by Nina Mason
As a lightning bolt of agony ripped through Leith’s lower body, he doubled over, gasping for breath. He was sure he was going to be sick. His bollocks felt as if they’d been ruptured. The duke, now standing over him, commanded the guards to hold him. Fear coiled in his belly when Cumberland came closer and took hold of his nipple ring.
No, fuck, please.
Shock, more than pain, ripped through his body as the ring tore from his flesh.
Cumberland got in Leith’s face, grabbed his hair with both hands, and yanked hard enough to separate a clump from his scalp.
“On your knees, you Scottish piece of shit, and when you’re done sucking my cock, we’ll all take turns buggering you while you polish my boots. Are you clear on the plan?”
Despite the pain coursing through his body, Leith fought like a bear as they forced him to his knees. The guards held him by the hair as Cumberland took his own pecker in hand and guided it toward his prisoner’s mouth.
“Open wide, you Jacobite cunt. And if you even think about biting me, you’ll be eating your own cock before you can say Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
The duke’s homosexual leanings were widely known in the Highlands, despite the extremes he’d employed to hush them up. Allegedly, so-called “Sweet William” once cut the throat of a servant who’d discovered him in bed with his valet. The only editor brave enough to publish the rumors was imprisoned, tortured, and murdered in the Tower of London.
And probably buggered too before all was said and done.
Leith wouldn’t put it past the whoreson to commit horrors beyond imagining. He probably stood by with a smile on his meaty lips while his soldiers ripped the babe from Clara’s womb. One less Highlander to worry about. One less malcontent to rise against him later.
The duke’s erection was crushing Leith’s lips against his teeth. His eyes were shut tight and his jaw was clenched as tight as a clamp. Aye, he’d done it before. Not by choice, of course, but because Morgan threatened him with castration if he didn’t. He’d be damned, however, if he’d suck off the man responsible for the atrocities committed against his wife and child. Whether the duke was present at their brutal murder or not, the culpability for the travesties committed by the men under his command still fell on his shoulders.
“You’ll suck my cock, you son of a bitch,” the duke growled, pressing harder, “if I have to break your jaw and smash in all your pretty teeth.”
“Go ahead,” Leith ground out. “I still won’t do it.”
“All right, then. Have it your way.”
Leith braced himself for the worst while trying not to think about what that might be. Trying, but failing. He’d seen the English in action, knew the barbarity they were capable of. At Culloden, they’d bashed in teeth and skulls with the butts of their rifles, disemboweled and castrated rebel soldiers with their bayonets, and butchered the wounded like pigs. Those who begged for mercy were shot where they knelt.
When Cumberland said no quarter, he meant it. From what Leith had heard, the duke’s only regret was that some Highlanders survived, though not from lack of effort on his part.
If he did bite off the blackheart’s cock, he would probably get a medal. Too bad he wouldn’t live long enough to collect his reward or to do Gwyndolen any good.
A hand closed around Leith’s cock and proceeded to milk it like an udder. Startled from his thoughts, he opened his eyes to find Cumberland’s beady yellow peepers inches from his own.
The reek of decay on his breath turned Leith’s stomach. He tried to back away, but the guard’s held him fast. The duke, still jerking on his prick, pressed his bulbous lips against Leith’s.
He tasted as vile as he smelled. Bile rose in Leith’s throat. He was sure he would vomit. With any luck, right in the fat fuck’s rotting gob.
When the duke tried to slip him his tongue, he snapped his face away. The guards tore out more of his hair forcing his mouth back to their commander’s.
“Get the fuck off me,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
The duke removed his mouth but not his milking hand. Between the roughness of the handling, the vileness of the handler, and the throbbing of Leigh’s poor battered balls, his body refused to respond.
“Get him on his feet,” Cumberland told the guards.
No sooner did was Leith standing than the duke’s mouth closed around his flaccid penis. He tried to shake him off, but the guards had him pinned.
The duke, better with his mouth than his hand, made quick work of it. The orgasm, far from pleasurable, only intensified the pain in his balls.
“The queen won’t like you wasting my seed.”
The duke came face to face with him, his breath stinking of rotting flesh. “Tell me what I wish to know, or I shall tear you limb from limb.”
“I don’t know where he is,” Leith said, “and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you squat.”
The duke withdrew, took down his banyan from a nearby peg, and slipped the robe on. As he tied the belt across his prodigious girth, he turned back to his prisoner, his lips curled into a cruel sneer. “Let us see how well you hold your tongue when your limbs are being torn from their sockets.”
Before Leith could voice an objection, the guard on his left produced a railroad spike and jammed it into his side. The spreading weakness told him the weapon was iron, the bane of all faeries. Under its effects, he would feel pain, but would not be unable to speak or move.
When the weakness reached his legs, Leith collapsed.
Taking an arm and a leg each, the guards jerked him up, dragged him across the room, and tossed him onto the rack. With the skill and speed born of experience, the guards bound his hands and feet to the rollers, top and bottom.
After he was secured to the pulleys, the duke, wearing a malicious grin, took hold of the long wooden lever that worked the contraption.
“Please,” Leith begged “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know where he is.”
“You said yourself you wouldn’t tell me what you knew, and now you expect me to believe your denials?” The duke smirked down at him. “What do you take me for, one of your idiot countrymen?”
“It’s the truth,” Leith insisted. “I didn’t even know he existed until a couple of weeks ago.”
The duke, still gripping the lever, sneered down at him. “I gather you’re familiar with this little interrogation device? I know there are newer methods—a bit of barbed wire up the jacksie is highly effective, from what I’ve read, as is a power drill—but I still prefer the old-fashioned methods.”
Leith knew how the torture device worked. The lever in the duke’s grasp activated a ratchet attached to the chains binding his wrists. When pulled, it increased the tension on the chains. By a rudimentary system of pulleys and levers, the ratchet also rotated the rollers bit by bit until the strain on his joints became such that his wrists, elbows, hips, and knees would dislocate. Accompanying the whole horrific process and his agonized screams would be the popping of his separating cartilage, ligaments, and bones.
Cumberland depressed the lever. “Where is the bastard you begat with the faery called Belphoebe?”
“I don’t know.”
The duke depressed the lever a few more notches.
Leith groaned as pain harassed every joint.
“Now, where have the rebels hidden him? Who told you of his existence? Tell me everything you know or I will stretch your worthless Highland hide like a tanner.”
Leith, grateful he didn’t have the information the duke was after, endured a grueling hour of torture before Cumberland called it quits.
“Take him back to his cell and wait until his body repairs itself before you clap him in the wall irons,” the duke told the guards.
Leith groaned through his delirium as they lifted him off the rack and delivered him back to his cell, where they laid him in the straw on his back, too damaged and disoriented to think about shifting.
Alone in the dark, naked and shaking, he wai
ted for his disengaged joints, ligaments, and muscles to reconnect themselves. The pain surging through his body was nearly unbearable. So was the emotion. A whirlpool of anger, fear, and dread whorled at his center.
As his joints began to relock into place, his mind showed him Gwyndolen. The thought he might never see her again wrenched his heart. Clinging to her image, he rolled on his side, pulled his knees to his chest, and surrendered to his despair rolling through him like thunderheads. When a key rattled in the latch, the icy hand of fear swept the storm away.
He held his breath as the door creaked open, letting in a stream of dim-yet-blinding light. Shutting his eyes against the glare, he listened as booted feet scuffled in the straw, cringed as rough hands clasp his underarms, and winced in pain as they lifted him into the air. A grunt escaped him as his back slammed hard against the cold iron wall. As a meaty hand closed around his throat, chains jangled in his ears. Heavy cuffs snapped around his ankles and wrists, searing the skin underneath.
As the guards withdrew, Leith dropped his head in desolation. Nothing short of a miracle would save him now.
Chapter 18
Gwyn and Bran set off on horseback across the churning surf, which, to her astonishment, supported them. Yes, the druid had explained the horses could walk across the waves, but her mind refused to let go of the last filaments of reality. As the clopping of hooves echoed in her ears, she let them fall away.
Infinite possibilities rushed in to fill the void. All of a sudden, the books and movies that had fueled her fantasies all these years were anchors weighing her down. Reality was perception and perception was limited only by presumption.
If she believed anything was possible, it would be. She let everything go, set her spirit free, stepped out of her limited frame. For the first time in maybe ever, she forgot her wounds and reveled in the bracing sea wind on her face and in her hair. With the help of the sea god, she would get that cup from Morgan Le Fay and free her knight from his curse.
A backlash of worry clipped her wings, sending her crashing back to earth. What if the sea god didn’t come? What if he came, but wouldn’t help her? What if she was caught sneaking into Castle Le Fay? What if, what if, what if?
Och! Stop it!
Tears pricked Gwyn’s eyes. Swallowing hard to hold them back, she lifted her face, letting the sea wind cool her skin even as the sun warmed it. The day was beautiful, the sky blue and cloudless. As she turned to ask Bran if the weather was always this perfect in the Thitherworld, something moved in the corner of her eye.
Looking, she saw a watery chariot coming toward them across the sea. The horses out in front weren’t just as white as the froth on the waves, they were made of sea foam. The man at the helm boasted a powerful build, a greenish complexion, and long hair the color and texture of kelp. He was shirtless, but wore a cloak which whipped out behind him on the wind. At his throat was a torque. Golden bands also encircled his bulging biceps.
“Here he comes,” Bran said, pointing.
Gwyn smiled to herself, saying nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t rob the moment of its majesty. When the druid stopped his horse, she followed suit, still a little amazed they didn’t sink into the sea.
The Wave Sweeper pulled alongside and stopped, giving her a better look at the Lord of the Seas. His hair didn’t just resemble seaweed, it was seaweed. His eyes were liquid, as if made of water, and as blue as the Caribbean Ocean in a cruise-ship commercial.
Dispensing with formalities, Manannan turned his seawater gaze on Bran. “Is this the lass who seeks to recover my cup?”
Bran dipped his head. “She is, my lord.”
Euphoria washed through her as the god slid his gaze to her. He took a moment to study her before holding out his hand. “Come and be quick about it. The magic that impedes your lover’s curse is already beginning to wane.”
Hesitantly, she took his outstretched hand, which was greenish-gray with freakishly long webbed fingers. The moment they touched, light exploded inside her mind.
The next thing she knew, she was off her horse and standing beside the god on the transparent floor of his chariot. Afraid what might happen if she looked into the eyes of a deity, she cast her gaze downward. Awe swelled in her chest as she observed the teeming life beneath her feet. Massive columns of kelp swayed on the current as a school of small silver fish darted around them.
“Wow.” The insipid word escaped her lips before she realized she’d spoken.
Manannan mac Lir let out a big, booming laugh. “I’m so pleased you’re impressed.”
A blush scorched Gwyn’s cheeks. She bit her lip, keeping her focus on the sea. Words seemed inadequate to describe the primordial splendor of the seas. She cleared her throat, knowing what she was about to offer would sound inadequate.
“Impressed doesn’t begin to cover it.”
He released another chuckle. His jolliness made her feel slightly less intimidated, but only slightly. Keeping her attention on the ocean, she dredged her memory for the chamber filled with her father’s stories. As snippets about the deity beside her floated to the surface, she could hear the echo of her father’s clear tenor voice.
He was known to be a great trickster and magician…he could assume any form or identity…his wife was the beautiful Faery Queen Fand…the Isle of Man is named after him…he owned a cloak of mists that made any who wore it invisible.
If only he could shake that cloak to make her forget her foster father. As unpleasant memories began to seep in, Gwyn blinked to clear her thoughts.
The cloak was as fluid as his pupils and, in similar fashion, changed color from moment to moment like the sea. Deep blue, then blue-green, then gray-green, then deep blue again. Her hand twitched with the urge to touch as she wondered if the garment felt as nebulous as it appeared. As she watched the cloak swirl and shift hues, an idea dawned. How much easier it would be to slip in and out of Avalon and Castle Le Fay if no one could see her!
The prospect unleashed a flood of relief, which worry dammed a moment later. How did one go about asking a god for the loan of one of his magic objects? Biting her lip, she returned her gaze to the underwater view just as a school of small silver fish darted through the billowing kelp in perfect unison. Did she dare to hope he would offer the cloak’s use the way he’d offered his enchanted cup to King Cormac and his branch of magic apples to Bran.
The druid had her horse’s reins in hand and was turning to take his leave. While she was lost in thought, Bran and Manannan had been chatting away like old chums.
“Godspeed,” Bran said through one of his dazzling smiles. At that, he kicked his mount and set off across the sea in the direction from which they’d come.
Regret and relief tangled in Gwyn’s gut. As much as she valued Bran’s assistance, her sexual attraction had been disconcerting. More time with him might have pushed her over the edge, and the last thing she wanted was to cheat on Sir Leith, especially when they were so close to breaking the curse. Well, she hoped they were, anyway.
A sharp crack near her ear jerked her out of her musings. The Wave Sweeper lurched forward, nearly knocking her off her feet. She gripped the front edge of the chariot with both hands to steady herself.
There was nothing apart from ocean as far as the eye could see. Unsure what to say or do in the presence of an ancient god, she decided it would be safer to let him take the lead. She would hold her tongue until spoken to. Dread churned in her gut as her mind labored in vain on a plan to pinch the cup. Without the cloak of mist, the mission seemed impossible, but she could not seem to muster the nerve to ask for the loan.
As the chariot bounced over the waves, the brisk wind stung her face, the damp spray smelled salty, and the sea hissed and slapped hard against the bow. Her gut grew tighter with every mile of ocean they glided over.
The Wave Sweeper had no wheels, so it was more of a water sleigh than a chariot. A fast-moving water sleigh. Judging by the force of the wind on her face, they had to be go
ing at least sixty miles an hour.
By and by, a dark band she presumed to be Avalon came into view.
“Do you have a plan with regards to recovering the chalice?” the god asked, his tone friendlier than expected.
Seeing her chance, she took a deep breath of damp ocean air to steel her nerves.
“Actually, I was hoping I might borrow your cloak.”
“Though I’d gladly loan it to you, you do not require the cloak of mist to render yourself imperceptible.”
She blinked at him in astonishment. “I don’t?”
“Nay. You need only invoke the Feth-Fiada.”
Her brow puckered. “What’s the Feth-Fiada?”
“A magic charm to make one invisible to the naked eye,” he explained. “Even camouflaged, however, your task will not be an easy one. Queen Morgan never lets the Cup of Truth out of her sight. You will need to create a distraction so she doesn’t notice it’s missing until you are safely away.”
Gwyn chewed her lower lip. Creating a diversion was a good idea, but how to go about it? She could throw something, she supposed. Or break something. Or maybe kick someone in the shins. Any might work, but stealth still seemed a better course to pursue. If she were invisible, she could wait until the queen wasn’t looking, grab the cup, and run like hell.
“Are you ready, lass?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”
Manannan held his left hand over her head as he began the incantation.
“By my power as Lord of the Sea, the Cloak of Mists I place o’er thee.”
As he spoke the magic words, rolling white mist began to rise from the floor of the chariot.
“Across the isle of Avalon, you shall pass unseen.”
The vapor climbed, obscuring her thighs, hips, and waist. Rising higher, the cloud enveloped her chest, shoulders, and neck. As her eyes were covered, dizziness set in. To steady herself, she clamped her hands on the lip of the chariot.
