Page 63 of Her Celtic Captor

Taranc glanced up from the timbers of the fishing boat whose hull he was coating with pitch. Brynhild stood behind him, her cloak flapping in the breeze. Her elegant features appeared tense, her skin paler than he liked. He hoped she was not sickening in this unfamiliar land, this strange climate, though surely she was accustomed to worse.

"Is all well with you, my Viking?" He rose to his feet and wiped his hands down his trousers.

Brynhild picked up a piece of rag and offered it to him. "Here, clean your hands. Yes, perfectly well. Come."

She turned to pick her way along the beach, turning just once to make sure he was indeed following her.

Taranc took a few moments to admire the tempting sway of her hips as she moved away from him. Perhaps she might not object too strenuously if he was to suggest she get herself back here right now and drape herself over the rail of the boat he was working on. She might even be so good as to invite him to lift her tunic to reveal her bare arse. He would ram his cock into her from behind, for he knew she loved it when he did that, and perhaps drop a few playful spanks on her delectable cheeks.

The notion had real merit. He opened his mouth to summon her back, but she chose that moment to pause and turn around.

"Please, hurry. I... I need to talk to you."

The troubled expression on her beautiful features dispelled his errant thoughts. He strode after her, then fell in step alongside.

"Tell me," he ordered.

"Soon. I just?—"

He stopped, took her hand and turned her to face him. "Tell me."

She tilted her chin, her jaw flexing in a defiant expression he had come to know well. Belligerence was writ across herfeatures, as though she expected him to take her to task. What had she done?

Taranc waited, arms folded.

"I am pregnant."

"Ah." He should not be surprised, he spilled his seed into her on a more or less nightly basis. It was only ever a matter of time. Yet, he was taken aback. Perhaps it was her attitude towards this turn of events which dictated her hostile reaction rather than the news itself. "You find this to be a matter of some concern?"

"Do you not?" She stamped her foot in indignation, as though that might change anything.

Taranc shrugged. "No."

"We cannot wed."

"Can we not? Very well."

"My child will be a bastard."

"Our child will be chief of this village in due course, and my heir. I shall acknowledge and own him."

"What if it is a girl?"

"The same."

"Oh. Well, that is all right then. Thank you, Celt. I merely wished to make sure." She turned to leave him there on the beach.

Taranc watched her retreating form for a few seconds, allowed her to complete five, perhaps six paces, then he set off after her at a sprint. He caught her up, seized her about the waist and tossed her into the air, Brynhild flopped back down into his arms in a chaotic flurry of flapping cloak and kicking legs as she shrieked her outraged protest at such undignified treatment of her person.

"Set me down at once. What are you doing? You are quite deranged, Celt, a savage. I shall?—"

Taranc put an end to the tirade before she could properly warm to her theme by the simple expedient of kissing her.Brynhild went still in his arms, then curled her wrist behind his head and pulled him closer. She could never resist a direct assault on her senses. He exploited that trait without mercy, deepening the kiss as he strode with her up the beach and into the cover of the surrounding trees.

"Where are we going?" She managed to mutter the question against his lips. Taranc did not break stride, nor pause to respond.

He soon reached his destination, a secluded copse ringed by a dense undergrowth. Here, the trees were less closely packed and soft meadow grass carpeted the ground. Dappled sunlight tumbled through the branches overhead, the illumination soft and pale, delicately painting the earth below. Here, Taranc set her on her feet. He spread his cloak on the ground then drew her down to her knees beside him.

"Lie down, sweetheart."

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