"She always resented him," Brian commented. "Do ye remember the day she was brought here? All high and mighty, though she and her sisters were nothin' but cattle their own father brought tae market."
They both laughed crudely at that, and Maeve looked down at the floor, trying not to feel the pain of how accurate the blow had been. The guards may be speaking crudely, but they were not wrong. Three years ago, her cruel father, Laird O'Sullivan, had brought her here to be sold off as meat. He'd presented all three of his daughters: Maeve herself, then just eighteen, her older sister Breana, who'd been twenty, and even his little pet, Nessa, who'd been just sixteen. Nessa had always been their father's favorite, the one who escaped from his cruelties, but it had been very clear that if Malcolm had wished for her, Laird O'Sullivan would have given her up without any arguments.
But he hadn't wished for young, spirited Nessa, nor had he gone for the innocent, somewhat naive Breana. He'd chosen Maeve, saying that her beauty was reason enough that she would make a fine wife, and Maeve had never wished to be plain more.
"It isnae that her bonniness did her any good," Rod sneered back in the present. "After all, the chieftain couldnae get a bairn on her nae matter how much he tried. Even a lass as bonny as this can still be a barren shrew, it seems."
Maeve pursed her lips. She wasn't barren, at least as far as she knew, but the rest of the castle and probably most of the clan believed it was so. And why wouldn't they? Malcolm had never once touched her sexually in the entire time they had been married. He'd tried once on their wedding night, but to his shame, he'd been unable to perform. After threatening her with death if she breathed a word of it to anyone, he'd told her they'd try another night and left her chambers.
She still remembered how she'd felt as he'd left her that night, naked and confused and still virginal despite her worst fears. Such confusion, such… relief. She'd known it was only a matter of time before her virtue was taken from her, but at least that night, she'd been granted a reprieve.
And yet, the expected night had never come. They'd slept in separate rooms ever since, and he'd never come to her at night again. It was probably the only reason that she'd survived the last three years with her sanity intact.
Of course, nobody knew they didn't even sleep together. As far as they were concerned, Maeve had murdered Malcolm right in their marital bed. It wasn't true, itwasn't, but it did make her wonder: who else could have had access to his rooms? Was he bedding a maid, perhaps? No, not a maid. She had suspicions that his reasons for not wantingherextended to all women, and for just a moment, she felt a surge of pity for him. Despite his warlike nature and the rumors of his cruelty — they said he'd killed his own father for power — she wondered what it must be like to spend a whole life in a lie. It didn't excuse who he was, but it did make her wonder more about who he could have been.
But then, hadn't she done the same ever since she'd left her father's home? Wasn't everything that made herMaeveburied the day she'd given him her consent at the altar? Or even long before that, the first time she'd passively accepted her father's cruelty toward her?
The guards were speaking again. Rod suggestively said, "Ye ken, a lass can still have some uses without childbearin', especially one with so pretty a mouth as that."
Brian chuckled. "Aye. She's still awfully bonny even tied up as she is. I wonder how well she could service a man with her arms manacled behind her like that."
Fear sped up in Maeve's heart, but before it could evolve into panic, Brian sighed and continued.
"But we cannae. Eoin would have our heads. He's got it in that noble mind of his that naebody is tae touch her, and ye ken if we go against him…"
Rod grunted. "Aye, well, now that Kyle's takin' over the throne, so tae speak, Eoin's gonnae be the chieftain's son. We'd best keep on his good side."
Pure, unfiltered relief, so strong that it made her sag in place, filled Maeve at those words. Eoin, sweet Eoin, had saved her life without even knowing it. He was the son of Kyle Darach, Malcolm's closest friend and advisor — a member of the clan, but not a blood relation, as far as Maeve knew. Eoin wasn't like the rest of them, though. He was softer, kinder, a little sweeter. He'd sneak her treats sometimes, or tell her a story when he thought that no one else was listening. Apart from Ann, her maid, Eoin was the closest thing Maeve had had to a friend these long three years.
"Well," Rod said, "There's time before she's hanged. Perhaps Eoin will forget himself and let us have our fun after all. I'd say we deserve it for all the hard work we're doin', dinnae ye agree?"
Brian laughed coldly. "Och, aye," he said. He slapped his friend on the shoulder. "Dinnae worry, lad. Ye and I can go tae the brothel tonight and have them pick out a pair of their finest for us. They willnae be a patch on this one, of course, but any lassie's a looker when it's dark."
The two guards laughed uproariously at this awful joke as they walked away a little further down the corridor and out of Maeve's earshot. All she could hear of them was the echo of their sickening guffaws, and then nothing. She knew that, for now at least, she was alone.
Good. She preferred that to listening to the horrible things they'd been saying. Maeve felt like perhaps she should be distraught, or crying, or something, but even though she had tried, no tears had come. Ever since she had discovered Malcolm's body, it felt like something in her had broken, and her heart would not come out from its shelter to help her to adjust.
Hanged, they'd said. Or perhaps beheaded. Who knew. There were many ways that people liked to kill in these brutal days, at least that was what she had learned from her father and then from her husband. She wondered which method they would choose when they took her short, miserable life from her.
Maybe it should have been easy, but it wasn't. The injustice rankled inside Maeve, and she was desperate to fight back, to find her place, to findherself. She hadn't killed Malcolm, but she almost wished she had, because at least then she would have stood up for herself. Now it was too late, and she'd die here alone, her name besmirched as a barren murderess, with barely anyone who would mourn her.
Breana would cry, she was sure, and maybe Ann. Eoin would be sorrowful. But beyond that? She doubted Nessa would be particularly invested in her fate either way, and as for their father, well, he'd probably just be angry that she'd wasted herself as a valuable commodity to the O'Sullivan name.
There'd be nobody to visit the grave of Maeve O'Sullivan — she had never been able to think of herself as Maeve Darach — and soon she would fade into nothingness.
With that thought, Maeve closed her eyes, and said goodbye to the last of her hope.
2
Chapter Two
Maeve wasn't sure how many hours had passed. It had grown quiet, the guards off somewhere nearby but not directly outside anymore, and for quite some time the only sound had been the persistentdrip, drip, dripof some leftover water from the last rain as it worked its way through the stones into the floor of her cell. May showers weren't uncommon, but Maeve was surprised how much she shivered in the cold here in the dungeon. She wondered if it was just a cold season or if this dungeon was just designed to be as cold without as she now felt within.
The door to the cell creaked open, and at first, Maeve wasn't even planning on looking up. However, when a soft voice said her name, her head quirked upright to see Ann, her maid and friend, standing before her.
Ann put down the tray she was holding and hurried over. To Maeve's shock, she took out a small key and undid her manacles. "Ye poor thing," Ann said quietly. "Och, ye poor thing. I cannae believe they've left ye like this."
Maeve rubbed at her sore wrists, staring at Ann. "Ye let me free."
