Page 42 of Her Celtic Captor
"Do not be a fool, Brynhild. Roll over and I shall help you to remain warm."
"I am quite warm enough, thank you."
"Sadly, I am not. Roll over."
"But—"
"Remember our truce, lady? Now, do as I ask." He picked up the corner of her blanket and lifted one eyebrow as he waited.
"Just, do not touch me, that is all. I... I shall defend myself if you do."
He grinned at her. "And how do you intend to do that, my fierce Viking?"
"I...I shall?—"
"Fear not. You may sleep safely in your bed this night."
Brynhild huffed at him, but recognised that she had no choice but to trust him. She rolled over onto her other side, taking care to favour her still sore buttocks as she did so. Taranc slid into the space she had vacated, and she was surprised at the sudden warmth which permeated their bed. Still, she would take care not to actually rub up against him in the night. Brynhild curled up in a small ball at the furthest extent permitted by the rope still attached to her ankle and closed her eyes. If this Celt insisted upon sharing her bed she would do the next best thing she could. She would ignore him.
She stretched.She was delightfully warm, and comfortable. Her joints ached, as though she had seen many hours labouring in the fields about their settlement, and a tinge of soreness permeated her lower body. It was not unpleasant. The sensation might be better described as satisfying. Brynhild sighed and rubbed her cheek upon the blanket beneath her.
"Tell me, my Viking, who was it?"
What?Brynhild opened her eyes, dragged unceremoniously from her languorous state of relaxation by the soft masculine tone close to her ear. She wriggled backwards with a startled squeak.
Taranc chuckled. "Do not pretend that you were asleep, my sweet Viking."
"I was. I?—"
"Who was it?"
She shoved a heavy hank of blonde curls from her face and peered up at him, realising to her chagrin that her good intentions of the previous evening had come to absolutely naught. Far from avoiding touching him as she had planned when she submitted to this ill-judged sleeping arrangement, she had snuggled right up to the Celt in the night, absorbing his warmth and the unlikely comfort he offered. She had even used his chest as her pillow.
By Odin's teeth, I must learn to control such foolishness.
"What are you babbling about, Celt?"
"I want to know who the fool was who convinced you that you are cold."
"Who...? How...?" Brynhild was at a loss, but alert enough to know she was drifting into deep water.
Taranc continued as though she had not spoken, his tone deceptively conversational. "For he was surely an idiot, an addle-brained simpleton with the sensitivity of a dead slug. Why would you allow such a creature to influence you? You are an intelligent woman, Brynhild, and a lovely one, and without doubt as warm as any I have met. So why accept such a falsehood from one so deluded?"
"I... I do not know what you are talking about."
"I believe you do, but let me refresh your memory. Yesterday, you informed me that you are cold, unlovable, worthless. Did I miss anything?" He paused, "No, I believe that was the gist of it. Well, I feel compelled to point out to you that you are wrong, and that whoever planted those notions in your lovely head was an insensitive numbskull. So, who was it? Your betrothed?"
"My betrothed? I have no betrothed." She was drowning, every bit as surely as when she plunged into the icy waters yesterday.
"But you did. I heard mention of it in the slave barn. You were to wed a man from a neighbouring settlement."
She nodded. "Eirik Bjarkesson. But he died."
"I know that also. Did you love him?"
"Love him? No, of course I did not."
"Why so vehement? It is not unheard of for a bride to love her betrothed. Was it he who filled your head with this nonsense?"
