Page 34 of Her Celtic Captor
The murky blackness closed over her head. It was cold, colder than she had ever been. Instinct demanded that she fight, that she struggle for her life and she did so now. Just once, she broke the surface and gulped in a lungful of salty air. She caught sight of the two men peering down at her from the stern of the boat, then she sank again. This time she could not find a way back to the surface however hard she fought. She kickedher booted feet, thrust her still bound hands upward, but could grasp nothing but empty water. Her lungs burned, her eyes stung. It was deep, much deeper than she had imagined, and so cold. So very, very cold...
A hand grasped hers. Then another. A face was before her, green eyes bore into hers.
Taranc. He had come into the water after her. Why? Brynhild closed her own eyes and allowed her body to go limp.
When next she prised her eyelids apart she was back on the deck of Eileifr's small boat. The sail was full, billowing above her and the wind whipped across her shivering body. They were out at sea.
It was too late.
With a groan she rolled onto her side and without further ado cast up the contents of her stomach. At once Taranc was beside her.
"Welcome back aboard, lady. I trust your wetting has taught you the folly of attempting to fly."
"And I trust that Freya will grant me the strength to slay you in your bed one night, Celt."
"I shall bear that in mind, lady. Meanwhile, if you wish to survive your recent experience, I suggest you get out of those wet clothes before you take a fever. We can dry your skirt and tunic on the rail, and I have blankets here.
She glared at the yellow and blue weave and recognised it, naturally. More of her brother's largesse to this thrall, no doubt. Brynhild had never been so angry, so bitter. Never had she felt so utterly and thoroughly betrayed.
And so cold. Her teeth started to chatter as Taranc hauled her into a sitting position and released the leather strap which bound her wrists. She noted that he was himself bare chested, and his leggings were dripping wet, then she screeched in protest as he started to pull her tunic over her head.
"Leave me. What are you doing?"
"I am helping you, since you appear reluctant to help yourself. You will freeze in those wet clothes. Come now, be quick and you will soon be warm and dry."
Was he quite deluded?Perhaps the sea-water had pickled such brains as he might possess. She would never be warm and dry again. In fact, she was perfectly convinced that nothing would ever be right again. Still, she did not resist when he released the buckle on her belt to loosen her tunic then tugged the garment over her head. The soaked clothing fell slapping to the deck beside her. He made similarly short work of her skirt, loosening the ties then rolling it down her legs. Her light woollen shift was all that remained. Brynhild glanced toward Eileifr but the man appeared much more interested in his sails than in her almost nude form. Still, she appreciated Taranc's consideration when he held up the blanket to shield her from the other man's view if not his own. Resigned to the inevitable, and tempted more than she was ready to admit by the prospect of the dry blanket, she dragged the remaining garment over her head and threw it at Taranc. It caught him on the shoulder than flopped onto the deck.
He chuckled and wrapped the blanket about her. "I shall allow you that display of temper, lady, but have a care in the future."
The Celt took his time. He arranged the blanket with care, ensuring that it enveloped her completely before he stood and turned his back to her. Before her startled gaze he peeled off his own leggings to reveal taut buttocks and finely sculpted thighs. Brynhild's mouth went dry as the Celt, gloriously and unashamedly naked, strolled the length of the boat to pick up another blanket. Brynhild recognised that one, also, and could not tear her gaze away as he wrapped it around his lower body. He spoke briefly with Eileifr then returned to crouch beside her.
"It is time to talk, lady. You have questions, I do not doubt. I shall do my best to explain."
Brynhild turned her gaze on him and uttered the one word which she could dredge up.
"Why?"
Taranc sighed and repositioned himself on the bench where he had initially placed Brynhild. He patted the seat beside him. "Come, lady. You might as well be comfortable."
Was he mad?Comfort was the least of her concerns. She shook her head and clutched the precious blanket closer to her chest.
"Are you warm enough? We have more blankets." He glanced up at the rapidly lightening horizon. "The sun will soon be fully risen and you will feel better then."
Brynhild seriously doubted that but allowed him his little fantasy. She repeated her question. "Why? Why did Ulfric do this? Do you know?"
Taranc nodded. "It was because of Fiona. You and she are not friends, I gather."
"Of course we are not," retorted Brynhild. "She is a thrall, my brother's bed-slave. Why would we be friends?"
"Allow me to rephrase that. You have treated Fiona as your enemy, since first she arrived in your longhouse. Is this not so?"
"The wench is insolent, and disobedient, and?—"
"She and I were betrothed. Perhaps you have forgotten that."
"I—" Brynhild pressed her lips together. Of course she had known of this, he had said as much when they first met. Naturally, the Celt would take Fiona's side, even though the slave now warmed a Viking's bed.
"Yes, well, I thought you might prefer to bear that in mind, before you say much more about Fiona. Shall I continue?"
