A stifled snigger came from the shadows.
‘Oh, come out, Robert,’ she giggled. ‘The game is up, and I won the bet.’
‘What bet?’ he said.
His stomach had soured with humiliation as Robert Strachan – handsome, arrogant son of the Laird - emerged from the shadows.
‘My sister bet me ten shillings that she could have you on a hook in a week,’ he drawled. ‘She works fast, does she not, and you, the eager pig, trotting after her as though you had a ring through your nose?’
‘And pig, he is. He kisses like a peasant,’ she said.
He cast an agonising glance at Elene Strachan. Her face had turned from sweet flirtation to rapt cruelty, and in that moment, he saw her for what she really was – a devourer of men’s hearts.
Peyton never made the mistake of getting too close to her again, but even now, whenever he thought of Elene Strachan, his breast thudded with rage. And Cecily MacCreadie’s heart-clenching eyes had just brought the memory of Elene out of its hiding place.
Chapter Seven
Cecily woke with a start and a little shriek. For a moment, she thought she’d had a dream until the cold, miserable room came into focus. It was no dream. It was a nightmare. It all came flooding back – Edmund’s cruelty, her rough rescuer holding out a bloody hand, that woman who had been so harsh last night.
The fire had gone out, and the wind still howled. She had no idea what time of day it was, but light was coming in the shutters. How could she have slept at all?
She dreaded the old woman coming back, for she had been horrid and had said nought but that her name was Bertha, and then ignored all Cecily’s pleas for help. All she had done was forcibly strip her before the fire, then wordlessly scrub and scrape at her sore body to clean her up. The bruises all over it had given the woman pause.
Oh, it all came back now. That mortifying conversation.
‘I heard what happened to you,’ said Bertha. ‘Running away with a man who promised marriage, wasn’t it? I am sorry to ask, lass, but did the man who attacked you take your honour, my dear?’
‘What do you mean?’
Bertha had frowned. ‘Did he place himself inside you, lass.’
‘Place himself?' said Cecily. Why was the old fool talking in riddles?
The woman, Bertha, rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, I see I must speak plainly. Did the fellow push his member between your legs?’
‘Good heavens, no. Why would he do that?’
The woman raised her eyebrows and then briskly continued rubbing a wet rag over Cecily’s face to clean off the dirt.
‘I had nothing to do with his…his member. We were not married, you see. Why are you talking in this dirty way?’
‘Tis not for me to say,’ she muttered. ‘That is a talk for you and your mother, and good luck to her.’ The woman snorted back a laugh.
‘My mother is dead,’ said Cecily, and then there had been pity in the woman’s eyes. She did not scrub as hard after that.
‘Eat, lass,’ she’d said later, offering a platter of food - cheese, some black bread, and a few hazelnuts.
‘I think I will be sick if I do.’
‘Nibble on some bread and take some ale to fortify yourself, for it sounds to me like you have had quite the ordeal, and you being so innocent and after that man...’ Bertha trailed off, then said more briskly, ‘You must fill your belly or my laird will be cross.’
‘So that brute Peyton is a laird? He does not look like one, all beaten up like that.’
The woman stiffened. ‘He may be rough around the edges, but you’ll find no more honourable man in all the Marches. Now I’ve left a clean shift to sleep in and a dress for the morning. You cannot put your old things back on,’ she added, holding up Cecily’s torn dress with a look of disgust.
With that, Bertha had swept out, with Cecily calling after her in a fury, ‘If he was so bloody honourable, that Peyton fellow would not be locking me up like a dog.’
But her complaining had done no good, so here she was, waking after a horrible night with just a few snatched hours of sleep. Trying to battle a wave of homesickness, Cecily swept out of bed and tried the door. Still locked. She pressed an ear against the stout oak and listened. Nothing, save that blasted wind.
