CHAPTER ONE
THEBRUTEWASUPONME.
His clawing hand lashed only inches from the rough fabric of the men’s trews I wore. I skittered out of his reach, thankful that I’d chosen the unfashionable training garb this morning, instead of a servant’s dress, which would have been far easier to grab.
But Laird Ogilvie was quick for a large, slightly overweight, middle-age lout. Blustery determination reddened his face.
“Your mother escaped me only through death,” the laird said callously. “You’ll not be so lucky.”
Lunging again, his fingers caught the back of my shirt and yanked, causing the tunic to choke me around the neck. He took the opportunity to push me facedown into the plush furs of his expansive bed. I turned my head and gasped for breath, struggling against his hold.
“Why do you insist on wearing the clothing of men, lass? ’Tis most unbecoming. I’ll get rid of them for you, shall I?”
I had timed my visit to the laird’s chambers poorly. It was my job to tidy up his rooms each morning and return all the cups and bowls from his evening’s revelries to the kitchens. And I had carried out my duties faithfully for almost five years, always careful to avoid his presence. Yet today, he had waited for me, keepinghimself hidden until he was sure we were alone, and the door was closed. Now it was too late to escape him.
“In this keep, my word is law and you’ll not forget it,” he spoke gruffly. His hands continued to push the cloth of my tunic higher up my back as he held my wrists with his other hand. “You forget the change in your status. You are no longer the daughter of a landholder, nor entitled to the privileges that accompany such a position. Your mother was equally forgetful. After your father’s death, she, too, had difficulty coming to terms with her demotion. She could have continued to live in your farmhouse. But she refused me. Stubborn, she was. Desirable, aye, but mightily stubborn.”
I struggled against the pressure of his body, bearing down on mine.
“I stripped her of her land, aye, in the hopes she would submit to me. Still, she fought me.” One of the laird’s hands held my own in his viselike grasp while the other smoothed along the bare skin of my hip, following the curve of my waist, roaming higher. “It was only when I usedyouas my pawn, not long before her death, that she finally gave up her futile resistance. You should be grateful to her, lass. She would agree to anything to keep me from pursuing you.Anything.But now that she is lost to us, there is nothing to stop me. I have been watching you for some time. But you already know that, do you not, Roses?”
Aye, I knew it. My mother had offered me a sad warning as she lay dying. It was one of the reasons I hid myself under loose, men’s clothing and avoided the laird at all costs.
“You’re a kitchen servant,” the laird continued, “but you could be so much more. ’Tis time for you to makeyourself useful. A mistress of the laird is afforded special privileges, you realize. Private chambers, lightened duties, fine dresses, time and protection to stroll the gardens freely.”
Were these the same words of enticement he’d whispered to my mother?
“Nay.”
“Nay?”
“I’ll not agree.”
He was silent and still for a moment, then I heard his soft chuckle. “I didn’t ask for your agreement, lass. I own you, and I intend to take what is mine.”
I heard a soft whimper and realized it was I who had uttered it. The sound of it gave clarity to my choice—the choice that was nestled uncomfortably against my front pocket, in a rough leather pouch. A knife. I was allowed to use it for kitchen and garden duties but kept it with me for protection, though this was the first time I needed to use it for that reason. Knowing it was there now, digging into my hip, gave me but small comfort as the laird pulled on the waistband of my trews. His grip on my wrists slackened as he focused on his goal, pushing my shirt up to my neck where it bunched against my hair.
The laird froze. There was a note of shock in his voice when he spoke again. “What is this? This mark?”
I didn’t answer. I concentrated on making my movements as inconspicuous as I could as I grasped toward the knife with my left hand.
Ogilvie’s fingers brushed across the skin near the middle of my back, drawing a circular pattern. He seemed distracted, almost amazed, before his harsh tone returned.
“Who put this ink to you? Answer me!”
“I know not what you speak of,” I gasped.
But it was a lie.
I had spent most of my life attempting to keep the tiny tattoo between my shoulder blades hidden from sight. I bathed carefully when others were around. I wore my hair long. And I covered myself with bulky clothing. Now, I squirmed wildly, equally terrified by the exposure of this small inked mark and the rest of my body. My mind whirled to a shadowy memory that had instilled a lingering fear into the mind of a lost child.
An ancient, superstitious healer had been summoned by my parents when I’d been ill with measles as a very small child. A wizened face. A crooked finger, pointing and accusing. A shrill warning, never forgotten. “A witch’s mark! She’ll be beaten, flayed, burned at the stake! Keep this hidden! At all costs—keep this hidden.”
Laird Ogilvie continued his study, drawing across the ink with his fingertip. “It looks like a seal of some description. A seal of—”
The chambers echoed with a sudden, weighty silence. It was the type of silence Ogilvie and his officers typically employed when a servant interrupted one of their gatherings just as a critical piece of information was about to be revealed.
I didn’t know if he was considering my flaying, my burning or something else entirely. Whatever the laird had been contemplating, his renewed enthusiasm for carrying out his task was now making itself felt. He fumbled with the fastenings of his trews.
