PROLOGUE
DUNNEDIN, SCOTLAND, AUGUST 1351
If Anice could only make it to the door. Wave after wave of dizziness and pain passed over and through her, making the room spin before her eyes. Step by step she inched her way across the chamber. The door. Safety. Someone would help her, must help her.
The edges of the hand-embroidered nightgown dragged on the floor, soiling them even more than the blood and the spilt wine had. Her mother would not be happy at the condition of her wedding gift. Bare feet crunched on the rushes as she took one step after another; making it to the door was her only clear thought.
As she reached out to lift the latch she noticed that her hands shook. She laughed out loud at her trembling fingers and wobbly legs. If the clan saw her now—the proud (too proud, some would say) Lady Anice MacNab, beaten into begging by her husband of one night—would they look on her with respect? With pity? She would not take pity from anyone. Not even in this condition. Not even because of the monster in that bed.
The rustling of the bedcurtains scared her from her reverie and forced her to make the final step to the door. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch as quietly as she could, trying to escape the madness of the last hours.
“Going somewhere, my dear wife?” Evil dripped from his honey-coated words.
Anice didn’t hesitate—she knew her life was at stake. Sheused the last ounce of her strength and pulled the door open. The look of horror on her maid’s face told her how truly bad things really were. Firtha jumped to her feet and ran towards Anice, but Sandy got there first.
“Now, Anice, it is too early on the morn after our wedding night for us to be apart.”
He wrapped an arm around her neck and dragged her back into the room. Gasping for breath, she fought their movement back to the bed. His steps slowed and he swayed, tripping on the bedclothes strewn in his path. He released her and she crawled away, seeking safety in the distance between them. She saw Firtha standing at the door, fear and confusion on her face. Sandy saw her, too.
“You are Anice’s maid?”
Firtha simply nodded.
“Get her cleaned up while I break my fast in the hall.” Sandy sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his trews up and tied them at his waist. He leaned over to pick up his shirt from the floor, but fell to his knees and laughed.
“Too much of your fine honeyed mead, Anice, and too much of you, too, I suspect.”
Another drunken laugh and he found his shirt. Regaining his feet, he stumbled in her direction. Still panting from her efforts to escape, she scrambled to her feet. Damn her pride, but she would meet him straight on, not crawling like an animal on the floor before him.
Sandy staggered into her and grabbed her arms for support. Anice fought him, pulling backward, but his grasp grew tighter.
“You still have some fight left in you? Excellent!” Without warning he swung out at her and knocked her to the floor.
“You will await me here, dear wife. Get cleaned up for my return.”
She peeked at him from eyes nearly swollen closed and watched him lumber to the door. She thought he was gone when he turned back to her.
“I will be bringing my guests back to visit with us. I plan to show them all the wonderful tricks I taught you during ourwedding night.”
She felt the darkness swirling around her, trying to claim her. She shook her head, knowing that losing consciousness would endanger her. He must have seen the gesture and misunderstood it, for he charged back into the room.
“You are my wife now, to do with as I please. If you please me in this, I may keep you for myself. Displease me and I will share you with every man I brought here from England.”
The blow surprised her—she could see his fist moving through the air towards her. Through the haze of pain and blood she saw it move slowly. She thought she had plenty of time to dodge the blow.
She was wrong.
“Dear God in heaven!”
He should have been expecting this. He should not have been surprised. And, as the one who led the clan MacKendimen into many battles, he shouldn’t be sickened by blood or injuries. But he was.
From the pallor of her skin, she must have lost more of her blood than she kept. The bedclothes piled at his feet were saturated with it. One eye was swollen closed and her face was bruised and cut. Lying unconscious in the huge bed, she looked much, much younger than her seventeen years.
“The rest of her looks much the same, Struan. Cuts and scratches on her stomach, breasts, and back. Bruises on her arms and legs and back. And torn....” The clan healer looked at him with serious eyes. “She looks as if she was mauled by a beast.”
“God forgive me, he is a beast.”
As difficult as it was to acknowledge that his own flesh and blood did this, he knew the truth. Sandy, heir to the clan MacKendimen, was a beast, a depraved monster. And he, Struan, current laird, had unleashed it on this innocent.
