Teeth grinding together, Lucy silently wished he’d just killed his own brother and continued ruling Carbonnel rather than come after her family and what they had. Of course, maybe he eventually planned to do that as well. How much better to have two castles? She wouldn’t put it past him. It was part of the reason Lucy had refused to marry Wymon. She’d suspected the man was lacking in character, although that was putting it mildly. While he had never been anything but polite and even gallant in her presence until now, servants spoke and there were rumors about the man, his temper, and cruelty.
Lucy didn’t trust him, didn’t like him, didn’t want him. And frankly, she’d rather be dead with her brother and the angels than married to the bastard.
It was looking like she’d get her wish.
Tears suddenly welled in her eyes and Lucy silently wept for her brother and for herself, and even for the man on the wall across from her. They had all been brought down by Lord Wymon Carbonnel. It was just that she and the MacAdie hadn’t had the good fortune yet to die and escape the coming humiliations and abuses he planned for them.
“Dinnae give him yer tears.”
Lucy blinked her eyes open and peered at the MacAdie. His expression was a strange mixture of compassion and anger.
“Diya fall into tears and defeat we’re as guid as dead,” he added solemnly.
“He killed my brother,” she announced quietly. “Can I not mourn him?”
The Scot shook his head. “There’s time fer mournin’ later. Now yer needin’ to stay strong. Once we’re free o’ here ye can collapse in tears and grief. Until then, turn yer grief tae anger and yer loss tae hate. ‘Twill strengthen ye fer what’s tae come.”
Lucy almost asked what they could possibly need strength for. They were trapped here after all, but she bit back the question. He seemed strong and unafraid despite their position and she wouldn’t weaken him when he had such an ordeal ahead. Torture, Wymon had said, and judging by his smile as he’d said it, he’d enjoy the task. This man was in for some terrible pain.
“My name is Lucy,” she said after a moment.
He nodded solemnly in greeting. “And I am Tearlach MacAdie.”
Lucy nodded a greeting in return, but she was thinking about Wymon’s comment that the MacAdie would need feeding. She supposed she’d end up in his stew, a fine—if gruesome—way to get rid of a body, and wondered if he would eat it, or if they’d even tell him he was eating her.
Horrified by her own thoughts, Lucy distracted herself from them by asking, “Who was the man with you at the inn?”
“Ah.” His eyes widened with realization. “I thought ye looked familiar. Ye were at the inn.”
“Aye, we left shortly after you came in. We were in the stables fetching our mounts when you came out and seemed to pass out. That is when Wymon killed my brother.”
“The mon whose death we shall be blamed fer,” he murmured with a frown.
“Aye,” Lucy whispered. It was obvious he’d been awake through the entire conversation she’d had with their gaoler and heard everything. “Wymon stabbed him in the neck, twice.”
Tearlach’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t comment. It left them to fall into a thoughtful silence, one during which Lucy found her mind slipping back to that moment in the stables. The shocking sight of the knife plunging into her brother’s neck...Her brother falling...
“The mon with me was me cousin,” Tearlach announced suddenly. “Sir Heming MacNachton of Cambrun.”
Lucy forced the image of her brother’s death away and concentrated on his words. The name rang a bell, but she couldn’t quite place it...Her eyes widened suddenly as she recognized it. There were rumors and tales circulating about the MacNachtons. Ridiculous tales of their being night demons, and soulless bloodsucking creatures who could steal your soul. It put a whole new picture on the feeding business, but she shook her head to herself, thinking Wymon was surely mad if he believed those nonsense tales. But then, she supposed he must be mad. He’d killed her brother and kidnapped her, after all. Those weren’t exactly the actions of a sane man...Or, at least, not the actions of a sane man with a conscience.
“Why wid ye no marry him?”
Startled from her thoughts again, Lucy merely arched an eyebrow. “Did I mention he killed my brother?”
Tearlach smiled faintly despite their circumstances. “Aye. But I gather ye’d already refused him ere he did that. Why did ye refuse him to start with?”
Lucy’s mouth twisted, but then she sighed and shrugged before explaining, “There has always been something not quite right about Wymon. I did not trust or like him and would not agree to marry someone who made me so uncomfortable. However...”
“However?” he prompted.
“However, had I realized it would cost my brother his life...” She swallowed, unable even to say the words that she may very well have married him had she thought it would save John’s life...At least if it was the only way to save him. Or else, she would have made damned sure he was nowhere near her brother.
“From what I o’erheard, he wants Blytheswood more than he wants you,” Tearlach pointed out not unkindly. “Whether ye’d married him or no, he wid ha’e killed yer brother. I’m suspecting the only thing yer agreeing to marry him wid ha’e changed was the time and place o’ yer brother’s death.”
“Aye,” she agreed wearily and then changed the subject again. “You and your cousin are Scottish?”
“Aye.”
“Why were you down here in England?”
Tearlach was silent for a moment and she suspected he was deciding what he could or should tell her. Finally, he said, “Rumors had reached our people that some...” He paused and frowned, then said, “men,” though she was sure it hadn’t been his original choice of word, but was distracted when he continued, “Some men were gatherin’ in groups and comin’ after our clans. We came out in search o’ information about it. We’ve been stoppin’ at the various inns along the way, hopin’ to learn what was about.”
“And got yourselves caught instead,” she said quietly and saw his mouth tighten. He obviously wasn’t pleased with the outcome, but then there was no reason he should be. The man was chained to a wall, just as she was, helpless to do anything but suffer Carbonnel’s cruelties.
Not wishing to think about the coming morning and what they were helpless to prevent happening, Lucy began to talk to distract them both, telling him tales of her childhood. She and her brother, John, had shared an oddly close relationship. Born less than a year apart, they’d been the best of friends despite the difference in their gender, and had spent every chance they could between lessons and other responsibilities playing together out in the bailey...or inside in the dungeons on inclement days.
It was during one of these stories that she had her first idea and first hope that all was not lost. Lucy and John had played all sorts of games in the Blytheswood unused dungeons, including playing prisoner. They’d actually chained each other up on occasion, though she’d never managed to keep her brother chained for long. John had been brilliant with locks and such and had quickly found a way to unlock them given a bit of metal and a little time. Lucy had tried for years to sort out how he’d done it, but hadn’t been able to until he actually showed her. Of course, once they’d both known how to unlock the chains, that game had lost interest for them both and they’d forsaken it, but it might now save her life. Lucy thought if she could get her hands on a bit of sharp, pointy, and strong metal, she might be able to use that old skill to free herself and the man chained up with her. Getting the metal was the trick. She’d have to get free briefly and get it somehow.
Not wishing to raise false hopes in Tearlach, Lucy didn’t mention this idea to him, but her mind began working on ways she might briefly gain her freedom on the morrow. The easiest way seemed to be to pretend to agree to marry Wymon.
Her heart cried out in protest at even pretending to agree, but it really was the easiest way for her to gain freedom...
perhaps the only way. She just had to be convincing about it, she thought, and a sudden and outright agreement probably wouldn’t work. A reluctant agreement would likely be more believable, she decided, and started considering different ways to seem to reluctantly agree to marry the odious man now holding her prisoner.
The hollow echo of footsteps coming down the stairs outside their cell drew Tearlach’s attention away from his cell-mate, Lady Lucy Blytheswood.
Despite Carbonnel’s promise of tortures to come, he’d left them alone down there for more than a day. Tearlach supposed he hoped the anticipation of what was to come would be a torture in itself and weaken them...along with the lack of food and water.
All they’d had was the light from the torch and how often it was replaced to tell the passing time. By his guess, Tearlach was thinking they’d been down there for at least two days and nights.
They’d spent that time talking about everything and anything they could think of, each trying desperately to distract the other from the trials that lay ahead. At least, Tearlach had started out with that intention, but had soon found himself listening to her childhood tales with both awe and envy. It was so much different in some ways than his own childhood. Like Lucy and John, he’d been fortunate enough to have loving and affectionate parents. But Tearlach was an only child. His parents hadn’t been gifted with a second despite dedicated efforts to produce one. It had left him alone and somewhat lonely in comparison to the close relationship Lucy had apparently shared with her brother.
He’d listened to her tales of their games in the sunshine of the bailey and woods with both interest and envy. Tearlach had never spent time in the sun. He’d inherited his father’s inability to handle sunlight. The one time they’d risked taking him out into daylight he had been very young, too young to recall it, and the experiment had apparently left him with burns.
He didn’t remember any of it and only knew about it from what his parents had told him. When he was younger, he’d heard the disappointment in their voices as they told the tale and had thought himself a disappointment to them because of it, but they’d quickly explained that he wasn’t and never would be that, but they were disappointed for him. The fact that his mother was mortal, untainted by their strain of vampirism, had given them hope that he might inherit more of her nature and weaken the blood of his father. They’d hoped he’d be free to enjoy the sun as she did, and were only disappointed for him that he could not.
Tearlach had understood but been secretly pleased to be like his father, as any son would be. And he’d never felt the lack until finding himself chained in this dungeon listening to Lucy reminisce about her and her brother rolling and wrestling in piles of leaves under a warm fall sun.
It was only one of many emotions he’d experienced these last two days and nights. Tearlach had felt amusement, awe, joy, fear, anger, and any number of other emotions as she’d spoken. Lucy had a lovely voice and a full, joyful laugh and he’d been awed by her courage in the face of their troubles. She was a beautiful woman both inside and out and he was humbled by the strength she was showing when he himself felt gnarled with frustration and rage. It was very rare that Tearlach had felt bested, but he’d been well and truly bested this time. Drugged and captured like a novice, now chained to a wall by silver chains that somehow drew out his strength so that he could not break them.
His gaze shifted from the bars in the door and back to Lucy. He’d hoped to be able to save her. He would have liked to save them both, of course, but there was something about this woman that made him want very badly to save her.
Tearlach had watched and listened to her talk until her words had slowed and stopped and she’d nodded off, sagging in her own chains across from him, then he’d stayed awake, simply watching her sleep as he racked his brain for an escape plan. Unfortunately, nothing had come to mind as yet, but he found himself oddly distracted and hard-pressed to think clearly about anything at all when he looked at the petite, rounded blonde across from him.
Now it was morning once more, the third morning of their incarceration by his guess, and their gaolers finally approached. Tearlach knew this must be the moment of reckoning because of the number of footsteps he could hear. This was not one man coming down to change the torch, this was at least a dozen men by his guess and he knew the time for the real torture had arrived.
His gaze slid to Lucy and he considered waking her, but then decided against it. She was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted; not even the chains biting into her flesh preventing it. It was better to let her sleep. They probably wouldn’t bother her yet. It was him they were coming for. Carbonnel had spoken to him before Lucy had awakened the night they’d been taken and made his intentions clear. The man wanted all the information he could garner about the MacNachton and MacAdie strongholds and intended to torture it out of him.
Nay, better to let her rest as long as she could. He would watch for a chance to escape and take her with him then. And if they were fortunate enough for that to happen, she would need all her strength for the escape.
The scrape of the door opening drew his gaze back to it. He watched with a sinking heart as Carbonnel entered, followed by man after man after man until the cell was crowded with them.
Tearlach was exceptionally strong and had been trained in all forms of battle from his birth, but even he could not defeat so many when exhausted, hungry, and unarmed...not to mention, still chained in silver. It appeared he had a long day ahead of him, for he had no intention of giving these men any information that may bring harm to his people. He also had no intention of giving the man the pleasure of his agonized screams as he was tortured. It would only please him and upset Lucy, so Tearlach determined he would suffer in silence.
“Ah, you are awake,” Carbonnel greeted him with an eager smile and then glanced toward Lucy. “But I see our fair Lady Blytheswood sleeps the sleep of the innocent. ‘Tis good to know she has not been distressed by the delay in my revisiting you both.” His gaze swung back to Tearlach and his smile now had a touch of lasciviousness to it as he explained, “The new maid proved to be more entertaining than I had expected, a tasty little bundle who needed lessons in obedience.”
He paused, obviously recalling these lessons he’d taught, then let out a robust breath and clapped his hands. “But now to work. I have been looking forward to this. I hope you have too. Men. Bring him.”
Tearlach watched him strut out of the cell as the rest of the men moved to begin unchaining him from the wall and sighed inwardly.
Aye, he thought unhappily. It was going to be a very long day indeed.
Lucy was straining against her chains, her entire body hard with tensed muscles as her ears were assaulted by the sounds in the next room. There were no screams or shrieks of agony, no pleas for mercy, not even a curse of rage. The only sounds were of the instruments of torture, not the results. It was the constant, repetitive wet lash of a whip soaked in blood, singing through the air and then cracking across skin, punctuated by the occasional question or curse from Wymon as he demanded answers he wasn’t getting, but even those had slowed to a stop in the endless hours Lucy had been listening.
It was Wymon’s voice that had first woken her, stirring her from nightmares of her brother’s death, only to bring her back into the present nightmare. She’d had one blissful moment of confusion when she’d first opened her eyes to this unfamiliar setting, but had quickly recalled where she was and why, and the confusion had cleared to be replaced by a heavy sense of dread as she saw that Tearlach was missing from their cell. Through the door they’d left open, she’d heard Wymon cursing him to hell and back for his obstinacy in not answering his questions, and then the singing of the whip had followed, fast and furious and, she feared, probably wielded with vicious spite.
It had seemed obvious from the fury and frustration in Wymon’s voice that this sound had probably been occurring for quite a while, that sheer exhaustion from lack of sleep the last few nights had allowed her to sle
ep through a good deal of the torture Tearlach had been suffering. But once awake to it, Lucy hadn’t been able to fall asleep again. She’d stood trembling with her tension as she listened to the awful song of the whip.
Tearlach himself made no sound at all; not even a grunt under each blow and she could imagine him stern and still and proud, unbending under the punishment. She had no doubt that very attitude would simply infuriate Wymon. It would drive him wild. She knew instinctively he would want to see and hear the man’s pain, that he would not stop until Tearlach was either dead or groveling before him. Lucy suspected that the groveling would never happen. Tearlach would take whatever was meted out with stoic calm and die for his pride, she was sure.
It was something of a shock to her when this didn’t happen and instead the whip suddenly went silent. That silence was ringing. Earlier the sound of men’s voices and laughter had risen in each pause between blows as Wymon’s men had taunted and belittled their captive, no doubt subjecting him to humiliations she had no desire to know about. But now the silence was absolute, almost uncomfortably so and she suspected Tearlach had earned the grudging respect of the men and they were now discomfited by this useless continued torment.
“I grow weary of this game. Take him back to the cell,” Wymon suddenly snarled and there was exhaustion in his voice. Tearlach had defeated him by simply suffering in silence, Lucy thought and wondered at what cost.
She didn’t have long to wonder. Within moments the clank and jangle of chains rang out and then the room was suddenly full of men as almost a dozen of them half led and half dragged Tearlach back into the cell by at least as many chains. They were on his throat, his wrists, his upper arms, his waist, his legs, and his ankles. They had taken no chance of his escaping, it seemed.
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