Page 23 of Her Celtic Captor
Would have been, had either of them truly wanted it. Taranc saw now what he had not properly recognised before. They had grown up together, friends from childhood, promised to one another more or less from the cradle. He loved this woman, loved her dearly, but as his sister not his bride. Had the Vikings not come, perhaps they would have married, eventually. They would have exhausted all their excuses and done their best to make a success of their union. They would have managed it, too, because they liked each other and they cared. But there would have been no passion, no fire or spark. Fiona would never have run across his village to poke him in the back, then shyly followed him back to their cottage to make love.
It was time to move on.
"Tell me of your Viking. Is he kind to you?"
His question seemed to startle her. "I suppose?—"
Taranc chuckled. "Other than in his bed. Are you happy living in his household?"
Fiona nodded and wrapped her arms about her legs. She rested her chin on her knees as she answered. "Ulfric is kind but his sister hates me and I avoid her at all costs. She is not allowed to beat me, but she will do all in her power to convince Ulfric to do so."
He was not surprised to hear this. The tales of Brynhild's hostility had carried as far as the slave barn, and he had seen enough of it himself to know what the Viking woman was like. It bothered him that she could manage to harm Fiona, if only vicariously.
"And does he? Beat you?"
"Once or twice, with a switch. It was... not so bad and after, he... he..."
"You find pleasure with him, sweetheart? Is that what you are trying to tell me?"
"I could not help it. He is very... compelling."
Taranc laughed out loud at this. He was genuinely glad for her, and knowing that she found pleasure in her Viking's bed relieved the lingering guilt he might feel at contemplating leaving her here. As though she discerned the way his thoughts were turning she leaned her head on his shoulder.
"When you escape from here, and I know you will, I want you to take me with you. I want to go home."
As did Taranc, but it was not so simple. "If we were to escape, we would be stranded here, in this frozen wilderness unless we could procure a ship of some sort. We must bide our time, Fiona. A chance will come, and we will take it."
"No, we should?—"
"Things change, always. Events we do not control. You are safe here for now."
"I want to be free. Do you not long for the same thing?"
"I am free, though for now I choose to remain here. Your Viking brought us to this place against our will, so I see noreason not to enjoy his hospitality for a while longer. He feeds us well, clothes us, provides decent shelter."
"He is not my Viking."
"No? I believe he is, or could be, but that is for you to judge."
Fiona might have argued further, but at that moment Ulfric appeared from around the tree where they had sought refuge. Taranc knew without needing to ask that the Jarl had been listening to their conversation, to their talk of escape. He hoped Fiona would not bear the brunt of the Viking's anger, but he suspected not. Ulfric appeared more thoughtful than vexed, and fiercely possessive which amused Taranc more than a little.
"I shall escort my thrall back to her place in my bed," announced the Norseman, his mouth set as though to brook no challenge.
Taranc rose to his feet and tugged Fiona up with him. "Treat her well," he said, his voice low.
Ulfric narrowed his eyes and muttered something about returning to the slave barn, but Taranc was already on his way, ambling casually away from the pair who remained under the tree. Ulfric called belated thanks, for his actions in saving Njal. Taranc raised his arm in silent acknowledgement and did not look back.
7
The next few days were uneventful. Brynhild was glad of the respite as it afforded her the welcome opportunity to seek refuge in her weaving, an activity she found both soothing and therapeutic. The repetitive labour gave her time to think, to plan, to calm her rattled nerves. She had been more distressed than she cared to admit over the near loss of her beloved nephew and even now, more than a sennight later, she shuddered at the recollection. Life could be so fleeting, so fragile.Her peace was shattered by the unexpected arrival of her brother, Gunnar, who descended upon them, his new family about him. The three Freysson siblings were close, but Gunnar preferred to maintain his own settlement a couple of days ride to the north. He had grown up at Skarthveit and visited often, but not usually without warning.
“This is Mairead,“ her youngest brother announced with obvious pride when Ulfric and Brynhild strode out to greet him, to bid him welcome. “My bride of these past couple of months. And these are our children, Donald, and Tyra.”Brynhild was at a loss. Had both her brothers run completely mad? As if it was not enough that Ulfric had brought a Celtic bed slave into theirlonghouse, the usually taciturn and serious Gunnar, had actually gone a step further and taken a Celt as his wife!
What was more, the bride, Mairead, already had two children and Gunnar appeared determined upon treating them as his own.
“Welcome, sister.” Ulfric barely missed a beat before leaning in to kiss the pale-featured Celt. “It is good to meet you. Please, come inside, take your rest. You must be tired after your journey.”
At Ulfric’s urging Brynhild hurried to organise the feasting which would mark the family reunion. She would play her part, no one would find fault with her hospitality but she was not fooled by the effusive welcome. Ulfric had been as astonished as she was by the announcement of their brother's wedding, but had made the woman welcome, and of course that upstart Fiona had been falling over herself to befriend the jumped-up thrall.
