Page 38 of Her Celtic Captor
"Keep your hands off me. I will not permit this." She tucked her hands further within the folds of the blanket.
Taranc had heard enough. He leaned forward to murmur in her ear. "Ten, lady. And the count will increase with every act of defiance, every refusal to obey. Are you really so set on adding to your punishment? You will spend a great deal more time than you might care to imagine lashed to that mast if you do not have a care."
She spun to glower at him, and he could not miss the glisten of unshed tears. Whether it was her pride which suffered or genuine fear of the pain to come he did not know, but at last he believed the true Brynhild Freysson was starting to reveal herself. Now was the time to press his advantage. He nodded toward the mast. "Hug it, lady. And you will have no need of the blanket for the next little while."
She considered his words for several moments, then positioned herself before the mast and extended her arms about its girth. She did not yet relinquish the blanket. The colourful weave draped her slender shoulders as she leaned forward to rest her cheek on the smooth curve of the wood. She lowered her eyelids, and gnawed on her lower lip with her teeth as Eileifr quickly tied her wrists together on the other side of the beam.
Yes, she was scared, and Taranc believed this was real. Her submission might be forced, but she recognised his power over her however much she might deplore it and had abandoned herattempts to resist, to refuse to cooperate. She might yet learn a valuable lesson this day.
Taranc took the blanket and tugged it away from her body. Brynhild flinched as the cool morning air caressed her naked back. She opened her eyes to meet his gaze, her expression fearful. "Please..." she mouthed.
Taranc moved in close and lifted the heavy length of her unbound hair which cascaded down her back. He draped it over her shoulder and on impulse bent to kiss the top of her head. "This will be quick, Brynhild. I promise. And you will come to no harm."
She closed her beautiful azure eyes again, and nodded.
Taranc wasted no time in retrieving his belt which had been flung to the deck in the scramble for the knife. He removed the empty sheath and folded its length so he could grasp the metal buckle within his fist. He walked back to where his captive leaned against the solid wooden pole, her body shivering. The marks of her previous punishment still streaked her pale buttocks, and Taranc believed he had never seen a sight more beautiful. Brynhild Freysson might be the most difficult, complicated and frankly demanding woman he had ever encountered, but she was without doubt the most lovely. If their circumstances were different...
He gave himself a mental shake. The circumstances were not different. They were what they were—awkward, dangerous and bloody inconvenient. He would do what must be done, and she would bear what she could not avoid. What came next he had not the faintest notion, but he would feel his way through this…somehow.
"Are you ready?"
Her lips tightened into a grimace. She made no further response.
"Ten strokes. I shall count. You may make all the din you like since we are far out of port and none but the gulls will hear you."
A single tear escaped the corner of her eye and snaked its way across her pale cheek. Despite her reluctance to embrace the mast a few minutes ago he noted that she gripped it like a devoted lover now.
The belt whistled through the air. Brynhild let put a startled yelp even before the leather connected with her quivering rump then danced on the spot as the stripe bloomed on her skin.
"One." Taranc shifted his stance to lay the next stroke a little lower and swung again.
"Two," he announced as Brynhild gasped and whimpered against the mast. She clung to the beam as though drawing comfort from its solid warmth.
"Three." He paused to allow her to take several much-needed breaths as she hopped from one foot to the other. Her bottom glowed red and he could almost feel the heat from where he stood.
"Are you all right?" He was impressed at her fortitude thus far, but felt compelled to ask even so.
Her answer was a tight nod and a flattening of her lips. Her body was rigid, her punished buttocks clenching hard as she anticipated the next stroke.
"It is less painful if you soften your bottom," he advised.
"How do you know? Is this something you learnt from your betrothed? How often did you tie Fiona up and whip her naked bottom?"
A fair enough question, he surmised, though he considered it ill-judged of her to ask it right now. He was tempted to increase the punishment by a further two strokes but decided that might be unduly harsh. "No, I never had occasion to do so. I always found Fiona to be sweet-natured and compliant. You, lady, are an entirely different matter."
And privately, he thanked the sweet Lord for that.
"Four," he counted. "Five. Six. Seven."
On the eighth stroke Brynhild let out a high pitched scream. Her bottom sported a dizzying array of bright red stripes, the lines raised and livid in the brightening morning light. She moaned softly between the strokes and he was glad he had not added more. She was close to her limit now.
"Two more, then we are done here. You can do this, my fierce little Viking."
She managed a quick nod, as though his confidence inspired her. Perhaps it did, and if so he would not let her down. The final two strokes would be delivered to her thighs, and would hurt more than the rest. This was where her lesson would be learnt, where the difference would be made. He intended her to remember this day's work.
"Nine."
Brynhild screeched at the top of her lungs as the leather wrapped itself around both her thighs. "You bastard, that hurts so much. I cannot... No more... Stop.Stop!"
