "I shall ask my father to teach me the language of the Celts then I shall be able to talk to all who are here. There are new thralls in the barn and?—"
Brynhild leaned over to take his face between her hands. "You shall stay away from them. You have no need to go anywhere near the new slaves and 'tis not safe."
"Why?" As soon as his aunt released him to pull on her stout leather boots the lad perched on the end of her low pallet and regarded her with lively curiosity. "Is it true that Celts have blue tongues and can see as clearly in the dark as in the daylight? Like wolves?"
"No, they do not have blue tongues. As for their eyesight, the thralls are always locked in the slave barns at night so even if they can see in the dark it would be of little use to them. But they are rough, and they do not know our ways, and..."
"They would not hurt me. They would not dare."
Brynhild did not share his confidence. As far as she was concerned these foreign slaves so favoured by her brother were little short of feral and best avoided at all costs. "I have told you to stay away from the thrall quarters, and you will do as I say."
