Rolfe saw her shock and relief. He himself was stunned, in that moment knowing she had been ready to accept a martyr’s death, that she had thought her fate to be the hangman. He heard the sigh of relief rippling through the crowd. Beside him, Alice gasped. He did not care. He could not believe she had been so courageous—-just as he could not believe she knew him so little to think he would sentence her to death. He wanted to laugh—without mirth. And he wanted to weep for what was to come, yet he had never shed a tear in his life.
“Ten lashes,” he repeated, his voice husky and harsh. As anyone who had ever suffered the whip knew, ten lashes was plenty for the delicate skin of a woman. As it was, his heart was now beating frantically. He must use all his strength, all his self-discipline, every reserve he had, or he would not make it through this ordeal. He was a scant instant from reversing his decision, and he knew it. He nodded abruptly to Guy.
Ceidre was led to a post and turned to face it, her back to the crowd. Guy ripped open her dress from shoulder to waist. Her back was long and elegant and graceful, her skin slightly tinged with gold. Rolfe realized he had ceased to breathe. “Louis,” he barked, causing the man holding the whip to turn sharply.
“Ne rompe pas la peau,”Rolfe commanded harshly.Do not break her skin.
Louis paled.
Rolfe was sweating. He saw Ceidre stretched taut, unmoving. “Begin,” he said.
The lash snaked through the air and sliced cleanly across Ceidre’s back. She jerked but did not cry out. Her skin did not break, but a fat red welt appeared. Rolfe clenched his fists, hard. Beside him, Alice made a sound, something that sounded impossibly like a snicker. Rolfe shot her a quick glance and saw that she was smiling. Furious, he hissed, “Restrain your pleasure, Lady!”
Again, Ceidre spasmed beneath the whip, and Rolfe flinched as well, he who had never flinched in the face of physical hurt before. The whip fell again and again. It was not until the sixth lash that she made a sound, a small cry of anguish. Rolfe took one step off the stairs. The seventh and eighth lashes fell, and a streak of blood appeared among the crisscrossing of welts. Ceidre gasped and moaned, jerking hard against her ropes. Rolfe gripped the hitching post near him with all his strength. He could not remove his eyes from Ceidre, yet he was aware of his wife’s guttural pleasure in her sister’s pain. The final lash descended. Ceidre sagged, trembling, against the post. Rolfe moved.
He was at her side and cutting her free before Louis had even coiled his whip. He ignored the gasping of the crowd. The last three lashes had cut into her delicate skin, making him sicker than he already was. Had he eaten this day, he would be throwing up. “Ceidre,” he managed, supporting her with one arm around her waist.
“Don’t touch me,” she murmured, gasping, but she did not fight him.
Very gently he lifted her into his arms. “Je le regrette,” he whispered.
She whimpered and clung, tightly, her face buried in his neck.
Rolfe carried her inside and up the stairs. His instinct was to carry her into his bedchamber, but reason returned, and he swept her into the solar and upon the bed that had been Alice’s before the lady had become his wife. Ever so gently, he laid her down, upon her stomach.
Alice was on his heels. “What are you doing?” she cried, pink-faced. “She must be put in the stocks, then the dungeons! You have already been too lenient—”
Rolf whirled, enraged. “Your conduct is ungracious.”
Alice froze.
“Get to our chamber and think on what befits the lady of this manor.”
Alice’s eyes went wide. “You would confine me to our chamber?”
“Go now,” Rolfe roared. “Until I request your presence!”
Taking a deep breath, Alice turned and stalked out.
Rolfe closed his eyes briefly, assailed with the image of his wife as Ceidre writhed in pain beneath the whip. Alice had enjoyed her sister’s punishment, and the recollection was hideous. Then he moved, dropping to one knee. His hands ached to touch her, but Ceidre lifted her head to look at him, pain in her gaze—and hatred. “Get away from me,” she hissed.
At the very least, Rolfe wanted to tuck back errant strands of hair away from her face. Her tone, and her hate, stopped him; his arms fell to his sides. He rose. “You will be tended to,” he said, his tone hoarse even to his own ears. “And you are confined to this room.” He wanted her close by, and comfortable, until she healed. And he would not question his own motives.
“What?” Ceidre was sarcastic, drippingly so. Then her voice broke. “You do not listen to your good wife, my sister? You do not toss me into the dungeons? Do you now, belatedly, show mercy?” To her horror, a fat tear escaped to roll slowly down her cheek.
Rolfe hated himself too, so he could understand now how she felt. He watched the path of the tear, wishing he had the courage to reach out and erase it— he who had never lacked courage before. His gaze moved to her back, swollen with welts, and the three long abrasions where, finally, the whip had broken her skin. She would be scarred. Because of him.
Her name was on his lips, and he could not prevent its escaping, low and harsh, urgent and agonized. “Ceidre …”
She seared him with contempt and turned her face to the wall.
Rolfe studied her. There was nothing else for him to do but to leave, yet he was loath to. She was so pitiful now in her wounded state, yet so magnificent in her courage. He turned away.
Only when he had closed the door behind him did Ceidre begin to weep.
“There, there,” her grandmother soothed. “I know it hurts, just hold still.”
Ceidre tried to do as she was told while her granny cleaned her abrasions to prevent an infection. Every little touch stung, and her back burned and throbbed unbearably. More tears seeped from her eyes, tears of pain and self-pity.
