Page 39 of Her Celtic Captor
Taranc did not stop. Neither did he draw out the agony. He swung one last time and dropped the final stroke in exactly the same place. Brynhild screamed again, clawing and grabbing at the mast as though she might climb up it to escape him. Her shoulders shook, her sobs were noisy and gulping and her breath came in ragged, tortured gasps. Taranc tossed the belt to the deck and moved in close to wrap his arms about the shivering form.
Brynhild went motionless, though she still wept. He lifted her hair to kiss her neck, the delicate spot just below her ear. She did not resist the intimacy, and nor did she draw away when he pressed his lower body against hers.
"We are done. You are forgiven and you have survived."
She shook her head, her eyes still closed. Tears streamed across her ravaged cheeks. "It will never be done, never be over. It is not enough to survive."
Taranc paused, puzzled. Did she mean the whipping, or had her thoughts fled elsewhere? "Brynhild...?"
"It hurts. It hurts so much..."
He flattened his palm against the scorching flesh of her bottom. The heat permeated his hand and he rubbed gently. Brynhild sighed and he fancied that her tight body relaxed, though he may have been mistaken. He caressed her again as though he might smooth the hurt away and she writhed under his hand.
"Is that better?"
"Yes. A little..."
"Good." He repeated the motion, his palm tracing a circular path across her buttocks.
"Why are you doing this? You meant to hurt me."
"I did, and it is finished now. Now, I want you to feel safe and to know that you may trust me."
"I do trust you."
Did she?Certainly, in this moment, she gave every appearance that she might be coming to do so. Taranc decided to push his advantage. "Spread your legs for me, little Viking."
"Why?" Instantly she was on the alert, anxious and wary. She clamped her thighs together.
"You know that I am not immune to you. You saw as much. Now, I wish to discover if you are aroused by me. By this..." He drew his palm across her bottom again, pausing at the furrow between her buttocks but exploring no further.
"I... of course I am not. Why should I be?"
"May I, Brynhild?" He pressed his palm against her flaming flesh.
She shook her head. "Please, no..."
"You do trust me," he reminded her softly. "You said as much."
She rested her forehead against the unyielding wood and rolled her face from side to side. "This is different. I cannot."
"Why? What is it that you cannot do?"
"I cannot open my legs for a man. Not you, not any man. Never. Never again."
"Brynhild, tell me." There was more, much more, he knew it.
"You do not wish to know. You cannot. No one would."
"Tell me," he repeated. "Why can you not spread your legs for me?"
"I am worthless. Unlovable. I am cold, and… and..."
Taranc tightened his embrace about her. "You are many things, my Viking, but not cold. Never cold."
"You do not like me. You said as much."
Had he said that?He could not recall. Certainly he had not intended to create that impression. He might dislike many of the things she did, and in particular her cruelty to Fiona, but he could not take serious issue with the woman who now trembled in his arms.
