Page 53 of Her Celtic Captor

Brynhild nodded. “He was a slave, a thrall in my village. I fancied myself in love with him, but I was young and foolish. He tricked me, convinced me to trust him, then one night he… he… I was so frightened. My mother caught us and she was angry. She blamed me, I know she did. After it happened, Aelbeart was sold. I never saw him again.”

“You must know that not all Celts are vicious beasts. Not all would act as this Aelbeart did. I am a Celt, as is Taranc. You know Taranc would never countenance such behaviour. Do not judge all Celts by the actions of one vile individual.”

Dughall was right. The adult Brynhild knew it, but the frightened child somehow managed to remain in control of that part of her battered soul. It had to end, she knew it. Dughall was right. It was time to grow up.

Dughall reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Go, find Taranc. Talk to him. Tell him of this, tell him that you wish to marry if that is truly what you want. Ask his help. He will give it. You can trust him, you know that.”

Brynhild nodded and closed her eyes. “I do know.”

“He is on the beach, I believe, helping to land the day’s catch.”

Taranc would never allow others to work whilst he looked on in idleness. It was one of the characteristics of his leadership which Brynhild most admired, but she did not believe she wished to raise this matter with him in the company of the other fishermen.

“I shall wait for him at our home.”

“Ah yes, probably a better plan. Will you eat with me before you leave?”

On impulse Brynhild leaned forward and kissed his wizened cheek. "Thank you, Lord Dughall. That would be nice. I... I do not deserve your kindness."

After their mealDughall walked with her to his door then remained at the portal and followed her with his eyes as she strode across the village where he had lived his entire life and onto the path leading back to Aikrig. Perhaps he might yet welcome Taranc into his family as his son, though the daughter was very different.

Dughall shook his head sadly as he turned to go back into his home. Life here had seemed so simple once, before the Vikings came.

16

She slept.

Taranc paused within the doorway, allowed the meagre light from his lamp to wash over the slender figure curled up beneath the rugs on his bed. Her breath came slowly, deeply. She appeared content.

He took but seconds to drop the bar on the inside of the door, remove his own clothing and douse the lamp before sliding in beside her. Brynhild was naked, and warm. He could not resist drawing her to him, her smooth back pressed against the hard, cooler planes of his chest.

Was she still angry with him, resentful that he had taken a switch to her again. Or worse, that he had concluded the matter between them as he had. He did not know why he had done so, but neither could he find it within himself to regret his actions. How could he feel remorse when her pussy had quivered around his digits, when she had clenched and gripped his fingers like a tight gauntlet as she moaned her release. He quirked his lip in the gloom. He would know her mood soon enough.

"You have returned," she whispered in the pitch blackness which shrouded them. "I am glad."

Ah, perhaps not angry, then.

"You are awake."

"I have been waiting for you. You are very late."

He nuzzled her hair. "I am sorry."

"No matter." She rolled over to face him, and reached to lay her palm against his cheek in the dark. "I am sorry too. I... I thought I had driven you away."

"'Twill take more than a well-aimed shuttle to achieve that, I fear."

"I shall bear that in mind, Celt."

He chuckled. "Are you tired?"

"No, not especially. I... I want...

"What do you want, my Viking?"

"I want you. I mean, I want to talk to you. I have something to tell you. And… something I must ask of you."

He leaned up on his elbow and peered into the darkness, searching the shadows for a glimpse of her face. He could barely make out her pale features, framed by her bright flaxen hair, but what he could discern was enough to know she was sincere. And very scared.

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