She and Taranc shared a bed, and as they lay beneath the furs and blankets in the darkness Taranc would insist upon reigniting the sensual fires he had started to stoke. He did not, after all, disappoint her. Indeed, his touch seemed both effortless and faultless, and Brynhild came to trust her body's helpless response to him. He was gentle with her, but insistent and she no longer refused to spread her legs for his erotic exploration. He offered her pleasure which she did not deserve but found impossible to resist.
"You are wet for me, my greedy little Viking. So hot and wet and tight. I knew that you would be." She quivered as he slid his fingers inside her, stunned by the slick juices which pooled between her legs and eased his way. How had he known it would be so? She had never dreamed, never even imagined...
Her release came quickly now, easily. She never failed to marvel at the twist and curl of arousal as it burgeoned within her core, rising up, gripping her, then suddenly taking control ofher scrambled senses to send her spinning into some weightless, swirling place where lights sparkled and the sound of rushing water echoed within her ears. Afterwards she would lie in his arms, warm and spent and utterly sated. And riddled with unassuaged guilt.
Taranc preferred to sleep naked. Brynhild found his casual approach to nudity disconcerting at first. She tried hard to avert her eyes, to not study his erect cock, to ignore the nudge of his swollen, solid erection against her hip as he wrapped her in his arms at night. She found herself both fascinated and fearful of his unashamed maleness, but fear won out. She was curious, wondered what it would feel like to take that hard erection between her hands and rub her fingers along the length of it, perhaps even taste the droplets of clear fluid which she noticed would leak from the end occasionally. But she did not dare. She knew what such foolishness would lead to, and however sweet the sensual web her handsome Celt might spin about her, she could not, would not go that far.
She knew better, knew the dangers. Taranc may seem gentle now. He may appear solicitous, knowing her body's needs and teasing out her response, giving her pleasure yet seeking nothing for himself. But men were at heart unpredictable and once lust took hold they could not control their urges. He would hurt her, she knew it. Always, it came back to that.
There would be pain, humiliation. The pleasure he employed with such skill to tempt her was merely an illusion, a trick of the gods—male gods, of course—designed to lure in the naive and the recklessly bold. She would not be fooled, not again.
A month passed before he spoke to her of marriage once more. Brynhild was at the loom he had acquired for her and installed within their home. She loved the new apparatus and took enormous pleasure in arranging the warp and weft, threading the yarn and blending the muted colours to create thesoft designs she preferred. Annag stood at her side, watching in rapt fascination as the fabric evolved before her eyes. Brynhild had promised to teach her to weave, and the girl was proving to be an eager pupil.
At first she thought she misheard him.
"I am sorry, what did you say?"
"We are to wed at Michaelmas, a fortnight from now. My mother will help you with the arrangements, though there is not much to do since the feast is to take place anyway, and?—“
"Wed? We are not to be wed. You said so. You said we would not be suited."
"I did, and I still think ours will be a turbulent union, but I have come around to the notion. So, two weeks from today. I shall send word to the abbey at Balseach to summon one of the brothers from there. He can perform the ceremony at the manor house in Pennglas. I am sure Dughall will not object."
The shuttle fell from her nerveless fingers with a clatter. "But I shall. I shall object. I do not wish to marry. Never. I cannot."
"Why can you not? It makes sense that we should. It is expected."
"It does not. It makes no sense at all."
"Enough. We are to wed and that is an end to it." He strode to where she stood, bent to retrieve her dropped shuttle and placed it back in her hands. "You will soon become used to the idea." He dropped a careless kiss on the top of her head and turned to leave her.
The shuttle left her hand before Brynhild could so much as consider the recklessness of her actions. It hit him square between his shoulders. She stood, transfixed, as he turned to face her again.
"Oh, Brynhild, I had so hoped we were beyond all this." His tone was low, deathly quiet. Again, he picked up the tool from the floor, but this time he set it upon the table to his side.He turned his attention to Annag who had witnessed the entire exchange with wide-eyed dismay.
"Cousin, you will accompany Brynhild to the coppice and show her where the finest switches are to be found. Help her to select a decent bundle, perhaps five or six, and none of them thicker than the width of my finger. Trim them well, I wish to see no sharp edges or thorns. Then you, Annag, may go about your business and you, Brynhild, will return here with the switches."
"I shall not. This is unfair. You cannot?—"
"Twelve strokes. Do you wish for more?"
"But..."
"Fourteen. Do not make matters worse."
Brynhild opened her mouth and would have surely deepened her plight but Annag seized her sleeve and tugged her from the dwelling. Once outside she rounded on the girl. "He is a brute. An idiot. Does he think me some foolish wench to be dazzled by his offer? I shall not marry him."
Annag narrowed her eyes, unimpressed by Brynhild's outburst. "But you will. Everyone knows that you will. You must, for you live here with our chief as his wife already. He is doing the right thing in summoning the priest."
"I do not live as his wife. We... I..."
"You should not have thrown the shuttle at him."
On that point, at least, Brynhild could agree. She clenched her buttocks in fearful anticipation. Why had she not stopped to think?
"The coppice?"
"It is this way." Annag set off along a narrow track between the tall heather which bordered their home. Brynhild saw no alternative but to follow.
