"Let her go," Graham said from the desk. "Ye've nae paid yet."
"Of course." Ashcombe gestured, and one guard kept Mhairi pinned while he reached into his coat. He produced a leather purse, tossing it onto the desk. "Ninety, as agreed. Count it if you wish."
Graham picked up the purse, weighing it in his hand. "Always dae." He opened it, began counting coins onto the desk.
"I will be trouble," Mhairi snarled, still fightin' against the guards' grip. "I'll be naethin' but trouble, I swear it."
Ashcombe's breath was hot against her ear. "Good. I prefer my wives with spirit. Makes the breaking so much more... satisfying."
Mhairi's vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. "Ye'll never break me."
"We'll see."
"The count is correct," Graham announced. "She's yers, Yer Grace."
"Excellent." Ashcombe nodded to his men. They began dragging Mhairi toward the door. She kicked, screamed, bit one guard's hand hard enough to draw blood?—
He backhanded her across the face. Stars exploded in her vision.
"Carefully," Ashcombe said mildly. "I don't want her damaged."
They hauled her out into the corridor, then toward another door that led outside. To the stables.
No one came near. No one even tried.
This was her life now, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to stop it.
"Get her on the horse."
Ashcombe's voice cut through the night air like a blade. Mhairi's hands were bound in front of her, rough rope biting into her wrists, but she wasnae about to make this easy for them.
"I can walk," she spat.
"You'll ride." Ashcombe nodded to one of his men. "And you'll do so quietly, or I'll gag you as well."
The stable yard was dark save for a few scattered torches. Two men flanked Ashcombe, hired swords by the look of them, bothwearing leather armor and carrying blades that had seen plenty of use. Beyond them, the forest loomed like a wall of shadows.
If she was going to run, it had to be now.
"Come along, darling." Ashcombe reached for her arm.
Mhairi bolted.
She made it perhaps ten steps before hands caught her from behind, spinning her around. She kicked out hard, connecting with someone's shin. A curse. Then she was running again, rope-bound hands and all, headed straight for the tree line?—
One of the guards tackled her from the side.
"Nay!" Mhairi hit the ground hard, all the air rushin' from her lungs. "Let me..."
"Enough of this." Ashcombe's voice was cold now. All pretense of civility gone. "Bind her ankles as well."
"Nay!" Mhairi thrashed as rough hands grabbed her legs. "Ye cannae dae this. I'm nae going with ye."
More rope. Tight around her ankles. She was lifted bodily, thrown over someone's shoulder like a sack of grain, and then deposited sideways across a horse's saddle.
"Please." Her voice broke despite her best efforts. "Please, just let me go. I swear I'll?—"
"You'll what?" Ashcombe mounted his own horse, reins in hand. "Run back to the father who sold you? I think not." He nodded to his men. "We ride south. No stops until dawn."
