“While they play, I shall, too. I’d hoped to save this for a more…special…time, but now will have to do. I mark my women, ye ken, so they canna forget me.”
The tip of the dirk slipped inside her dress and cut the cloth from the inside. Caitrin flailed and fought, but MacGregor overpowered her easily as he set the dirk on the floor out of her reach. He jerked the fabric aside and pulled a smaller, thinner blade from somewhere on his person. With it, he cut the skin of her breast in short, sharp strokes she did not feel—yet.
“I love the needles of the Scotch pine,” MacGregor murmured as he worked. “’Tis the MacGregor plant symbol, of course, the one we wear into battle. Did ye enjoy our battle, Lady Fletcher? I did. Of course, scratched into a whore’s skin, the pine can be seen as so many other things. And I can add as many little branches and needles as she deserves.”
Sensation reached Caitrin’s fogged mind. Stinging, hot blood welling, running warm on her skin, the metallic scent irritating her nose. MacGregor’s monotone pronouncements, as if he, too, was in a trance.
“How many do ye deserve, my betrothed? Did ye give yerself to him, that Lathan?”
Caitrin fought the pain, knowing it was futile, praying for Alasdair to stop. For Jamie to stop him. She had no idea whether the Lathans were winning or being taken prisoner again. Or killed.Jamie!A whimper of his name escaped her, earning her another backhanded blow from MacGregor.
“Ye dare!”
Caitrin’s head reeled, but she managed a breath. At least when he hit her, he ceased cutting her.
“Ye utter his name? I’ve been easy on ye, putting my mark on yer breast. It usually goes much lower. Much lower, ye ken?”
He was pulling up her skirt, again!
“But ye called for yer lover, so ye deserve my worst. I’ll cut ye there, too. My men can keep them busy long enough for me to enjoy doing that.” He gripped her hip then forced her leg aside, opening her inner thigh to his blade. “I usually take them first, but I want to mark ye as mine, then I’ll take ye. I’ll enjoy it so much more with yer blood on my skin. ’Tis all I have left, since ye gave yer virgin’s blood tohim.”
“Nay,” Caitrin managed to protest. “Dinna do this.” If she was lucky, she might provoke him into hitting her hard enough to knock her out. She tried to clench her legs together, but MacGregor knelt painfully on her thigh. She flailed at his arms and he slapped her.
“Nay, ye willna stop me. And ye will be awake to enjoy this. My women ken when they’re being marked.”
The first cut wrenched a weak scream from her. She could tell it was deeper than the others he’d made on her breast. He made the next cut more shallow, and shorter. If the first was a branch and the rest were needles, then how many branches did he think to do? He could lame her.
She continued to struggle, but pain made her nauseous and eventually, she doubled over, rolling her upper body to the side. Where was Jamie? Why was this happening to her? MacGregor took his time between cuts. Did he enjoy watching her blood well in the lines he made? She waited until he lifted his blade from her skin, then she tried to buck him off her thigh. But he was too heavy, too strong, and she was too weak. Too defeated. He didn’t bother to strike her—merely waited for her to give up and lie still.
How much longer would he cut her? Would he rape her here, in front of his men? Of course he would, and call it a bride-bedding. He would want to flaunt his mastery and proclaim the paternity of the laird’s children. Too bad for him, Jamie had her first. Thank God. During what was surely to come, she would have to hold on to that memory.
What if she got with child? How would she know who to name the father?
God, the pain. Another branch, then. More pine needle scratches. She looked desperately around. Through the partially open door, she could see several of MacGregor’s men were down. Uilleam, Jamie and the rest of the Lathans were still fighting. Her breath hissed at the next scratch, but she forced herself to pay attention to what was going on around her. Aye, a lot of Alasdair’s men were down and the Lathans were now about evenly matched.
What could she do to distract Alasdair? To buy time?
“Alasdair, please, ye’re hurting me.”
He paused and turned his head to regard her quizzically.
Which meant he stopped cutting, if only for a moment.
“That is what I mean to do, my dear.”
“Ye didna need to do this. I wouldha bled for ye,” she lied. Or perhaps she did not lie. Jamie’s possession happened so recently, the next penetration might have the same result.
“Ye are a whore for that Lathan. I ken it.”
“How could ye ken such a thing? I wouldna dishonor ye under yer own roof.”
“Ye would. And steal from me, too, and lie about that as well.”
“If ye have such a low opinion of me, why do ye wish to marry me?”
“I dinna. No’ any more.” He leered and Caitrin’s heart sank as he waved the bloody point of the knife before her face. “Ye will be my mistress. That is all.”
He had gone quite mad. There was no other explanation.
