Page 68 of Her Celtic Captor

"I missed you. I missed you so much." She gulped the words through her tears. "I never expected to see you again."

"I love you, Aunt Brynhild. I'm so glad we found you. Why are you angry that we are here?"

"It is not that. I..."

Taranc eased himself into the seat alongside the pair. "Your aunt has had a shock. She is not angry. At least, not with you."

"She is angry with my father," observed the boy, "and with Fiona." He turned to fling his arms about Brynhild's neck. "Please do not be angry. If you are, Taranc says we will have to go away again, and I want to stay here."

Brynhild was stunned. "Stay here? But?—"

"My father wishes to remain here. He has asked Taranc." The boy looked to the Celt for confirmation. Taranc had the grace to shift in his seat.

"What... What have you said?" she whispered.

Unflinching, Taranc met her gaze. "The idea has merit."

"It is madness. It would never work. They are our enemies, they cannot be trusted."

"I think?—"

Further conversation was curtailed by the door swinging open again, this time to admit Ulfric, Fiona and Dughall. Her brother entered, and sauntered across the hall, pausing just feet from where she sat. He actually smiled at her.

"Brynhild? Sister?"

"Brother? Bastard?"

Ulfric was undeterred by her hostile welcome. "I am sorry..." he began.

Her temper flared again. She glared at him. "Do not bother. Save it for one who cares what you think, how you feel. This one, perhaps." She levelled a glare at Fiona. "I hear you are wed to your little--"

Taranc cleared his throat. "Do not say it, Brynhild. Not in front of her father, and the lad."

He was right, of course. Brynhild nodded and hugged Njal to her as though the boy might offer the shield she needed. Still, the words of anger, of recrimination could not be contained. Her anguish was too great, the hurt buried for too long not to surface now.

"For her? You sent me away, for her? I was your sister, your own kin. I cared for your home, your son, yet you threw me aside. I loved you. You and Njal were everything to me. How could you do it?"

At once Taranc's arms were around her. Brynhild clung to his woollen cloak as though her very life depended upon his solid presence. She curled her fingers in the sturdy fabric, her sobs loud and gulping as she gave vent to grief and pain too intense to contain a moment longer.

His palms traced large, soothing circles on her back as he held her against his chest. "You have your family back, now, sweetheart. All of them and more besides. They are to stay here, with us."

Taranc's words did nothing to dispel Brynhild's agony. If anything, her weeping grew louder, more unbridled as a fresh wave of despair washed over her.

She had survived the ultimate betrayal, not once but twice. She had rebuilt her life, again, only to have all she had worked for swept away once more by circumstances she could not control. She would lose everything—her precious haven, Taranc, her fragile standing in this alien place she had decided to call home.

Taranc shifted. Brynhild fought to hang on to him but he loosened her hold and stepped back, murmuring words she did not entirely catch about grief and pain and about giving her time. New arms gathered her in, familiar scents assailed her nostrils, the aromas of wolf skin cloak, leather, the sea, so uniquely Viking.

Past caring now, Brynhild wept in her brother's arms. He held her, his lips on her hair, murmuring apologies she had no desire to hear, explanations she would never accept. But as he did so, even as his meaningless words drifted about her, something shifted in her troubled, shattered soul.

It hurt. It hurt so much,toomuch, but the pain had become excruciating to hold on to. She had no choice, no alternative if she was to survive a third time. She had to let it go.

So she did. Brynhild the pragmatist, the survivor, the resilient, efficient mistress of her own destiny surrendered the dam of anger and bitter disappointment she had nurtured all these months and which had festered to bring her to this moment. She found release.

“Why are you here?”Brynhild faced her brother across the oak table in the home she shared with Taranc. Fiona and the rest of the family continued to enjoy Dughall’s hospitality at Pennglas but she had felt the need for solitude and had made her excuses. In his usual bull-headed manner Ulfric failed to grasp that she needed a respite from him.

He grinned at her, seemingly oblivious to her desire to be alone. “I was concerned for you, going off on your own, and in your condition. Taranc too. He would have come, but I said?—“

“No, idiot. I mean why are youhere? In Scotland? Why are you not at Skarthveit? And what was that Taranc said earlier, about your intention to remain here?” She vaguely recalledmention of this but had been too distraught at the time to seek clarification. Now, her head clearer, she demanded an explanation. “What of your settlement in our own land? Our people there?

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