Page 61 of Captured by a Laird
His rage was suddenly gone, replaced by utter desolation.
He steeled himself to do what he must, and repeated the question he had put to Robbie before Alison’s dramatic interruption.
“How many lashes would ye say ye deserve for disobeying and disrespecting your chieftain?” Drawing a sword amounted to more than disrespect, but David deliberately downplayed the offense.
He saw a flash of fear in Robbie’s eyes at the mention of lashes, but his brother did not flinch. The tension was like a taut rope between them as David waited for his brother’s answer.
“Ye could start by apologizing,” David said, hoping Robbie would give him an excuse to minimize the punishment.
“A hundred,” Robbie spat out. “A hundred lashes.”
“Ye won’t survive a hundred,” David said, keeping his voice even.
He knew damned well what his brother was doing. A hundred was the number of lashes the English had given David when he was not much older than Robbie. At least, that was the story the other prisoners who witnessed his flogging told afterward. David himself had no notion what the true number was because he’d passed out before they were done. He never confirmed nor denied the number when asked, but it had become another tale that enhanced his reputation and served his clan.
“Then give me half the lashes today,” Robbie said, meeting his gaze. “And finish the job in a second round.”
The pigheaded little bastard. Robbie was suggesting that David whip him within an inch of his life and then let him heal, only to do it again. That was exactly what the English had done to David, and everyone in the clan knew it.
The worst part of that flogging had been waiting for the second round, when his body was bloody and battered from the first. It would break most men. David could not bear to see his fourteen-year-old brother break, and he surely did not want it to happen at his hands. Damn Robbie for cornering him with his defiance.
His brother wanted to prove he was as tough as David. But Robbie had been raised by a kinder, less demanding mother, in a circle of affection. One day, he might be as strong as David. But he was not yet.
Grief washed over David. He should do it now, but he gave himself a reprieve.
“You’ll have your punishment tomorrow at daybreak.”
***
David sat alone in his chamber drinking. How could he flog his brother? He remembered Robbie’s first step and teaching him to ride. But he had no choice. Robbie had first defied him and then openly challenged him in front of the men.
At the sound of the door creaking, he reached for his dirk. Alison glided in like a moonbeam in his dark sky. He recalled her screams when his men dragged her away and took another swallow of his whisky.
“If you’ve come to curse at me and wish me to hell again, it will do no good.” He was already in hell.
“I’m begging ye not to go through with this.”
“Ye waste your breath,” he said. “I have spoken. The matter is settled.”
He fixed his gaze on the bottom of his cup and waited for the sound of the door slamming. But she did not leave. Though he did not look at her, he was so aware of her in the quiet room that he could hear her breathing, as soft as a butterfly’s wing.
“It doesn’t have to be settled,” she said. “You’re the laird. Ye can change your mind.”
“’Tis because I’m the laird that I cannot change it,” he said. “Men don’t respect a leader who makes idle threats or tolerates disobedience.”
He felt her approach as if she held a line attached to his heart. He closed his eyes against the steady pull.
She halted a foot away, within easy reach. All he wanted in the world at this moment was to rest his head against her breast, to listen to the soothing beat of her heart, to feel her fingers comb through his hair.
God help him, but she brought out a weakness in him.
“Ye must not flog your brother,” she persisted, “for your own sake as much as his.”
He flinched at the thought of the lash marking his brother’s tender, unscarred back. His cup was empty so he took a long pull from the jug.
“You’re a better man than this.” Her voice was strained.
He turned to look out the narrow window at the moonless night, which was as black as his heart.
