Page 67 of Her Celtic Captor
Taranc's nod was abrupt and curt. He reached for Brynhild's hand and squeezed it briefly before she managed to snatch her fingers out of his grasp. He met her gaze, his expression calm but not without a hint of warning, then he turned and strode up the beach in the direction of the house they shared.
He did not look back again. His final words were flung over his shoulder, and she assumed they were intended for Ulfric. "Are you coming then?"
Brynhild hurried after Taranc. "You cannot permit this. I do not want him here. I want none of them here."
"It seems you are to be disappointed, my sweet, since he is following us up the beach. I trust we have food to hand, ale a-plenty? Where is Annag? Murdina?"
"I do not know. Everyone fled to Pennglas on your orders. I shall not feed them."
Taranc shrugged. "Your brother has said he wishes only to talk. If that is all, and I see no cause not to believe him, we can hear him out and he can be on his way."
"But—" Brynhild whirled to face her brother and the woman he had chosen over her, the woman who had lied about her actions that fateful night and caused Ulfric to cast his sister from her home. She marched forward to punch her brother hard in the centre of his chest, bringing his progress to a halt.
"Now, Brynhild, I only want to?—"
"Shut up. Why would I care what you want? Did you care aboutmywishes all those months ago when you plotted to have me abducted, carried from my home by force? When you cast me out to make room for your... your..."
"Brynhild." Taranc's tone was low, a warning. In time, Brynhild recalled that the woman who stood before her was Dughall's daughter, and for that reason alone she would hold her tongue.
"You are not welcome here. If you are not gone from these shores within the hour I shall gut you and leave your entrails here on the beach for the gulls and crabs to feast on."
"I am not convinced such a welcome would find favour with the rest of the Nordic horde waiting on the longships," observed Taranc, his customary sardonic smile returning. "Perhaps we might be a little less brutal in our approach, less blood-thirsty?"
Brynhild cast a baleful glance his way, her tone scathing. "You may find peaceful solutions if you feel so moved. I just want them gone. All of them. I shall go to Pennglas. I expect to find no dragon ships on our beach when I return."
Dughall foundher in her usual spot, curled in the window seat beneath his hall.
"Is it the truth? My daughter is here? Fiona has returned?"
Brynhild raised her tear-ravaged features to regard him as a pang of irrational jealousy pierced her. Yet again, she would be set aside in favour of the Celtic woman. "Yes, he has come and he has brought her with him."
"Where are they? I must see my daughter."
"I left them at Taranc's house in Aikrig." She swiped the moisture from her eyes and managed a wan smile for her oldfriend. She could not be ungenerous, even now. "I know that Fiona will not leave without seeing you."
Dughall nodded. "And your brother? Did you speak with him?"
"I did, briefly. I invited him to turn his ships about and leave at once or I would scatter his entrails upon the beach."
"I see. 'Twas not a joyful reunion, then."
"He betrayed me. He believed Fiona’s lies and... and..."
"Why would he not believe my daughter? She is not a woman given to spouting falsehoods." Dughall's voice remained level, but his resolve was clear enough. He would not hear criticism of his beloved child.
"I..." Brynhild clamped her mouth shut. What was there left to say?
"My lord, Taranc approaches. The Viking is with him."
Dughall murmured his thanks to the servant who had scurried in to announce the imminent arrival of their visitors. Brynhild noted that he did not call for refreshments, for ale or mead or platters of fine food to welcome their guests. He laid his hand upon her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze, then turned to follow the servant out of the main door.
Brynhild remained where she was, her face buried in her hands.
Long minutes passed. Voices drifted in from outside, Dughall's, raised in anger, Ulfric, calm. Taranc occasionally, also quiet, reasonable, unperturbed.
How could her gentle and caring lover greet her faithless brother like a long-lost friend? How could he show Ulfric even the slightest degree of respect, invite him into their home? It was quite beyond her.
Even as she pondered this conundrum the outer door opened again and Taranc stepped through, Njal clinging to his hand. The lad caught sight of his aunt and squealed in delight. Heran the length of the hall to fling himself against her skirts, then scrambled up onto the window ledge beside her. Brynhild enfolded her beloved nephew in her arms and surrendered to more uncontrolled weeping.
