“Not yet,” Thorburn said. “If she behaves for a bit, maybe then. For now, bring the basin and jar. I’m due a good scrubbing.” He lowered himself to a stool, so his boots could be removed. After another glance at his surly prize, he grinned. He would convince the lovely lady to remember her manners. “But bring in my supper first and set it on a table just out of her reach, aye? I wish for her to enjoy the aroma of yer fine cooking.”
Her narrow-eyed glower filled him with hollow victory. This could be so much more pleasant if only she would allow it. Ties undone, the front of her tunic sagged open, revealing a mouthwatering expanse of pale skin and the teasing swell of one breast. He allowed his gaze to linger. Aye, it could be so much more pleasant.
She yanked the neckline shut and balled up even more, turning away from him as much as the chain allowed.
As Hendry lit additional candles, Thorburn frowned. The fawn color of the pelt beneath her was stained with blood. Either the woman suffered from her monthly courses, or she was wounded. A wound he could manage. Courses? Nay. That was women’s magic and dangerous sorcery. Known to bring ill luck to men by the power granted females during that time.
“Hendry.” He tipped his head toward the lass. “See to her, aye?”
“See to her, m’lord?” the boy repeated with a leery widening of his eyes.
“Aye.” Thorburn pointed at the pelt. “There’s blood there. I dinna think I wounded her, but…”
Usually obedient, Hendry balked and stared at him as though he thought him mad.
Thorburn arched a brow. Knaves never disobeyed. “If she is wounded, she must be tended to.” He didn’t voice the other possibility, but judging by the redness of the lad’s face, Hendry had already thought of it.
The boy opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He stared at the bloody pelt as though the thing might attack at any moment.
A rustling at the front of the tent made Thorburn turn. “Marta. ’Tis glad I am to see ye.”
“Thank God in Heaven above,” Hendry said with a relieved breath that nearly blew out three of the candles. He crossed himself and backed away, edging toward the door. “I’ll be bringing in the supper now, m’lord, and the hot water for Mistress Marta.”
The older woman, wizened and small as dried fruit from seasons past, came up short at the sight of the prisoner. “A woman, Constable? In chains?” Accusation and disgust dripped from her every word.
He would ignore it for now. “See to her first,” he ordered. “She bleeds.”
Chapter Two
Adellis Bjørnsdóttir recognizedthe healer and couldn’t decide whether to laugh or curse. What else would this unfortunate day bring? That addled old crone worshipped her brother. The brother she was trying to escape. Alrek Bjørnsson, self-proclaimed jarl of their clan. Marta considered him an enlightened god. Adellis bowed her head, wishing Fate had cast its lots in her favor for a change.
Many of the villagers on Mull adored her charismatic twin, and Adellis would be the first to admit that Alrek’s greatest talent was weaving lies that could charm dogs away from meat. His latest quest was to return the Hebrides to Norway and void the Treaty of Perth. He saw it as a means of obtaining more power. The calculating fool hungered for power and status, often claiming the gods had placed him in the wrong age. Alrek longed for the conquering times of old, the eras regaled in the Viking sagas.
Marta’s appearance made her gnaw harder on the leather between her teeth. She had believed capture by theGallóglaighan effective, albeit distasteful, way of escaping her brother and starting a new life in Scotland. Now she had to deal with Marta, who would report everything she heard and saw. Adellis felt certain of it. Alrek would attempt to retrieve her, and if he succeeded, would curtail her movements even more. Or kill her. With Alrek, anything was possible.
“You have ruptured the old wound,” Marta muttered in their native tongue as she bent close. With a meaningful nod, she squeezed Adellis’s leg as though offering reassurance that all would be reported, and a rescue would happen. “She be wounded,” she announced, for the benefit of the one called Thorburn. Or Thor. Or m’lord or Constable. Adellis had lost count of the mighty Scottish bear’s many names.
Her captor lifted his hulking body off the stool, flinching as the weight of his muscular bulk strained the venom-laced puncture she had inflicted to his knee. She knew all about theGallóglaigh.Rapists. Thieves. Destroyers. They had no honor. Sold their battle prowess to the highest bidder, no matter the cause. It made her ashamed that these massive savages had descended from mixing the blood of her Viking ancestors with lowly Highlanders. But this man was a means to her end.
“Mend her,” the great beast ordered the healer.
Amazing. This one appeared concerned about her welfare. That didn’t fit with what she knew of these warriors. Why would he care about her wound? He could still abuse her. If the gag didn’t have her mouth locked in place, she would have smiled. Although, whenever he did attempt his ravaging, that knee should burn fierce enough to soften his cock. That would buy her a bit of time before she had to endure his brutality. She refused to dwell on how she would be used. Anything could be endured for freedom. A means to an end, she reminded herself. Freedom was worth it.
He limped over to stand beside the healer and scowled down at her injury. She felt like prey caught in a snare.
With a curved knife, Marta cut away the leg of her trews, revealing the festering gash high on her hip. She had received the wicked slice from none other than her brother. He had told her if she insisted on warring like the honorable Viking women of old, then she must prove herself a fitting tribute to them on a regular basis.
The vicious cur had taken to poisoning his blade whenever they parried. Not enough to kill her, but a toxin known to slow healing. It was her punishment for refusing his order to seduce his rivals and murder them at first opportunity. She shared her favors for pleasure and her own benefit. Also for protection. But as her brother’s power grew, so did the dangers. She had to escape him and his reach before it was too late.
“That is an old wound,” the Scot observed. “She’ll be needing whisky for when ye scrape it.” Before Marta could answer, he turned and bellowed, “Hendry. Whisky. Plenty of it.”
“And how is she to drink for the pain?” the healer asked.
“Convince her to stop her spitting, and ye can remove that gag of hers.”
Marta gave a chiding click of her tongue, then tapped on Adellis’s leg. “You must not spit. This will not be pleasant without the constable’s whisky.”
Adellis agreed with a regal bow of her head. She wondered if the Scot knew that, unlikeGallóglaigh, when she gave her word, it meant something. Relieved of the wadded knot of leather, she worked her jaws and made a pointless effort of wetting her lips.
