Page 30 of Her Celtic Captor
"Brynhild? Little Viking? Speak to me. Please." He lowered his tone, his words gentle as he sought to coax her back into the here and now. The merest hitch of her breath betrayed that she heard him. "Brynhild, I shall help you to sit up. Is that all right?"
He did not know why, but it seemed important to seek her permission before he touched her again.
"May I?"
She closed her eyes, and she nodded. Just once, but it was clear enough. He slid his hand under her shoulders and eased her from the ground. "Take deep breaths. We shall wait here until you are ready to move."
He was in a hurry. Hafrsfjord beckoned. Why had he promised her all the time she might need?
Her eyes remained closed and she lifted her hands to cover her face. Brynhild leaned forward, her head bowed now, and her shoulders started to shake. She was weeping.
At a loss, Taranc acted on instinct again. He wrapped her in his arms and turned her to face his chest. He half-expected her to struggle, to try to escape his hold but her resistance was entirely spent. Instead, she scrambled toward him as though she sought to crawl right inside his rough tunic. Her sobs became louder, more despairing, wrenching from her as the pent-up grief poured forth. Taranc just held her, stroking her hair and muttering words of comfort which he doubted she would comprehend as he rocked her back and forth.
At last the anguished weeping subsided. Brynhild sniffled and gulped, her body shuddering as she fought to regain control. Taranc willed himself to be patient and was rewarded when, eventually, she turned her tear-ravaged face toward him.
"I am sorry. I do not know what happened. I... I..."
"Hush," he murmured into her hair. "It is all right."
"But—"
"We shall talk, if you wish it. And soon. But now, we go to Hafrsfjord."
Her eyes widened in surprise. "H-Hafrsfjord? But, why?"
"Is it not obvious, little Viking? We need a boat. We are going to the land of the Celts."
She shook her head. "I cannot. No, it is impossible. My brother will come, he will stop you, and?—"
Taranc laid one finger over her lips, the merest of pressure, just enough to halt the flow of words. "We go to Hafrsfjord. Come."
He got to his feet and extended his hand to her. This time Brynhild accepted his assistance and fell into step at his side as he led the way back through the woodland to where the mare waited patiently. Given the episode in the forest Taranc was tempted to forgo the promised spanking. The last thing he needed was another emotional outpouring. His mind was made up when Brynhild regarded him from beneath her still-damp lashes.
"You will beat me again. Because I tried to escape."
It was a statement. She fully expected him to carry out his threat. Not to do so, whatever the reason, would be unwise.
Taranc inclined his head. "I shall, yes." He glanced about them. "You will lean against that tree, over there, and raise your skirts."
"The switch?"
He nodded. "Six strokes this time. I shall increase your punishment by two strokes every time I have cause to discipline you so you might do well to bear that in mind."
"You do not frighten me, Celt."
No?Taranc thought otherwise but made no comment. He found her defiance in the face of a switching somewhat reassuring. She would accept this well enough.
He gestured with his thumb. "The tree, lady. Let us be done with this and on our way."
Obedient as a lamb now, she moved to position herself before the tree he indicated then turned to regard him over her shoulder. "You will require your cloak back. Or should I say, my brother's cloak."
Taranc offered her a tight smile as he extracted a prepared switch from the half dozen or so he had stashed in his saddlebag. "A fine garment, lady. Your work?"
"Of course." She removed it from her shoulders and offered it to him.
Taranc took it and set it to one side, then accepted Brynhild's own cloak which she duly unfastened and slid from her body. He folded that and laid it on top of his own. "Can you manage?" He had not untied her hands.
"I believe so. You will require me to lift my skirt?"
