Page 48 of Her Celtic Captor
Brynhild almost leapt from the tub when he reached his quarry. He tightened his grip across her chest to hold her in place.
"Relax. Be still. Enjoy." He repeated his sensual demands.
"What are you doing to me? That feels... wrong. It is not usual to feel so."
"No, perhaps not until now. It will become usual, I promise." He continued to draw the tip of his finger across the sensitive nubbin, noting the way it swelled under his touch. Brynhild trembled in his arms, her tension mounting. Undeterred, he continued his assault on her confused, untried senses. He was merciless, his goal clear. As her body spasmed he took the quivering bud between his finger and thumb and squeezed lightly as she shattered in his arms.
Brynhild lay still, her breath coming in quick pants. Her eyes were closed, her head against his shoulder. The water was cooling now but she appeared oblivious to it. Taranc was not and he did not wish her to become chilled. He stood, reached into the tub to take her in his arms, and lifted her dripping wet form.. He carried her to the cot and laid her on the blankets there, then quickly pulled the top one around her. Brynhild did not resist when he rubbed her all over to dry her, then discarded the moist blanket and wrapped her in another before tucking the rest around her.
She was deeply asleep by the time he straightened to survey her still body, her relaxed features softened by satiated lust. Her pleasure had been a long time coming, but she had needed it and it would not be her last, he swore. Taranc turned to regard the cooling water in the tub and let out a long sigh. He quickly removed his damp clothing and sank into the bath.
14
The pace of life was slow in her new home. Brynhild was not unhappy, exactly, but neither could she truly settle in to her new life. Something seemed amiss to her, awry somehow. She did not belong, could not allow herself to be drawn into the intimacies of village life despite the friendliness and acceptance she encountered. Initially wary, and suspicious of her presence here, the villagers quickly seemed to accept her among them. Annag was friendly, Murdina and Morag too. Taranc was kind enough, and considerate. He insisted that Brynhild make such changes as she considered needful to the house they shared, that she make it her home too.
But it was all based upon a lie. The people of Aikrig did not know the truth. They were unaware of the cruelties and injustice Brynhild had heaped upon one of their number. If they but knew of her treatment of Fiona, they would reject her. They would hate her, and she would deserve their antipathy.
Although the dialect was unfamiliar, Brynhild spoke enough of their Gaelic to be able to converse easily. She learned the names of the serfs who shared their village, and quickly came to understand the respect commanded by Taranc. He had alwaysbeen a dominant presence, even as a thrall in her own land. He was a natural leader, she was ready to acknowledge, but here in his own environment he was truly formidable. People obeyed him without question. They sought his counsel, listened to his opinions and no one gainsaid him.
Even Dughall, lord of Pennglas, respected Taranc's judgment.
The old man had summoned the pair of them to his manor house in Pennglas the day after their arrival. Brynhild had awoken that morning to the memory of Taranc's most unusual and evocative caresses the previous evening. She had no recollection of having been put to bed though she could recall most vividly the explosion of intense pleasure he had created as she lay helpless in the bathtub. She had been stunned, drawn to the erotic sensation, unable to resist and repulsed by her own vulnerability.
Now, in the cold light of a grey Scottish morning, she did not dare to make reference to what had happened between them, afraid he might insist upon repeating the experience.
It was not so much that Brynhild did not wish to recapture that sensual, heady delight, more that she feared she might fail if she attempted to do so. The disappointment would crush her.
"We go to Pennglas," Taranc announced as they broke their fast on oatcakes and the thick porridge prepared by Annag. "Dughall wishes to meet you. He will have questions, concerning his daughter."
"What will you tell him?"
"The truth. That she has found happiness with her Viking."
"I mean, what will you tell him about me. And Fiona."
"There is nothing to tell. What is past is past."
"But, he is her father..."
"Fiona is happy, content in her new life. That is what he needs to know."
And so the falsehood continued. Taranc appeared to be correct in his assessment. Dughall, lord of Pennglas greeted them cordially enough on the steps of his manor house
“It is a delight to see you safely returned to us, Taranc., and I am pleased to meet your lovely companion also.” He seized Taranc’s hand and shook warmly, then hugged the Celt to him. Next he kissed Brynhild on each cheek. “Welcome to your new home, my dear. I hope you will feel able to visit an old man, if you have time to spare. I do miss the company of my own daughter and this house lacks the warmth of a beautiful young woman to fill my chilled hall.”
“I would be pleased to call upon you, if that would please you, my lord,” she murmured.
Brynhild did not miss the slight smile of approval which flitted across Taranc's handsome features.
"He is lonely," Taranc observed as they made their way back down to the coast after their visit. "Both his children are lost to him. He had expected grandchildren when Fiona and I were married, but now..."
"I shall go to see him," announced Brynhild. "I shall go often." It seemed the least she could do.
Her guilt grew with every day which passed. She recalled with bitter, unrelenting clarity each and every act of malice she had visited upon the Celtic slave whilst Fiona had been under her power. She had missed no opportunity to add to the girl’s misery, and had done so for no better reason than ugly jealousy. It was true that Brynhild had worked hard to build the life she enjoyed under her brother’s roof, and Fiona represented threat to all of that, but none of it was of the thrall’s choosing. It had started the first moment she laid eyes on the newcomer and recognised at once that Ulfric was smitten. The freezing bath, the whippings she convinced Ulfric to mete out, the constant haranguing and finding fault with all that the girl attempted todo. It had been beneath her, all of it. A woman of the Jarl should behave better, should be an example to those who looked up to her. She could see that now, and Brynhild bitterly regretted her actions. She was deeply ashamed, and her sense of guilt now threatened to mar her new life.
Remorse ate at her but it was too late to make amends. She had wronged Fiona, and would gladly seek forgiveness for those crimes if that were possible but she never expected to see her victim again. Fiona remained in Skarthveit, and Brynhild would never be able to return there. She would have no opportunity to offer her apology, to seek Fiona’s forgiveness.
Instead, to all intents and purposes, she had taken over Fiona’s old life here in Scotland. The villagers of Aikrig and Pennglas treated her with a respect she did not deserve, they accepted and welcomed her among them as though she were one of their own.
