Chapter Twenty-Five
Mairi felt theslide of a blade cut across her ribs, sharp with pain. She knew the feel of a knife as it cut through her clothing and her flesh, but still the shock of it—coming during her moment with Connall—left her reeling and confused. Then rough hands grabbed her shoulders and hauled her back. She clutched onto Connall—of course, she did—but with blood seeping down her side and the hard grip of cruel hands, she had no strength to fight and no room to maneuver. Even a deep breath would make her wound worse.
She took one anyway. A scream was a woman’s first defense.
A fist caught her in the throat before she could release it. Instead of calling for help, she ended up gagging as she dropped to her knees. Her dress stuck to her side, clammy with blood, and she heard Connall’s choked-off roar of fury.
So he was caught, too.
It was dark here in this corner of the pleasure garden, but even choking as her throat throbbed with pain, she could look about her. Four men with knives stood around them while a fifth—the one who had punched her—smoothed his hand over her back and bum, squeezing her in a revolting manner.
“Not to my tastes,” the man said, “but I’ll take her anyway if I must.”
She couldn’t see the bastard, but she recognized his voice. It was that idiot Mr. Barrett. Why the hell wasn’t he halfway across the Continent?
Still choking—she exaggerated her debilitation to hide her strength—she twisted enough to see Connall. He was held back by two thick-armed brutes. One had a knife to his throat, another pressed steel against his belly. She knew enough about knife play to know that either one could kill him, though the stomach wound would take longer.
“Touch her and I’ll gut you,” Connall rasped, rage twisting his features.
“Don’t want to touch her,” Mr. Barrett said. He slapped her bottom hard before stepping away from her with a mew of disgust. “So don’t force me to.”
“What do you want?” Connall said, his voice growing stronger.
“Keep it quiet,” Mr. Barrett growled. “I’ve nothing to lose by killing you now.” The words were spoken quietly, but there was an odd cadence to his words. She read desperation in the tone. And perhaps madness.
“You won’t do it,” Connall said, his voice only marginally lower. “You want something. What is it?”
Mr. Barrett stepped up to Connall, clearly trying to intimidate. But he hadn’t the height or the presence to do that, but he still had the upper hand with two knives pressed to Connall’s body.
“Get the women to confess,” he said. “They stabbed Eugene. I’d nothing to do with it.”
Connall sneered. “An’ why would they do that?”
“Because if they don’t, I’ll do to them what I’m going to do to her.” He paused as he rocked back on his heels. “I might do it to them anyway,” he drawled. “Lucky for them, they didn’t come down this way.” He abruptly squatted down beside her. “So I got you.”
Mairi shuddered at the hatred that burned in the man’s gaze. It was so dark, so furious, that she doubted reason could touch the man. And yet, Connall tried.
“I’ll talk to them,” he said. “Let us go and I’ll—”
Barrett surged to his feet. “Lie? Tell the constable and the court ridiculous things? I didn’t kill Gene. I couldn’t. I’m not a man who uses violence.”
So he was insane. He stood there with a knife in his hand while he threatened horrible things, and still claimed he wasn’t a violent man? Connall must have seen it too. She heard the placating tone in his voice as he tried to reach Barrett.
“They won’t lie,” he said. “I’ll see to it. They’ll tell the truth about everything. Just let us go so I can tell them.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Neither did Mairi.
“They’ll have to see, they’ll have toknowwhat will happen to them if they don’t do as I say.” He gestured to her. “So I’ll do it to her.”
Mairi couldn’t believe the stupidity of the man. Did he truly think that Connall would allow such a thing? He could be restrained for only so long. The moment he had his chance, he would gut the Sassenach idiot. It was Mairi’s job to see that he got that chance. Fortunately, she already had a wound that was bleeding enough to prove self-defense in a court of law.
She began to gag.
She wasn’t the actress that some of the castle children were. She didn’t know how to gag realistically enough that even the witch woman wondered if one were dying. But if she added in enough pretend hysteria, the men didn’t know if she were dying, possessed of a spirit, or about to gut them with their own knives.
She planned for it to be that last one.
