“Rhiannon—”
Her small fist made contact with his face, and pain lanced through her hand and down her wrist, but it was satisfying. More than satisfying. Catching him by surprise, he loosened his grip, staggering back a step, and Rhiannon slipped free. The reaction of the gathered was instantaneous—breaths hissed and faces darkened, but Rhiannon was almost blind to all.
“I will see you dead before we are wed,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes into slits. Her message delivered, Rhiannon kept walking in short, angry strides, snatching up her sword. A bride? She buckled her sword around her waist, kicking out at the hem of the constricting, too-confining skirt. A bride! Her! Had he taken leave of his senses? Bitterness roiled within her belly and threatened to rebel. She could never be what he needed—a woman who wouldn’t shrink from his touch, who would welcome him into her bed. Not a pathetic, broken woman like her.
Her mind in chaos, Rhiannon’s feet led her to the comfort of the familiar—the practice grounds.
“Rhiannon!”
She flinched at the whip-snap tone, her pace never slowing.
“Stop!”
Not on his life.
“Leave me alone, Bjorn!” she screeched over her shoulder. She wanted to pick the place of their battle and have field advantage when she faced that…that…man! Her skirt clenched between her fingers, Rhiannon raised it and broke into a run, not stopping until she reached her destination. She doubled over, clutching a stitch in her side, half of her unruly hair escaping her braid and hanging down in front of her face. Rhiannon straightened, breathing hard through her nose and braced her hands on her hips, determined to face the danger to her freedom head-on, her gaze tracking the towering man powering closer to her. When she caught sight of his grim visage, it took everything within her not to turn and run.
Bjorn was livid, his face a dark mask and his usual laughing eyes the colour of storm clouds. Rhiannon screwed up her courage and jerked her chin up. “What do you want, Bjorn? I have made my position on the matter clear.”
His eyes never left hers, and she swallowed hard but refused to give way. Bjorn rubbed a hand over the vivid mark on his face, stark against his golden, tanned skin, and guilt pricked her sharply.
“I want”— Bjorn took a step towards her, and Rhiannon mirrored the movement backwards— “to have a long discussion with my future wife about her conduct towards me and have the punishment handed to her over with,” he said silkily. “Now come here.” Bjorn crooked his finger at her.
Rhiannon snorted through her nose, and fear fuelled the flames of her temper. “I will not be your wife. I don’t care if I have to say it until one of us is dead. I. Will. Not. Be. Your. Wife!”
“You are just making this worse for yourself. I will have obedience from my wife.”
Rhiannon couldn’t help it. She laughed in his face, though it was a dark, ugly sound. “Then pick another bride,” she advised with a toss of her head. “I do as I please, Bjorn, always have, always will.” Not strictly true, but that was not the point.
A vein in his temple pulsed, and with his patience clearly at an end, Bjorn took a step towards her. The sword at Rhiannon’s waist jumped into her hand; she didn’t even remember drawing it. “Touch me, and I will gut you,” she promised.
Bjorn didn’t look impressed. “You do not want to cross swords with me, Rhiannon,” he warned, his arrogance grating upon her. “You will not win.”
She tightened her grip on the hilt, her knuckles turning white before she loosened her muscles and shifted into a stance for better balance and to present a smaller target.
“I’ll give you one chance to sheath your sword, woman,” he seethed, the muscle in his jaw flexing in a visible effort to remain calm. “And come with me. Do so now, and it will go easier for you.”
A heady mixture of fear, excitement, and anticipation swirled through her blood and, taking a deep breath, she released it, and a calmness flooded her body. Rhiannon shook her head in two short motions. No, she would never surrender.
Bjorn grinned, though there was nothing comforting in the gesture. His eyes burning with an unholy light, he emanated menace. Jaw clenched, Bjorn drew his sword and strode forward with intent. Rhiannon didn’t wait for him to reach her. She charged forward, side stepped at the last moment, and swung. Bjorn barely raised his blade in time to block the blow coming at his neck with lightning speed. The harsh clang of steel rang in her ears. Their swords crossed, she pushed her weight against him, hoping to drive him back, her chest heaving with the exertion, the tops of her breasts teasing the neckline of her dress. Despite coming off of an injury, he remained unmovable. Bjorn’s gaze dipped downwards, and the corner of his lips quirked up. That single action infuriated her. Rhiannon gritted her teeth and pushed off from his sword, landing an unexpected kick to his belly. The air left his lungs as the blow took him by surprise and knocked him back a pace. Rhiannon reversed the sword, aiming her pommel at his jaw. Bjorn threw his head back, the blow glancing off. Rhiannon wasn’t finished. Another reversal, and the edge of the blade swiped him. Bjorn backed off, his gaze flicking to the shallow cut on his left forearm and the blood that now ran, then to Rhiannon’s unrepentant glare.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Rhiannon,” Bjorn said, his eerily soft voice in direct contrast with the cool fury in his eyes.
Rhiannon darted in again. Bjorn deflected and finished with the flat of his sword connecting smartly across the curve of her bottom. Rhiannon’s squeal of outrage burst past her lips, and she reached back with her free hand to rub at the injured spot. She glared at Bjorn’s smug face, the horrible realisation dawning that he was playing with her
“A taste of what you have to look forward to, little bride.” He chuckled darkly before turning serious and instructing, “Don’t leave yourself open.”
Embarrassment swept through her, but it quickly turned to ire. Fury driving her, she rushed him. Bjorn cleanly side-stepped her charge and swatted her again, producing a matching squeal. Her face heated, and blood pounded in her head in time with her throbbing rump. How dare he! Anger blinded Rhiannon, but she was unable to pull herself back. It was like she stood among the crowd, watching as she forgot everything she had ever been taught. She thrust and hacked at him but was unable to get past his guard. She stopped thinking, years of frustration and pain bubbling to the surface—she wanted to hurt him, even if she had to take him a piece at a time.
Rhiannon arced her blade in a wild swing, and Bjorn struck with a speed that left her breathless. Narrowly ducking under the sword, he spun on nimble feet behind her, and his powerful arms enclosed her in a trap made of flesh. Rhiannon widened her eyes. He’d discarded his sword? The muttonhead! Despite her efforts, her arms remained fixed at her sides, Bjorn pulled her back flush against his chest. His hands manacled her wrists, keeping her sword in place. She panted and fumed, throwing her body to break free of his grasp, but it was useless. There was no way she was going to out muscle him.
“Now,” his dark voice echoed in her ear, “you are going to drop your sword, and if you don’t want the whole village to see your naked backside as I punish you, come with me.”
Rhiannon shuddered. His body wrapped around her was having the most disconcerting effect. Bjorn’s warmth, his scent, was intoxicating, binding her in spell, and an answering heat surged in her blood. Rhiannon wiggled, attempting to break free, and Bjorn hissed out a bitter curse and sucked in a breath. She stilled instantly and became aware of something poking into her lower back.
“I’m waiting, Rhiannon.” Bjorn’s breathing was rougher.
Rhiannon ground her heel into the instep of his booted foot and was rewarded by a pained growl. Satisfaction flared, brilliant and brief. Bjorn’s large hands applied an even, gentle pressure to her wrists. Rhiannon winced as the pressure grew. Little grunts and growls sounded from the back of her throat in her effort to keep hold of her weapon, until, against her will, the sword slipped from her limp fingers. Bjorn exhaled, stirring th
e fine hairs at the base of her neck, and her shoulders hunched forward. Now what would he do? If he bared her in front of all, she would die from the humiliation. Twisting her in his firm grasp to face him, Bjorn bent at the waist, and Rhiannon found herself unceremoniously yanked over his left shoulder to the loud cheer of his Viking kinsmen. When he stood, she dangled down his back, her bottom raised and prominent in the air, and shame scalded her face.
“Let me down!” She tried to pinch the skin on his back.
Bjorn retaliated by slapping her vulnerable, upturned bottom.
“Oww!” she yowled like a scalded cat. Attempting a different tactic, Rhiannon fisted her hands in his tunic, trying to climb off and up and gain enough purchase to push up. She was almost there when Bjorn jiggled her, and she lost her grip, landing back against him. She tossed her head, trying to see past the curtain of hair where they were going, her belly knotted with fear. Would he really bare her in front of all? If he did, she swore she would slip a knife between his ribs while he slept!
Chapter 4
He ducked into a cottage, and Rhiannon’s world spun as he righted her, Bjorn’s hold secure on her waist, he slipped her down the hard length of his body. Rhiannon trembled with each ridge of solid muscle that glided past her body, reminding her of Bjorn’s strength and physical power. It was then she got a good look at his face. Rhiannon swallowed hard. That knot of fear unfurled within her, and her defiance shrivelled. The muscles in his jaw were clenched, and a vein pulsed in his forehead. For the longest time he said nothing, just kept her locked against the wall of his chest in an unbreakable grip. His heart thundered beneath her cheek, and when her eyes skittered upwards, the pink mark on the left side of his face stared back at her. The muscles in his body taut like a bow string, she at last realised that Bjorn was wrestling with his temper.
Prudence reasserted itself, and Rhiannon froze perfectly still and kept her mouth firmly shut. Her eyes wide and unblinking, she watched the emotions play across his face. Bjorn’s grip relaxed by a degree, and the dark tension that gripped his features ebbed. She released a breath. It was then she took in the rest of the room and realised she was back in her mother’s cottage. Her gaze landed on the switch that was laid upon the table, and her heart pumped harder. The instrument of her punishment made this frighteningly real. Bjorn had been working on it while he’d recovered, confined to the bed at the time he could do little else but brood.
“It didn’t have to be this way, Rhiannon.” The ominous words rasped over her nerves, echoing in the desolate room. “But I will not allow anyone to strike me without retaliation, not even my future wife.”
Rhiannon raised her chin and braced herself for a blow, determined not to show fear. But Bjorn didn’t raise his arm. Instead, without another word, he just sat on the end of the bench and tugged on Rhiannon’s wrist. The sudden movement took her by surprise, and she lost her footing, landing heavily across his raised knees, her breath bursting from her lungs. What was he doing?
“Bjorn?” She hated how her voice quivered, reflecting the mad fluttering in her belly.
His hands snagged her under her arms, dragging her body forward. Alarmed that she would tumble headfirst, Rhiannon slapped her palms on the floor, bracing her weight on her arms, the remains of her braid trailing over her shoulder.
Whap!
Rhiannon’s body lurched forward, and she twisted her neck to see movement in her periphery. The flat of his hand crashed down upon the centre of her bottom again. Her eyes bugged. He is spanking me, she thought faintly. The discomfort burned away the disbelief. He is spanking me! “Let me go, you bastard!” Her defiant words finished on a yelp.
Bjorn didn’t release her, just continued to methodically cover her squirming rump in stinging handprints. She fought, flailing her legs, clawing her fingers at the floor in a useless attempt to crawl away. The burning was just growing when he stopped. Rhiannon puffed out a breath. Thank goodness. But instead of releasing her, Bjorn grasped the edge of her skirt and reawakened the panic.
“You can’t do this!” she said.
Her skirt pooled in the small of her back, and the cool air hitting her heated flesh shocked her to stillness. Big mistake. It allowed him to throw his leg over the back of her kicking calves, and Rhiannon couldn’t move. She was wrapped in living, breathing stone that didn’t give an inch.
“Really, Rhiannon?” The disbelieving words mixed with a hint of amusement came from somewhere above her.
Oh God, what now?
His hand skimmed down her side to her outer thigh, and Rhiannon closed her eyes. Her dagger, Bjorn had found her dagger. He relieved her of her last line of defence, tucking it into his belt. “Well, at least you didn’t use it this time. I suppose that is an improvement.” Bjorn laid his palm over her tenderised flesh, the coolness contrasting with her heated and aggravated skin.
Rhiannon shivered, the realisation sinking in that this would happen, that Bjorn could and would overpower her. Tears choked her throat. His hand rubbed in small circles, and the burning in her haunches eased to bearable, the fires banking. Rhiannon brought her breathing back under control, highly aware of his callused hand stroking close to the apex of her thighs. Unbelievably, her core burned and dampened in some bizarre way; his tender touch was comforting.
“You have a nasty habit of acting without considering the consequences.” His hand stroked lazily back and forth across her bottom, his touch almost teasing.
Biting back a moan, Rhiannon fought the instinct to grind her hips against his knee.
“But after this, I assure you, you will not do so again in a hurry.”
The next strike shocked her. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Without the barrier of her clothing, the sharpness was tenfold, and in no time at all, Bjorn relit the fire.
“You will never raise either your hand or weapon to me again unless we are sparring.”
Rhiannon gritted her teeth, breathing through her nose, determined to outlast him. He would not break her, he would not. The air was punctuated with the wincing sound of flesh striking flesh, offset by the occasional yelp. All that time the heat built and built, and when he moved lower to the sensitive undercurve of her buttocks, there was no keeping quiet. Tears pricking her eyes, Rhiannon blinked valiantly to keep them at bay.
“Bjorn, please,” she whimpered.
Her half-hearted plea fell on deaf ears.
There was no escape. Nothing she could do. She would have to endure until she paid for her actions in full. Rhiannon gave in and allowed herself to weep. Hot tears slipped free and dripped down the end of her nose and onto the floor.
Bjorn watched Rhiannon closely, well aware that if he stopped too soon her temper would rally and she would pop right up and strike out at him. “The stubborn woman,” he growled under his breath. His palm was aching, and he gritted his teeth. If the willful wench would just yield… Changing tactics, he slowed his pace and targeted the sensitive underside of her full globes. Rhiannon bucked hard against his constraining arm, and a muffled cry squeaked out. Now he was getting somewhere. Bjorn redoubled his efforts, and the fetching bottom bounced and danced under his palm, turning a hot pink. At last, the tension slithered out of Rhiannon’s body, her shoulders hitching, indicating tears were indeed falling.
Surrender.
Bjorn’s gaze rolled up to the turf roof. At long bloody last. “You ever strike me again, and I will take a switch to you in public,” he promised, breathing hard, delivering one final hard swat that had Rhiannon releasing a shuddering gasp.
Bjorn shook out his aching hand. That was a lie. He would never humiliate her in public like that no matter how much the wench deserved it, but he would take a rod to her defiant backside. He released his hold, and she pushed up, scrambling away from him. Her hands flew back to clutch her bottom, lashes spiked with tears as she stared at him with wounded eyes like he had betrayed her in some way. But a flicker of green in their depths gave away her true feelings. Her spirit was still
intact, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He wanted to tame Rhiannon, not break her. Bjorn folded his arms and waited for her to gather herself, to see what she would throw at him next. Rhiannon sucked in a shuddering breath, bringing herself back under control, and scrubbed the back of her hand over her eyes.
“I hate you,” she snarled.
Unrepentant, Bjorn shrugged. He didn’t expect her to be happy with having a spanking. As far as he could tell, it had been a long time since someone had taken Rhiannon to task, and from now on it would fall to him. “You deserved it, so sheath your claws, Rhiannon, they will do you no good.”
Sulking, she gave him her back, not that he minded the view. He allowed a secret smile, watching her hands rub her dark, pink globes with the lower curves blushing a fiery red, and as Bjorn knew, hot to the touch. He was nothing if not thorough, and he tried to harden himself to her plight, to do what had to come next. The foolish woman had brought this on herself. If she had the sense the gods gave a goose, she wouldn’t have made such a spectacle of herself and lost her head.
“We still have your punishment to contend with,” he bit out gruffly.
Rhiannon’s head snapped around, her mouth ajar. “Surely…” she started.
Bjorn cut off her protest with a shake of his head. “Do not test me further, woman,” he growled like the bear he had been named for. “That was for striking me, not for your previous wrongdoing.” Rising to his feet, Bjorn towered above her. “You are going over that table for ten strokes of the rod, even if I have to wrestle you over it beforehand.”
She seethed, her eyes flaring green with unadulterated mutiny.
Bjorn Page 4
