Page 46 of Her Celtic Captor
"Indeed. So, are you ready to greet your new family? I believe my mother is already on the beach. She has seen us." He raised his arm to wave at the diminutive figure dancing and skipping about on the dark gold expanse of damp sand. "She will be relieved to see me, I do not doubt. And surprised."
"I expect she will be even more surprised to see me," observed Brynhild.
Taranc did not disagree. He helped his reluctant companion ashore, lifting her in his arms to ensure she was not called upon to wade through the thigh-deep waves in order to reach dry land. He set her down then turned to accept the enthusiastic hug from his mother. Tears streamed across the older woman's cheeks as she greeted the son she had believed lost for good.
"I thought you perished, you and all the others. Oh, thank the dear, sweet Lord that you are returned to us. And the rest? Have they also escaped? What of Fiona?" She peered over his shoulder at the fishing boat, Eileifr was already setting out to sea again, eager to be away from this hostile foreign shore. "Are there no others with you?"
"Alas, no. Though I do have a companion I would wish you to meet. This is Brynhild Freysson. She is to make her home here, with us." He steadfastly avoided catching Brynhild's eye, but her tense intake of breath was not to be missed. He thought it best to press on. "Are Morag and Annag here also?"
"Aye. Though Annag has gone on ahead to prepare your house."
"Good." Now he did chance a look in Brynhild's direction. "I told you she would help." He extended his hand and took hercold one, then began to lead her up the beach. On all sides they were greeted by excited, joyful shouts as the villagers rushed to welcome him, to shout their questions about the fate of loved ones still missing, to pat him on the back and thank the Lord and all the saints for his safe delivery back among them. Taranc accepted their good wishes with easy charm, shouldering his way forward until he reached the threshold of his own dwelling. He gestured Brynhild to step inside, followed by his still beaming mother. He bestowed one final, grateful smile on the villagers who had flanked him all the way here, thanked them for their warm welcome, then he went inside and closed the door.
The room was windowless and the interior was dark when the door was shut. Four pairs of female eyes regarded him in the dim lamplight. The youngest among them, his cousin Annag, darted forward to throw her arms about him. "I knew you would return, I knew it. You could not be dead."
"Annag, it is good to see you. I trust you have been well."
"Aye, but I missed you."
"I missed you too, little cousin." He set her from him and smiled down into her excited features. "I have brought someone I want you to meet. This is Brynhild Freysson. She is to live here too from now on so I hope you will make her welcome and help her to settle in with us."
"Live here? With you? But... Fiona?"
"Fiona has stayed in the Norseland. She is to wed the Viking who came here." He was not entirely certain of this, though he believed it would eventually be the way of it so saw no reason not to embellish what would likely become the truth.
The girl paled. "But, he will be cruel to her. I saw him, he was fearsome and wild, a savage."
Taranc shook his head. "He will not, or I would never had left her there. She is happy with him, and safe. The Viking is Brynhild's brother."
"Her...brother? Then, she is one of them?" Annag eyed Brynhild with undisguised fear and suspicion.
"One of us now. And our journey has been a long one. Is there food, perhaps? A place where Brynhild might rest? Fresh clothing?"
As he had expected, his requests brought forth a flurry of eager activity as the women of his family rushed to provide for his needs. He guided Brynhild into the one decent chair and perched on the carved arm to watch as platters were brought to the table, fires re-lit, dust swept aside in a rush to make his home fit to live in. He laid his hand on her shoulder to prevent her from taking charge. "Soon," he murmured. "For today, you will watch, learn, allow them to know you."
"You told them I am to live here, with you," she hissed. "Why?"
"Because you will. It will be simpler."
"But you do not wish to marry me."
"I believe we would both live to regret such a move but I have decided I may be prepared to consider it even so."
"You need not trouble yourself, Celt. I shall make my own way."
Murdina glanced their way, her attention attracted by the sharpness in Brynhild's tone. Taranc smiled at his mother. "Brynhild is quite overwhelmed. It has been a stressful journey and she is very tired. I wonder, would you allow us an hour or so of privacy, perhaps?"
Murdina nodded and ushered her sister and niece from the dwelling. As soon as the door closed behind them Brynhild rose to her feet and stood before him.
"You will no doubt wish to use your belt again. I believe the current tally to be twelve."
"And I believe you to be far too eager to invite punishment." He slipped into the seat she had vacated and pulled her onto his lap. "Be still, and quiet. And eat."
She would have wriggled out of his arms but he held her firm until she relaxed. When she sat still Taranc selected a piece of cold mutton from one of the platters laid out by his aunt and cousin and offered it to her. Brynhild frowned at the meat, but took it between her fingers and tasted it, then shoved the entire piece into her mouth and chewed.
So far so good. He chose another slice of meat for her, then one for himself. He poured her a mug of ale made from the local heather and apologised for the lack of the mead which he knew to be the usual preference at a Viking table. Brynhild shrugged and took a sip of the ale, grimaced, then took another.
They ate the rest of their meal in silence. Brynhild tried everything set before her—roast pigeon, the rich cheese made of goat's milk, oatcakes and a soft pear pudding sweetened with honey. Taranc, too, was ravenous and delighted to sample again the familiar flavours of his home. Eventually Brynhild shook her head when he offered her another mouthful of the pudding.
