Page 37 of Her Celtic Captor
"Turn us about. Now. We return to Hafrsfjord or... or I shall kill the pair of you and sail the boat back myself.
Taranc and Eiliefr exchanged a look. They both knew she would fail. One woman, even with a knife, could not fell two grown men, one of them an escaped slave intent upon hanging on to his freedom and the other a Viking karl with every intention of living to enjoy the benefits of his new-found wealth. Even if she could subdue them, she had no more chance of successfully steering back into the port than she might sprout wings and take to the air.
"Brynhild, think." Taranc edged around in front of her outstretched arm, his eyes on the glinting blade. He always kept his weapon sharp. "This is madness. You cannot possibly?—"
"Be quiet," she interrupted him. "Turn the boat about."
"No. We are going on, to Scotland." He kept his tone low, so as not to alarm her further. Best if she were to see the folly of her actions and relinquish the weapon.
Brynhild scrambled to her feet, her actions awkward as she required her spare hand to anchor the edges of the blanket at her front. She glared at Taranc and jabbed the knife at him. Her actions were more desperate than threatening since several feet separated them still and she had no hope of drawing blood.
"Give me the knife." He held out his hand. "This will get you nowhere, and if I have to take that knife from you it will earn you a whipping you will never forget."
"You have no right to touch me, to threaten me. I am the Viking here, you are but a thrall, and?—"
"My apologies, lady. I did not intend to threaten you." He ventured a pace forward, bringing him almost within range of the blade.
"Then you will return me to my home? Now?"
"That is not possible, as I have explained. And I did not threaten you. That was a promise."
"A promise? I?—"
Taranc took advantage of her momentary surge of frustrated outrage to make his move. He lunged low and to her right, grasping the hem of the blanket and tugging it down, hard. Brynhild lost her slender grip on the fabric and it slithered to the deck to leave her standing naked before him. As she instinctively reached to cover herself he leapt forward again to grab the wrist of the hand holding the knife and squeezed. Her fingers sprang apart and the knife rattled to the deck. Taranc kicked it toward Eileifr who calmly reached down and picked it up. The fisherman offered Taranc a casual nod as he returned to his sails.
Meanwhile Taranc had his work cut out as Brynhild fought him with all she had. She shrieked and wriggled and clawed at him, seeking, he was quite convinced, to put out both his eyesbefore she was done. She even sank her teeth into his forearm when an opportunity presented itself.
Despite Brynhild's determined efforts, the eventual outcome was never in doubt. Taranc wrestled her to the deck and pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. He was angry, his arm throbbed like a fucking demon and he had managed to lose his own blanket in the skirmish though that did not bother him overmuch. She might feel differently. He did not forget her extreme reaction when he had tackled her to the ground the previous night. He searched her hostile, contorted features for evidence of similar terrors but found none. Thus reassured, he allowed his far from disinterested gaze to roam the length of her, taking in the fullness of her perfectly upturned breasts topped with pretty pink nipples which tightened in the chill air. He considered taking one between his lips to taste the plump sweetness of it, but that would have to wait. He ventured further, admiring the softly curling blonde hair between her thighs, the long, shapely legs which were crossed tight at the thigh as though she might bar his entrance.
As well she might. He was no abuser of women. If she said 'no', then...
With his free hand he swept the length of her pale blonde hair back from her face and offered her a tight smile.
"Let me go. Do not touch me..." Her voice hitched, panic starting to bubble forth.
He had expected as much. Taranc softened his features. "You are safe, lady, apart from the whipping you have earned, naturally."
Her eyes widened. "Wh-whipping. What do you intend to do?"
"We are at eight strokes, I believe, by my reckoning." He glanced over his shoulder. "We shall use the mast, I think..."
"The mast? What? You cannot?—"
It was time to be firm, to assert his authority if they were to have any peace on this voyage. "Lady, you do not command here. I do, and I have already warned you of the consequences if you disobey or otherwise vex me. Eight strokes. Now, get up."
He released her wrists and rose to his feet. He did not miss the startled widening of her eyes when she found herself staring at his semi-erect cock, the darkening of her pupils as the implications of his arousal sank in. He could not help his response to her and was not about to apologise for it, but he did not need her to succumb to panic now. Taranc grinned at her as he retrieved the blanket and tied it around his waist again then offered her his hand to assist her up. She was not reassured. Brynhild shrank away from him, shaking her head. "No, please do not do this. I am sorry, I?—"
"Up. Now." The sudden evaporation of her previous belligerence was not lost on him. Neither was her shock at the sight of his erection but Taranc was not entirely convinced. He would not put it past her to dissemble, to seek to manipulate him even now. He deliberately hardened his tone. "You may submit willingly, or not, but the end will be the same." He leaned down to offer his hand again.
Brynhild groped behind her for the blanket and managed to snag a corner of the fabric. She clasped it around her once more as she scrambled to her feet, ignoring his offer of assistance. Her chin tilted at a defiant angle as she glared at him, then eyed the mast with distaste. So much for her nervous apprehension and apparent contrition.
Taranc gestured to her to precede him to the mast where Eileifr waited with a length of narrow rope. Her steps slow, Brynhild did as he instructed, coming to a halt below the billowing sail. She looked up, then back over her shoulder at Taranc. "Shall I lean against it, then?"
"You will hug the mast, lady, and Eileifr if you would be so good as to secure her wrists? Not too tight, but we must be sure she will not shift at an inopportune moment."
"That will not be necessary, I?—"
"Eileifr." At Taranc's curt command the karl stepped forward and reached for Brynhild's wrists. She stepped away from him, her eyes blazing.
