Page 25 of Tair

Or was it all another kind of show for her benefit?

Lucy noted that none of the young men and women who worked at the castle protested being dragged off for a night of sex with a clansman. Some of the older women looked a little exasperated, as if they were being inconvenienced, while the younger ones seemed thrilled. Two of the handsomest male gardeners always accompanied one big guard with a scarred face, who kept slapping and squeezing their bottoms as they walked together into the garrison hall.

Both guys looked resigned, as if they were accustomed to being treated callously.

Then there were simply the lack of amenities, which annoyed Lucy to no end. Because the highlands in early spring were still freezing cold, the maids kept all the hearths burning throughout the day as well as the night. Despite this the castle was always quite nippy, and its stone walls remained so cold that Lucy wouldn’t touch them. She kept a tartan wrapped around her and her boots on, from the moment she climbed out of bed to the moment she climbed in. At least sleeping with the laird kept her warm; the man radiated heat like a furnace.

She glanced over at the fine bronze chain he’d attached to one side of the big bed’s wood frame. Each night before he went to sleep he manacled her right wrist to keep her from escaping while he slept. No matter how many times she promised him she wouldn’t sneak out, he refused to let her stay in bed unchained.

“You wished time to think on becoming my lover,” he pointed out. “Once you come to me, I shall remove the chains so you may sleep freely.”

Tair already assumed she would choose to be with him, but Lucy still wasn’t certain it was for the best. The sex had been incredible, and every time he touched or looked at her Lucy’s heart would pound faster. From the way he looked at her she knew he kept remembering everything that they’d shared just as often as she did. Then there was the fact that he was in charge of this huge castle, and everyone living on the island considered him their ruler. Being his lover would provide Lucy with a lot of benefits, not the least of which was daily and nightly access to his gorgeous body.

If I’m stuck here, I could do worse.

Yet the laird’s dark moods and brusque personality also gave Lucy considerable doubts. She didn’t understand why he ignored most of her questions about the clan and why they were living on an island. Everything about him seemed closed off, as if he’d built an invisible wall around himself. And what if she did something to make him angry? She couldn’t go to the police—there were no police yet—or even leave the island. The fact that she knew now that in the end Justin would have killed her for not giving him what he’d wanted also factored in.

I have to make better choices, and Tair may not be one.

When Lucy walked out of the laird’s chamber she found a now-familiar pest waiting for her.

“Good morning, Beinn,” she said as the big man trudged to stand over her. Today his scar had migrated two inches to the left side of his face. It also looked more raised, probably due to some sort of substance he’d apparently added to the black soot he used to paint it on his skin. “Do you intend to toss me back in the dungeons today, or make me wish I’d never been born? Ah, what was that other thing you threatened that second day?” She pretended to think. “Right, beat me until you break all my bones and then feed me to the fishes. I must say, you’ve got a grand imagination, lad.”

The big man’s ugly expression shifted to confusion. “Why dinnae you fear me?”

“I like you too much. You remind me of a cuddly toy bear I had as a girl. Also, this is really unnecessary.” Lucy reached up to pinch the end of his scar, which had started peeling away from his skin. He jerked back, ripping the scar off his face in the process and leaving it dangling from Lucy’s fingers. “That had to sting, sorry. If you keep plastering this gunk on your face, you’ll give yourself a bad rash.”

“’Tis—’tis a scar. A scab. The scab of a scar.” His shoulders drooped, and he seemed almost embarrassed now. “Why did you do thus? Seneschal shall assign me privy duty until the new moon.”

“Why would he punish you for something I did?” Lucy demanded.

“’Tisnae my place to say such,” the big man admitted.

“I wonder whose place it is. Right, don’t tell him I pulled it off. Here, you can paste it back on before he sees you.” She handed him the fake scar. “Cheers.”

Acrop slammed into the cage in which Kiamh lay huddled under his soiled cloak. “Wake up, wallydrag. ’Tis time to chop wood.”

He pushed off the cloak and rose as the midlands slaver opened the cage. A heavy, sweaty man who had lost an eye long ago, and didn’t bother to hide the ugly socket, he enjoyed tormenting his property. As he had every morning the slaver prodded him in the side with a doughy finger, twisted it so his ragged fingernail scored his flesh.

“You didnae eat again last night for no’ minding me, dafty.” He shoved him toward the pile of logs they’d found behind a woodcutter’s shelter where the slavers slept in comfort out of the wind and cold. “Cut enough splits for the morning fire, and mayhap I shall permit you a cup of gruel to break your long fast.”

Kiamh said nothing; any word he spoke to the slaver earned him a heavy clout. With the shackles on his ankles, which they never removed, he could only manage walking in tiny steps, something that also displeased his captors.

“Dinnae drag your feet.” The one-eyed man plied his crop against the back of Kiamh’s legs. “Do you wish starve to death, you sullen brat?”

Starvation might be a kinder fate, he thought. But would it serve any purpose other than to end him? ’Tis too quick. To earn back the privileges stripped from him, Kiamh had to suffer, not die.

Once he reached the log pile the slaver gave him an axe that Kiamh knew he hadn’t bothered to sharpen, and pointed at the two largest trunks.

“Chop them, split them, and be quick about it,” the one-eyed slaver said. “I’m in sore need of a hot meal this morn.”

After his abductor waddled off, Kiamh hefted the axe and began chopping at the first trunk. His arms trembled, making the blunted blade bounce, but his weakness could not be helped. It had been three days since he’d been captured by the slavers in the midlands, and he’d only been given a handful of grain and a few ladles of water from the communal bucket. The other slaves in the caravan, who were in far worse condition than him, pleaded for him to give them food, so he had shared the grain until it was all gone. That kindness had been noticed by the slavers, and had earned him his first beating.

’Tisnae so difficult to endure, Kiamh thought as he brought down the axe again and again. The last weeks he’d spent among his natal tribe had been almost as unpleasant.

The slaver’s crop had left countless weals on his back and legs, but thanks to his bloodline he’d always healed within a week without any wound festering. He’d also gone without food for weeks during his training in boyhood, and as long as he had some water he could continue on without great difficulty. The pain was no different than what he’d endured since his memories had begun. When they reached the town where the slavers would purchase more helpless men, women and children to sell, he might even have a chance to break his vow and seek vengeance. When that time came, he would shove that slaver’s crop so far up his corpulent arse he would puke it out the next day.

No, you shallnae. You must earn quittance for what you’ve done.