Bjorn

by Jane Burrelli

  “That was your sentence. Accept it with grace, and then there will be an end to it.” He watched the emotions playing across her expressive face, her jaw working furiously, hands clenched at her sides, fighting down the urge to revolt.

  Odin, please let her yield.

  He didn’t enjoy being so hard on her, but it was a necessity that she understood he would hold firm.

  Rhiannon raised her chin, and her fists unfurled. “Fine!” she bit out. “But only because that is my sentence for the wrong I did you.” She glared and turned her nose up at him. “Not because you threatened me.”

  Bjorn didn’t care what foolish notions the woman had, he just wanted this unpleasantness over with. He huffed out an impatient breath, jerking his head in the direction of the table. “Bend over the table and raise your skirt,” he instructed shortly, moving to retrieve the rod he had prepared since he’d first planned to take the fiery brunette to wife. Thinner than his little finger and shaved smooth, it would deliver a nasty sting without lasting harm. When he turned back, he was pleased that Rhiannon had lowered her upper body flat against the surface and felt begrudging admiration for her bravery. “Your skirt,” he prompted. It was important that she submit to this—to him.

  After a hesitation, she reached back and gathered a fistful of the garment. Gradually, the skirt slithered up, scraping over her sensitive, inflamed flesh, and she whimpered. Bjorn admired the sight being revealed to him. Starting with her slender ankles and delicate calves, farther to smooth, paled thighs, strong but curved in that womanly way, framing her flushed and surprisingly curvy behind. His cock tented against his woollen trousers. How far could he push her?

  “Farther,” he instructed, his voice roughened, deeper. “Onto your tiptoes.”

  Another pause, then she obeyed. The edge of her table met her hips, forcing her to arch her back and lift her bottom, her toes skimming the floor. He inhaled sharply. Odin have mercy on him. Never had he seen a more appealing sight. He stared, and as if sensing his gaze upon her, Rhiannon squirmed, hinting at the shadowed delights between her thighs. He wanted nothing more than to sink into her body and exhaust them both until she didn’t have the strength to rail against him. That was not part of the plan. There would be no release for either of them after this.

  “Well done, little warrior,” he praised, taking position behind her to the right, resting his hand on the hollow of her back, applying a light pressure. It pinned her skirt out of the away and prevented her from moving. “Thank you for submitting.”

  “I did wrong and I will make amends.” Her voice was tight, and it was clear she fought back tears.

  Bjorn’s heart turned over, and he trailed his hand down to her reddened rear. The muscles in her back tensing, he massaged and kneaded the hot globes, muffled groans coming from the back of her throat. It may not be pleasant, but it would help her. Unable to resist, he drifted his fingers lower, the barest of touches to her outer lips, and she gasped, her body attempting to jerk upright if not for his palm pressed upon the hollow of her back.

  “Stay still,” he commanded, holding her in place.

  Rhiannon’s shoulders knotted with tension, but he was pleasantly surprised when met by her wetness.

  “You are not as opposed to my touch as you pretend,” he rumbled under his breath, and savage triumph thrummed in his veins as intoxicating as the bloodlust of the battlefield.

  He swept his fingers through her slickened folds, and she squeezed her legs tighter together. Disappointed she wouldn’t relax into the intimate caress, Bjorn turned back to the business at hand.

  “Best get this unpleasantness over with.” He drew his hand away and, picking up the rod, swished it through the air before levelling it against her trembling buttocks. “Are you ready, Rhiannon?”

  “Yes.” She bit out.

  He drew back his arm and laid on the first stripe. Rhiannon gasped, the flesh of her bottom rippling from the impact. Her whole body jerked, and an angry red line bloomed, her hips wagged from side to side, as if trying to dispel the fiery stripe. By the fourth stroke she was breathing hard through her nose and stamped her foot. Five, she let out a cry, her fingers curled into claws, anchoring her hands to the edge of the table. By six, the tears fell again. Bjorn paused to smooth his hand over the wounded flesh, granting her a brief respite. He did not want to break his warrior woman.

  “You are doing so well, Rhiannon.” He was proud of her, and if there had ever been any doubt in his choice of bride, none now lingered. She was a strong and proud woman with a fiery, unpredictable temper but would submit to make amends. “These last four will be hard and fast,” he warned, wanting it done, and then he could offer a measure of comfort. He levelled the rod where bottom met thigh.

  “Oh God, please, not there,” she breathed her first words since they had begun.

  He struck without pause, laying three there and one on her upper thighs. Rhiannon let out a short wail and collapsed upon the table for support, crying softly. Bjorn cast the rod aside, the ten vivid lines standing out stark against her skin. He rubbed her back, the sight of her tears twisting him up inside. She had deserved her punishment, though he would have much rather have brought her cries of pleasure than pain.

  “It’s over, Rhiannon.” Carefully, he lowered her skirts over her naked, beautiful rump.

  Rhiannon still made no move to rise, and Bjorn feared he had miscalculated and tried again.

  “You took it well, and I thank you for it.”

  A breath shuddered out of her, and with gentle hands cradling her hips, Bjorn aided her to stand, noting her legs shook. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, tears continuing to leave damp marks on the floor. The twisting in his gut worsened. Rhiannon looked so lost, seeming to shrink in size and stature. This would never do. He scooped her up and sat on the bench with her settled on his lap. She instantly curled into him, burying her face in his tunic, and Bjorn unravelled the sad, half-undone braid. The thick hair sifted through his fingers. He had been right—as soft as Byzantine silk. He cradled the back of her head, massaging her scalp and the nape of her neck with his strong fingers. Bjorn continued to soothe and pet Rhiannon. His little warrior was not as tough or hardened as she pretended to be, and he had a hunch it had been some time since she had dropped that guard which she used to keep the rest of the world at bay. This taking a wife was more complicated than he had anticipated. Compared to Hilde, everything was different with Rhiannon, heightened somehow, or at least it was this time when he cared about the woman. Gradually, she quietened to all but the odd sniffle, and he brushed his cheek against the silken tresses. Fascinated, he studied her face as she rebuilt her defences and regained her composure. The cool mask descending, she pushed away from him and climbed shakily back on to her feet. Bjorn tensed, ready to catch her if her legs gave way.

  “I hope you have now been satisfied,” she said with a jerk of her chin, her air of defiance ruined by the red splotchy eyes.

  Bjorn chuckled. He was far from satisfied, and if the dark glare on his prospective bride’s face was anything to go by, he wouldn’t be anytime soon. “Our satisfaction will come after the wedding.”

  Bewilderment crossed her face, then she caught this meaning, her mouth forming a becoming ‘O’ that breathed life into his lurid imagination. Rhiannon’s lips bunched to one side, her face screwing up like a handful of dung had been shoved under her nose.

  “I have atoned for before, but I will not be your wife.”

  Bjorn forced himself to relax and looked at her indulgently. “Yes, you will,” he said simply. If she wanted to continue to deceive herself, he would allow it—for now.

  Temper snapping in her eyes, Rhiannon worked her mouth furiously, but whatever else she wanted to hurl at him, she swallowed it and left. Red-eyed, shoulders back, and head held high. Uncowed and proud with the dignity of a queen. Bjorn watched her leave, tucking his thumbs into his belt. Despite his somber mood, he couldn’t help his lips curling.

  Chapter 5


  “Rhiannon?” the soft voice called out to her.

  Rhiannon curled into a tighter ball on her pallet, refusing to answer. Even when Eithne’s familiar light tread scuffed near her head, she refused to turn towards the sound.

  “We’ve come to see you.”

  She closed her eyes. Great, both Eithne and Ailsa had come when she just wanted to be left alone. Shame and humiliation scalded her from the inside out, and she was fully aware that everyone would have heard her being punished. She didn’t like being humbled. It hurt almost more than the spanking itself—almost. Two tears squeezed out, though she didn’t know how she could have any left. She never cried, ever. Not since… Rhiannon promptly snapped that thought off and shoved it away into the dark place where her nightmares laid in wait. She promised herself to never relive a past she couldn’t change.

  “Rhiannon? Are you well?”

  Rhiannon bit her tongue. Only the love she held for the two women halted her from making a cutting remark. Though Eithne rarely understood her, she never became impatient with her, unlike her mother, and Ailsa was one of the few women who shared her restlessness.

  “I am fine,” Rhiannon mumbled, too mortified to face either of them.

  With a sigh from the other women, the pallet dipped, and their weight joined her.

  “He is a good match for you, Rhiannon,” Eithne said at last.

  Despite her best intentions, Rhiannon’s temper sparked. “How can you even say that?” she demanded, twisting around to face Eithne. “After what he—” She yelped, her tirade cut short when her scorched rump made contact with the pallet.

  Ailsa coughed into her hand, and Rhiannon narrowed her eyes on the woman. That had sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. Gritting her teeth, she pushed up to her knees, instantly taking her weight off her throbbing backside.

  “After he took you to task for publicly striking him?” Eithne finished with a pointedly raised eyebrow. “Rhiannon, in their culture, to be struck is a shameful thing. If you were a man, he would have cut you down. Instead, he decided to save face by wounding your pride. Not only that, but you drew blood.”

  The subtle reprimand in her voice pricked Rhiannon with guilt, and when she turned to Ailsa, the woman nodded. Deflated, Rhiannon shrank back down, her temper dying as suddenly as it had flared.

  “I don’t want to marry, Eithne,” Rhiannon whined, hating herself for revealing even that amount of vulnerability. “I can’t.”

  Unfurling her sister’s hair, Eithne combed the locks in long, sweeping movements. “With the right man, marriage can be a pleasurable task instead of a burden. I know you are afraid—”

  “I fear nothing!” Rhiannon snapped, cutting her off.

  Eithne pursed her lips. “I have watched you closely, and you like this man.”

  The unbidden memory of last night’s kiss rose, and Rhiannon’s cheeks heated.

  Eithne gave her a knowing look. “He is the first man who has slipped past your guard and he is a good man, or I would have argued against the match.”

  Rhiannon made a noncommittal sound, relaxing into the soothing strokes of the comb. “Mhhh.”

  “Alpin would not have wanted you to be alone, Rhiannon, he would want you to live, to have a family of your own. You can have that with Bjorn.” At the mention of her dead brother, Rhiannon flinched and clenched her fists at her sides, digging her nails into her palms. “He humiliated me.”

  Ailsa snorted indelicately. “When I raised my hand to Thorolf, I was dealt with in the same manner, but despite his sternness…” Ailsa’s gaze turned faraway and dreamy, her cheeks pinkening along the edges. “His hands are kind when he turns to me.”

  Rhiannon shook her head, unable to understand how laying with a man could inspire such a look. It was sickening.

  Eithne nodded in agreement with Ailsa’s words. “And if I had struck either Alpin or Brandr, he would have striped my hide with a switch. You unwisely went toe-to-toe with the man, and it hurt your pride when you came off the worse for wear.”

  “I can’t,” Rhiannon croaked out, the words squeezing past the painful knot lodged in her throat, her bottom lip trembling. She couldn’t explain it any better, the tangled knot of emotions sitting heavy on her chest. “I can’t do it.”

  Eithne’s face softened, and she curled a hesitant arm round Rhiannon’s trembling shoulders. For once, Rhiannon returned the embrace, and Ailsa joined them. Rhiannon had never been so thankful for her friends in that moment. Her shoulders rising and falling with silent tears, she just wanted to hide away from the world.

  “It will all work out,” Eithne tried to reassure her. “You’ll see.”

  Bjorn’s gaze alighted upon Eithne as she ducked into the house she shared with Brandr. “How is she?” he asked, anxious for news of Rhiannon but doubting she would appreciate his presence at the moment.

  “Angry, afraid for her future, and full of injured pride.” Eithne shrugged. “She’ll live.”

  Her gaze cut over to the warrior sitting at their table, treating the shallow cut on his forearm.

  “We will need to watch that for infection.”

  “I can’t believe you still wish to take her to wife after she tried to run you through again.” Brandr huffed, shaking his head like he pitied Bjorn’s temporary madness.

  “When attempting to tame a she-wolf, you should expect the odd scratch.” Bjorn’s lips twisted ruefully. “My bride has fire. It will make for an interesting wedding night.”

  Brandr snorted, shooting his brother an amused look. Eithne was less than impressed and, wiping her hands on her skirts, she sat at her loom.

  Scowling at her husband, she asked in a cold tone that promised retribution, “I thought I was to be kept informed of such decisions?”

  Brandr let out a heavy sigh. “I thought it would be for the best—”

  “To tell her with no forewarning, unprepared, and in a public place?” Eithne interrupted, laughing, but the usual merry sound held no warmth.

  Brandr’s brow collapsed into a scowl.

  “I think you forget who is master here, wife,” Brandr growled.

  Eithne raised her chin a notch, and Bjorn smiled, the action reminding him of his Rhiannon. “And I think that you forget who is mistress, husband. If Rhiannon is indifferent, she will make your life a living hell, and not even a herd of wild horses could drag her to the altar, mark my words.”

  “She is not indifferent,” Bjorn interrupted.

  Eithne’s head whipped around, and she eyed him with undisguised curiosity. “How so?”

  Bjorn bent at the waist to collect another log before placing it on the fire. “She liked my kisses well enough.” He was launched headfirst into the memory of their kiss, her hot little tongue licking the inside of his mouth and her soft breasts crushed against his chest. His cock stirred. Rhiannon might hide behind her sword and sharp tongue, but she was all woman.

  “Wait.” Eithne massaged her temples as if to ward off a headache. “She allowed you to kiss her?” Eithne said more slowly, leaning forward, like his answer was of vital importance.

  “Aye,” Bjorn growled, her incredulous tone grating upon him. “What of it?”

  “That changes things,” Eithne admitted, relaxing back in her seat, her face turning speculative and calculating. “It would have gone easier if you had courted her longer,” she muttered, her head bowed as she attempted to untangle a knot in the woollen thread.

  “She is no different than the rest of the women, so why should she be allowed special treatment?” Brandr grumbled, folding his arms.

  Eithne paused from her weaving and fixed her husband with a look that had been mastered by displeased wives since the beginning of time. Bjorn coughed, smothering the laughter threatening to burst forth. Oh yes, his brother’s wife was not as meek and mild as she’d first appeared.

  “That is not my tale to share. Little to say you have always thought too harshly of Rhiannon when all she needs is patience.”

 
“Patience,” he spluttered. “The impudent wench needs a firm hand applied to her backside daily to curb her.”

  “Well, it is a good thing you are not her husband,” Eithne said dryly, “as you are not up to the task.”

  The open challenge hung in the air, and Bjorn shook his head. Knowing his brother, he was likely to meet that challenge in private. Brandr opened his mouth to argue further when Eithne cut him off with a graceful wave of her small hand.

  “What’s done is done, but you’ve backed her into a corner, and she will fight you.”

  Bjorn flickered his eyes down to the scratch on his forearm, and his lips curled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Her head down, Rhiannon wove between the houses, intent on a single goal. Avoiding Bjorn. The wedding was drawing nearer with each day that passed, and she still could see no way to stop it. “Rhiannon!”

  She gritted her teeth and tensed. Speak of the Devil…

  Dread locking her muscles at the thought of facing Bjorn and his far too intelligent eyes, Rhiannon screwed up her courage and peered over her shoulder. The man stood straight, hands braced on his hips as if prepared for a battle. That was a man who would not listen to reason and change his damned mind. Rhiannon squeaked and dived to the left. Not waiting to see if Bjorn gave chase, she pumped her arms and, rounding the house closest to her, ducked inside.

  “Rhiannon?” Gladys looked up from the fire she was tending, wobbling from where she was crouched. “What are you doing?” she asked, wiping her hands.

  Modwen was also there, her green eyes laughing. Great, just great. Rhiannon pressed a finger to her lips, silently pleading with them to remain quiet. Heart thumping, she fought to control her breathing, flattening her body tightly against the wall, every sense tracking Bjorn’s movements. He stormed past; the long grass swished and snapped in his wake. Rhiannon held her breath for another moment, the heavy tread growing fainter. It was only when she heard nothing more that she sagged to the floor.