Page 27 of Her Celtic Captor
Brynhild smiled at the lass. "You have been working since first light. Go get some sleep and I shall see to the chickens when I check on the rest of our livestock."
Locking up their animals at night had been Harald's job but it now fell to Brynhild, one of her many duties in her brother's longhouse. She did not mind, it was best to be busy, to be needed.
Her glance strayed to Njal, already fast asleep in his little bed by the fire pit. The small boy kept her busier than the rest of her responsibilities combined but she had no complaints. She was just relieved that he was well again, and showed no lingering ill effects from his indisposition of a few days previously.
A low chuckle reached her from behind the curtain which separated Ulfric's chamber. It was followed by a breathy sigh, then a little squeal. She gritted her teeth. She had resolved notto rise to the bait, but it was not easy. She might manage to curtail her dislike of her brother's bed-thrall, indeed, she was determined to do so since she had no option but to accept that the Celt was here to stay, but she would never warm to the wench.
Brynhild set aside the hank of wool she had been combing and reached for her cloak. The night was chilly, the sooner she could ensure that all was secure and their animals settled for the night, the better. She hugged the thick woollen garment to her chest and stepped outside.
The chickens were as stupidly uncooperative as usual but Brynhild managed to usher them into the small crate which offered them protection during the hours of darkness and dropped the lid. That accomplished, she made her way to the pen where their three goats and two kids bleated softly at her approach. Until yesterday there had been four fine goats, but one was owed to Freya and Brynhild knew better than to renege on such a deal. She checked that the gate was fastened securely and paused to lean on the low fencing to admire the young animals. She was proud of her goats, and the fine milk they provided, not to mention the good eating her family would enjoy in a few months’ time.
Now for the heifer?—
She never heard the approach of her assailant. Brynhild was stunned momentarily when a hand snaked across her mouth and she was seized from behind. The man was strong, lifted her easily from her feet to swing her away from the longhouse. Brynhild was not a slight woman, and after the initial shock she fought like one possessed. Her attacker was powerful, and within moments he had rammed a rag into her mouth and secured it with another tied around her face. Then he dragged a sack of some description over her head and Brynhild reallystarted to panic. She could not breathe, was sure he meant to suffocate her.
Please, please... Ulfric... help me...
She pleaded silently as she fought to keep the waves of terror at bay. If she was to survive it would be because she remained calm, awaited her chance.
It was Bjarkesson. It had to be, no one else would dare. The mad, deluded fool had taken it upon himself to abduct the sister of his enemy and he would pay dearly for it. Ulfric would never let this insult pass unavenged.
Her attacker spun her around and tied her wrists in front of her. He did not speak, just grabbed the binding which secured her hands and dragged her forward. Brynhild followed, stumbling blindly, trying to discern her location in the settlement by the feel of the ground underfoot.
Soon the hard-packed earth gave way to the crack and crinkle of undergrowth and she knew they had left the security of the cluster of longhouses. They were entering the woods which surrounded the village and still her abductor tugged her onward, forcing her to break into a run to keep up with him. More than once she tripped on a root or branch, but he just hauled her upright again and forced her on.
Her side burned. She was gasping, struggling to breathe behind the gag and the sacking which covered her head. As their pace slowed she began to succumb to the mind-numbing panic which now threatened to overwhelm her. It was as though the years fell away and she was fourteen again, young, helpless, hopelessly out of her depth and at the mercy of a man who meant her harm.
Her captor came to a halt and Brynhild stopped too. She sank to her knees, shaking. She would not beg, she would not plead.
Or would she? She was a survivor, she would do what she must.
His hands were on her shoulders now and he gripped the bag which covered her head. The sacking was drawn up and over her hair and at last she felt the welcome chill of the night air on her skin. She tilted her head back and opened her eyes.
The forest-green gaze which met her was the last she expected to encounter. The thrall, Taranc, grinned at her, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. "Good evening, lady. I must apologise for the unseemly rush. I trust you are not too uncomfortable."
She recoiled, stunned.
How dare he? What was this dolt thinking, laying his filthy hands upon the person of a lady of the Jarl?Ulfric would have him hanged for such an offence.
His smile did not waver. "I will not harm you, but I must insist on your silence, at least for the time being, until we are well away from this place. Do not move from there." He had been balancing on his haunches looking directly into her face but now he stood and walked slowly around the clearing in which they had arrived. Brynhild scanned from left to right and recognised the spot, perhaps a couple of hundred yards from the closest dwelling. If she might just get to her feet she could run hard and maybe get back to the village before he caught her. If she could just get this gag from between her lips she would be able to scream loud enough to rouse Valhalla and by Odin she would do so. She pursued the Celt with her eyes as he paced the perimeter of the clearing, and watched in amazement when he crouched to reach under a spiky holly bush.
The thrall withdrew a large leather bag which he had obviously secreted there earlier. When had he had such an opportunity? She knew for a fact that all the slaves had been occupied down at the harbour the entire day. No matter, she would ponder such mysteries later, in less urgent circumstances.
Slowly, with care, Brynhild rose to her feet and started to back away from the Celt. He was busy checking the contents of his bag so his attention was not on her. This was her chance, and might well be the one opportunity she would have.
Brynhild turned and she ran.
Less than six paces later she was hauled from her feet and slung unceremoniously over the slave's shoulder. She kicked and wriggled, which efforts earned her a hard slap direct to her upturned rump.
"I told you to stay put. Try that again, and I shall take a switch to your pretty arse, lady."
Brynhild emitted a silent screech of outrage into the gag. How dare he manhandle and threaten her? She would see him dangling from a rope for this. She would see him whipped, and, and...
The wind was knocked out of her when Taranc deposited her back on the ground in exactly the same spot he had left her. Now he towered over her, his hands on his hips.
"Allow me to be plain since I wish there to be no misunderstanding between us. You are coming with me. You will be silent, and you will be co-operative. If you cause me no problems we shall get along quite well, but I will tolerate no disobedience from you. You have been warned. Further attempts to thwart me will result in you being punished, and a decent switching will be just the start of it. Do not test me on this, Brynhild. Youwillregret it."
Gagged as she was Brynhild could not reply, though she hoped her eyes would convey her outrage and give this ruffian pause. If he let her go, now, she promised herself, she might yet allow him to live.
