She pauses before she responds. “And why’s that,Captain?”
I clench my jaw. “Wee difference of opinion yesterday is all.”
She sighs. “I’ll ask her for you.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’ll owe me.”
I shake my head, heading to the girl’s room. “Naturally.”
“I’ll be up straight away.”
“Brilliant.”
I reach the girl’s room and turn the handle, half expecting her not to be here as if she were a mystical creature or a ghost. Not an angel. Angels don’t alight in places like these.
But of course she’s still in bed, tied the way I left her, with the blanket over her. She’s asleep, but her eyes flutter open when I shut the door firmly behind me.
She doesn’t flinch or walk away as I stalk toward her.
“Have you thought better of your response yet, lass? Hmm?”
Not surprisingly, she doesn’t respond.
I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for her restraints. With one tug, her hands tumble to the bed. Wordlessly, she massages the red marks at her wrists, still holding my gaze.
“Prepared to tell me your name, then?”
Of course, no response.
She may behave differently in the presence of others, though I doubt it. I wonder if she fears me at all. She doesn’t flinch when I remove her blanket, but when I do I feel my own breath catch in my throat. Small, raised pink welts line her shoulders and arms, and her legs where the blanket rested.
What the fuck is this? I whip the blanket off her as if it’s infested, though I know it’s clean.
“Why the hell are you all pink like this?”
She frowns down at herself, and doesn’t react in surprise but only shrugs her shoulders as if to say, “Who knows?”
What a strange, strange lass she is.
A knock comes to the door. Islan, then. I rise, intending to open the door just far enough to take the clothes. But I could use a second opinion.
Both Islan and Paisley stand on the other side of the door. Paisley behind Islan, shorter and paler. She wants to see our prisoner, then.
“She’s barely decent,” I mutter. “But I need you girls to give me your opinion.”
Islan rolls her eyes. “Nothing we haven’t seen in a bloody locker room.” Paisley flushes pink, but doesn’t look away or leave.
I step aside and let them in the room.
“Last night I put a blanket on her to keep her warm, and this morning she’s got little marks all over her like bee stings or something.”
Islan rushes to the girl, who doesn’t flinch or react in any way to being nearly naked in front of two fully-dressed women. Islan sits on the side of the bed and looks over the red marks on the woman’s arms and legs.
“Oh, my,” she says. “Bet she’s allergic to the wool or some such, Leith.”
“Yep, that’s it,” Paisley says, flushing pink. “So sorry, this seems very intrusive. What are you called?”
