Page 32 of Her Celtic Captor
But he could not. She had been fine, or what passed for fine with Brynhild Freysson, right up until he had lunged for her and brought her to the ground. That was when everything had changed.
"What happened, back there?" He opted for the direct approach.
"I do not know what you mean." Her spine stiffened and she continued to stare straight ahead.
"Liar. What happened, back there in the forest? You were terrified. Of me?"
"I have told you, I am not afraid of you, Celt."
"Yet you were. It was there, in your face, your body. You were paralysed by fear. Then you sobbed as though your heart was broken."
"Do I not have the right? I have been abducted from my home, beaten, threatened. I am entitled to be upset."
"It was more than that. I caused your terror, or so it seemed, but did it really have anything to do with me at all?"
"No!" She turned to peer up at him over her shoulder. "It had nothing whatsoever to do with you. Not then, not now."
He tried another tack. "I would wish to avoid causing you such distress again. Perhaps if I knew?—"
"It is not your concern, Celt." Her tone hardened and she became even more rigid in his arms. Brynhild was again the haughty Nordic lady and she drew that imaginary cloak of superiority about her as she lifted her chin to gaze at the route ahead. "If you wish not to distress me, then release me. Allow me to return to my home, my family. Continue on to your homeland if you are determined upon it, and if you are able to secure a boat, which I doubt will prove as simple as you imagine. But leave me here."
Taranc sighed. He was getting nowhere on this but he did not consider the matter closed. Far from it.
They passed a large outcrop of flat rocks, then a tree which had been struck by lightning. Taranc recalled the landmarks described by Ulfric and knew that they were nearing Hafrsfjord. The sky had not yet started to lighten, but it would in the next hour or so. He preferred to arrive at the port just before dawn ifhe could manage it, before the townspeople started to rise, but with the full day’s sailing ahead of them.
Taranc nudged the mount to a full gallop and covered the remaining five miles until the rooftops of the small port came into sight at the foot of the next hill they crested. He reined in the horse and strained his eyes in the thinning gloom to pick out what he sought.
Yes. There. A small fishing boat was moored at a jetty just outside the main town. The craft bobbed on the water, sails rigged and ready to go. Taranc turned the horse in the direction of the boat and urged the mare forward again.
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Brynhild perched in the saddle before her captor, shifting her weight as best she might to protect her punished bottom. The Celt helped by drawing her up onto his lap and allowing her to wedge her foot under his leg to provide the anchorage she needed. His arm was about her waist and he held her secure. She would not fall, however hard the mare galloped. After the delay in the forest he seemed intent upon making up the lost time, and for her part Brynhild had abandoned any attempt to thwart him in that.
This was not to say that she was at ease, however. Quite the reverse. Her head whirled. She was confused, baffled, and she did not care for the sensation at all.
Worse, she was scared. Not of the arrogant, slack-witted oaf who thought to carry her off and believed he might subdue her by taking a switch to her bottom. She had not the slightest doubt she would find a way to elude Taranc before much longer, definitely once they arrived in Hafrsfjord. Did he think no one there would recognise the sister of the Jarl of Skarthveit? That none would rush to her aid should she scream for help? The Celt was a fool, and he would likely die for his stupidity.
No, Brynhild did not fear the Celt. She feared herself.
What had happened to her, back there in the forest? One moment she was running for her life, ready to fight if she must and die in the attempt. The next she found herself prone on the forest floor, the stars swirling above her in the inky blackness, the weight of a strong, determined male pressing her into the ground. In those moments, she had been a girl again, helpless, vulnerable, desperate to escape the man who pinned her to the ground but unable to lift so much as a finger in her own defence. His voice grated in her ears, harsh and guttural, demanding, accusing. Her nostrils were filled with his odour, so strong she could almost taste it. He was real. He was here…back, after all these years and she was in his power all over again.
Brynhild gave herself a mental shake. It had been a hallucination, a nightmare … there was no other explanation. She did not confuse the spectre from her childish imaginings with the thrall who now held her captive. But this Taranc had been there. He had been beside her when she emerged from the horror, his voice soft, reassuring her, coaxing her back into the present where the earth did not shake, her wits did not betray her and her courage was intact. He had held her while she wept, saying nothing, demanding nothing, simply waiting for her to return to her senses. And now he asked if he was the cause of her breakdown.
As if he held that level of power over her. No man did, nor ever would again.
The Celt sought an explanation. He was not the only one, and he, too, would be disappointed. Even if she did properly understand what had happened, and if she had wished to confide in this escaped slave, Brynhild did not believe she could have found the words to tell him. And she did not choose to. It was private, her secret, buried even deeper this time and she would never allow that vision from her past to emerge again.
Thus fortified, Brynhild turned her thoughts to the rest. An idiot he may be, but this Taranc had planned his escape well and she had no notion how he might have accomplished that. She knew for a fact that he, along with all the thralls, had spent the entirety of the previous day toiling on the beach. The harbour was coming along slowly but her brother was determined to make as much progress as they might before the winter halted the work. At no stage, as far as she could work out, had this man had any opportunity to creep into their settlement and steal a horse, even less lead the beast away and conceal it in the surrounding woods. He had somehow managed to steal Ulfric's finest cloak, and that did not leave her brother's chamber except for when he wore it. Had Taranc entered their longhouse?
He had food too, and probably other supplies in that leather sack he slung from the saddle. Did he have blankets in there, purloined from Brynhild's own stores? Weapons? Had he stolen other valuables from Skarthveit? Coin that he might use to bribe a boatman?
It was not possible that he had achieved all of this unaided so he must have had an accomplice. Fiona. It had to be. Who else? So much for Ulfric's unshakable trust in his little bed-slave.
The other part of the puzzle concerned her own presence here. Why had the escaping slave taken her? It would have been far simpler, and safer, to make his bid for freedom alone. It was not as though she had done anything to aid him, quite the reverse. She had complicated everything, surely. He must intend to offer her for ransom, or in exchange for his betrothed. Or perhaps she was a hostage, offering him some semblance of security if he should be challenged. It had to be that, nothing else made sense.
Satisfied that she had arrived at the truth of the matter, Brynhild turned her thoughts to planning her escape. She would demand that the fishermen of Hafrsfjord come to her aid andshe had no doubt that they would. This Taranc would soon enough find himself back in her brother's slave barn. If he was lucky.
The Celt tugged on the reins and brought their mount to a halt. The harbour of Hafrsfjord lay at the foot of the hill, the surface of the sea glittering as the backdrop. It was a fine night, chilly but not overly cold and the next day promised to be fair enough. Within the next hour or so the people of the port would begin to stir and go about their business. That would see an end to this Celt's tyranny over her.
