Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (14 page)

“What has happened here?” Beatrice asked. She flashed accusing eyes on Ceana and Macrath. “What have
you
done?”

And so the game had begun.

’Twas hard not to laugh at the bitch’s accusation. “What have
we
done?” Ceana narrowed her eyes at Beatrice. What was the woman’s game? The men on the council stood stoically behind her, scowling at the charred remains of the outbuildings.

“We have fought a fire that was set deliberately,” Macrath said. “Some might question where you have been and why you did not help as well.”

“Why should we? ’Tis not our castle,” Leonard answered.

“You are right about that,” Macrath replied. “I think ’tis best that you leave Sìtheil now, and for good.”

Beatrice let out a short, vicious laugh. “Leave? Whatever for?”

Macrath took a step forward. “Because this is not your castle. This is not your land. These are not your people. We are not your pawns. We do not need your help, and as Councilman Leonard just said, you wouldn’t be willing to give it, as is evidenced by your lack of assistance the whole night through.”

Beatrice started to reply but Macrath held up his hand, and Ceana held her breath, expecting Beatrice to somehow fly from her perch to gouge out his eyes.

“I’m not finished,” he said. “There are many suspicions that perhaps the five of you had something to do with the fire. Consider our request for you to leave as a precaution against harm coming to you.”

“Are you threatening us?” Leonard asked.

Macrath held out his hands, walking forward. “I have no need of threats, councilman. ’Tis simply a fact.”

Leonard sputtered. Beatrice looked mad enough for dragon’s fire to come out of her mouth any moment. The other three were silent. Why did they not speak?

“How dare you?” Beatrice seethed. “After all we’ve done for you!”

“What have you done?” Macrath asked.

“You have brought nothing but misery to Sìtheil and its people. To us,” Ceana said.

The crowd began to grumble. Ceana and Macrath had planted a seed in their minds. The people could now see that she and Macrath were their saviors, that they did not agree with the way the council had treated them in the past.

She glanced up at her husband and whispered, “Should we speak with the council inside? I do not want the people to witness too much more of our argument with them.”

“Aye, ’tis for the best,” he said. Then to Beatrice, “We’ll discuss this further with you inside.”

Before she could respond he turned his back on her to address their people. “Please, go and wash yourselves and sleep. We all need the rest. At noon we shall return here to begin the cleanup, the rebuilding of our safe haven.”

The council had already retreated indoors and waited for them impatiently in the great hall. Ceana kept her chin high, shoulders back. She wasn’t going to let them intimidate her, though she felt as big as a mouse right then.

The fire in the hearth raged, but she kept herself from flinching, even when a log popped and broke in half.

She kept her gaze steadily on the council, inhaling deeply to keep from lashing out. They had gone too far. They wanted to kill Ceana and Macrath, but apparently they didn’t care who else they killed to meet their goals.

“Where is the burned victim?” Ceana asked no one in particular. The guards had brought him into the great hall initially, but now there was no sign of him or the healers.

“He’s been removed,” Beatrice replied with an annoyed eye roll.

“Removed?” Ceana narrowed her gaze at the councilwoman and suppressed a cough from her ravaged lungs.

Beatrice stood by the hearth, checking her nails as though this were a boring reunion with people she seldom saw. The lack of empathy at all toward what had just happened, about a man who’d nearly died because of it, was astounding.

Leonard had poured himself a goblet of wine or ale and was refilling it. The other three paced the room, murmuring to each other.

Macrath marched forward to pour himself a drink, but handed her a cup first. She drank quickly and then refilled another. The watered wine made her throat feel a little better, but her lungs still burned something fierce.

“Can you not at least go wash yourselves before we speak?” Beatrice said disgustedly, looking down her nose at them. “You look like a couple of vagrants begging for scraps.”

Macrath tensed beside her and Ceana actually feared he might attack the bitch. He set down his cup, hands curled into fists. She grabbed his arm and then slid her hand into his, prying his fingers lightly from his palm, hoping that would calm him.

“We have just fought a battle. A raging fire that could have destroyed the castle and everyone in it, and yet you disparage us for the soot?” Macrath said.

Beatrice’s head snapped upward. “Aye. I do. As leaders, as
royals,
you should never appear as the peasants do. And we shall never address you as anything other than lowly beasts unless you present yourselves to us as you should.”

Ceana gripped tighter to Macrath’s hand. He was so close to hitting Beatrice and she was angry enough to let him, but that would not help anything. It would only make the situation worse.

Instead, she chose to ignore the councilwoman’s demands. “We are going to bathe, but not until we’ve spoken to you first. Did you do this? Was this your idea? Another challenge for us to complete? In your sick, corrupted mind do you think that we still play games?”

Beatrice smirked, her hands falling to her sides and for the first time since they’d entered the great hall she met their gazes full-on.

“Games?” She laughed. “Oh, that is too much. Why would I ever think any of this was a game?”

Macrath growled. She was just toying with them. Biding her time, slowly driving them mad. Beatrice was poison.

“You’ll leave by sundown,” Macrath said.

“We’ll do nothing of the sort,” Beatrice retorted, her cheeks growing red with anger.

“Aye, you will, else I’ll kill you.” Macrath took a menacing step in their direction and Ceana tried weakly to hold him back.

Beatrice smirked again. The woman had to think she was invincible. “You will do no such thing.”

Leonard moved closer to Macrath, his eyes darting from him to Ceana. “Our army marches on Sìtheil,” he gloated, smugness filling his features.

Army? Inside, Ceana was startled. Her stomach plummeted, blood drained all the way to her feet. On the outside, she tried to keep herself from looking as horrified as she felt.

Beatrice also appeared a little surprised but quickly recovered. “Leonard, shut your mouth.”

Was Beatrice surprised because she didn’t know or because she didn’t expect him to say anything about it?

“I won’t. These beetle-headed fools do not know one thing about ruling!” Leonard shouted, his hands flailing and spittle flying from his lips. He loomed closer, coming within a foot of Macrath’s face. This time, Ceana did let go of her husband’s hand and shifted away.

“You are going to go down in the flames we set to this place,” Leonard hissed.

The three other councilmen stopped pacing. They positioned themselves behind Beatrice, their eyes directed expectantly at Ceana. What were they waiting for?

“That is where you are wrong, you cod-livered weakling,” Macrath answered. “You stand behind your title, behind the wrath of your mistress. Beatrice is twice the man any of you are. She demands respect while the lot of you only reap the sorrows of your pasts and of your deluded minds.”

Leonard’s expression was mildly surprised as he regarded Macrath.

“You think we don’t know exactly what you did last night, or what you’ve been planning to do since we were crowned?” Macrath continued. “Do you think we won’t retaliate? You may have your army marching, but they’ll not make it far. The lands are cursed with the dead of many, and we will pierce your wolves through the heart with our iron swords.”

Chapter Fifteen

EVERY inch of him hurt. Well, every inch that he could feel.

His legs were numb. Arms felt tingly, and he wasn’t certain all of his fingers were still attached. His body was bruised, ribs were broken, and iron spikes still pierced his skin. If he moved, sheer agony filled him, so he worked hard to stand tall. A challenge, considering the deadened sensation of his legs—he tried to wiggle his toes—and now his toes.
Bloody hell!

How long had he been inside the iron maiden?

Days? A sennight? A fortnight? Longer?

He did not know. He did not even remember his name let alone how to measure time.

What
was
his name? He tried to imagine someone calling out to him—what would they say?

Every attempt to recall something so personal, so
him
, was gone. Wiped clean as though he’d just been reborn. Which he might have been, since she’d fished him from the loch half dead. Or was he dead? He might have been…

It was dark inside the iron maiden. That was where he was. Still. He knew that was where he was, for every time the Angel put him back inside, the rusty spikes stabbed into his skin. Sometimes they pierced his old wounds. Sometimes they created new ones.

It did not matter, for every instance she put him back he screamed as though he were feeling the pain for the first time.

Would he die in here?

Probably.

Though he hoped not. He’d love to be set free. To feel the sun on his face. To know his true name.

He didn’t remember what it felt like to have the sun on his skin, but he knew it was glorious. He knew that was what he wanted—to be free. And if he knew all that, then his name would come back to him, wouldn’t it?

A loud grumbling filled the inside of the maiden, echoing in its sadness. His belly. Sometimes the Angel fed him, but most times she forgot. He supposed he shouldn’t complain too much. She treated him well in other ways.

She let him make love to her. She let him pleasure her. He mostly liked doing that and he was proud that he’d been able to. Especially because if he didn’t she would slit his throat. When he fucked her, he was saving himself.

There was someone else he needed to save, too. But he couldn’t remember who it was. Just like he couldn’t remember who he was or why he’d been in the loch to begin with.

A dull roar sounded inside his head, like the sound of rushing waves. This often happened when he tried to picture himself inside the cold water. Aye, cold. He knew that much, too. He could hear things, almost like the sounds of people screaming under the chilly depths.

Had he not been alone when he was drowning?

Keep your wits about you
.

“Who said that?” he croaked. His throat was dry, painful. His mouth tasted metallic. Blood dripped from the wounds in his forehead and into his mouth.

’Tis your thoughts, you nitwit
.

Ah, aye, he was alone with his thoughts, only the inside of his mind to torment him. Who was he again?

When she returns, you must overtake her. You must escape.

The worst possible jest if there ever was one. He’d never be able to overpower her. She was an angel or a goddess, filled with the powers of the sky. For certain she could not be flesh and blood. Though he’d seen her bleed, and he’d touched her flesh. He dared not cross her. The one time he’d tried to struggle, she’d chained him to the wall and buggered him in the arse. How did a woman do such a thing? Was it all his imagination?

Nay. She’d done it. He remembered. His still hurt.

She was not human. She was not real. He was in a demon’s lair and she made him think she—

“Oh, my darling.” ’Twas her. The singsong voice. The Angel.

She’s no angel, you fool.

He let out a moan, hoping she’d be pleased to hear he was still awake, and praying she’d brought him food.

Iron grated on iron. The key. She was unlocking the maiden. The light of the candle momentarily blinded him. He blinked, feeling his eyes tear and spill onto his face. What relief to be free from the spikes that tormented him. She stood before him, looking frantic.

“You’ve served your time in the maiden, warrior. Now you must become strong. I need you.”

She needed him. Oh, how wonderful it felt to be needed. But he was so weak he could not help her. He felt powerless.

“You have me. I am yours,” he said, all the same. Wouldn’t do to have her thinking he could not perform the duties she tasked him with.

“Oh, how sweet. Come drink some wine with me. I brought you something to break your fast.” She held out her hand to him.

Sustenance
. Gods, but he needed it. He moaned in pleasure. ’Twas hard, but he managed to pull himself from the spikes in the back of the maiden, his weak arm reaching out and gripping her hand. She was warm whereas he was cold. Her grip was strong whereas he was weak. He walked, as she bid him, groaning in pain.

“My poor darling, what has happened to you?” she asked, as though she didn’t know exactly what had happened—she’d been the one to put him in there.

She’d been the one to torment him, however long he’d been there. This was her doing. Did she hope to trick him into believing it was someone else?

“Come wash yourself.”

Clean… Gods, but he wanted to be clean. A thick film of dirt, blood, sweat and other unimaginable things covered him. The water could be as cold as ice and he wouldn’t care.

As cold as the loch you almost drowned in…

She led him to a bucket of hot water—steam still rolled off the top. Not cold? But warm?

“I shall bathe you.”

Was this a trick? Why was she being so solicitous? He shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. Would she execute him today? The thought had crossed his mind many times—and most of those times, he’d wished she would. To put him out of his misery.

“Why… why are you being so nice?”

Her eyes snapped to his and for a flash the crazed dragon he knew her to be showed deep, but then she quickly smiled, the fire leaving her eyes. “I am always nice to you, my love.”

Her
love
? She was mad. Utterly mad.

But he wasn’t going to argue. Nay, arguing would only get him beaten. To her, killing him was probably the easy way out and she wouldn’t take the easy way out. Nay, she liked to make things hard for him.

So be it. He would let her bathe him.

Being that he was already naked, he did not have to get undressed. He scooted closer to the steaming bucket, eyeing the water. It smelled of rosemary and other pleasant things.

The lady dipped a linen into the warm water then squeezed it over his back. He shivered in pleasure. It felt so good. Like heaven. She rubbed a ball of soap made from tallow and ash on the linen, then scraped it over his back.

He gritted his teeth as she worked, cleaning his wounds and the days of filth from every part of him. When she was finished, the scent of rosemary and herbs stayed on his skin. The water in the bucket was cloudy.

Closing his eyes, he swayed on his feet, his throat tight with emotion. He was utterly ashamed at whom he’d become. Like a babe or invalid who needed to be scrubbed.

But who was I before? Why do I know this is so wrong?

She dried him with a plush towel, and he shivered without the filmy dirt layer to keep him warm. He supposed it was too much to hope that she’d light a fire for him.

“All clean. I hope you’re hungry.” She led him toward the pallet where he normally pleasured her.

Sitting on the floor beside it was a platter of meat, cheese, bread and dried apples. The scents of it made his eyes water and he was surprised he’d not seen it until now. Perhaps the bath had been so enticing that he’d forgotten food altogether.

“A feast just for you,” she exclaimed.

He tried to sit, but mostly collapsed onto the pallet, banging his elbow painfully on the ground. He was so weak. Weaker than he’d thought.

Overtake her. Escape
.
Do it now before it’s too late.

But he had to eat first and he wished he could refuse the wine, as the drink would muddle his brain on such an empty stomach, but he was so thirsty. She handed him the cup, nearly overflowing, and he grabbed hold of it with two hands, drinking deeply. The wine was fit for royals—not watered or cheaply made, but full-bodied and intense. He drained the cup and held it out for another.

“Do not drink so fast, silly, else you’ll fall asleep before you’ve had a chance to eat.”

She took the cup from him and replaced it with a leg of chicken or goose or duck. He didn’t know which, only that it was salted to perfection and greasy. He devoured it, licking his fingers. The best damn leg of fowl he’d ever had. She thrust a hunk of cheese and then a sliver of dried apple into each of his hands. He stuffed them in and greedily waited while he chewed for her to give him more.

“My, my, you are so hungry, Ulric.” She grinned at him coyly.

Though she was a mad bitch, he found her pretty in a rough sort of way. He liked the look of her face. The way she talked to him now, he could almost pretend they were courting, and that he was not her prisoner.

“Ul—” He cleared his throat, his voice catching on cobwebs. “Ulric? Is that my name?”

She smiled, nodding and trailing her fingers delicately over his calf. He felt his groin stir, longing for her and this new gentle way she treated him.

“Aye, you are Ulric.” She gazed at his cock, her grin growing wider.

“Ulric.” He rolled the name over his tongue, searching for familiarity and not sensing any. That couldn’t be his name. “Are you certain?”

Without warning, she slapped him. A hard, stinging slap that snapped his head to the right.

“Oh, my darling, I am so sorry.” She leaned in close and gripped his cheek, kissing him swiftly and repeatedly against the mark. “I did not mean to do that, but you made me so angry. Why did you have to do that? Why did you have to make me angry?”

And then she was kissing his mouth, licking at the blood from the cracks on his parched lips.

He was immediately aroused. His cock grew hard, partially from fear but also because he desired her. She was mean. She was cruel, but when he was inside her he felt like he was in heaven. Like he was the one in charge. And he liked that feeling. That sense of power, even if it was because he didn’t want her to hurt him more. Instinctively, he cupped her cheek, but she gripped his wrist hard enough to make him wince.

“Do not touch me unless I ask you to,” she commanded.

“Aye, my lady,” he said.

She gripped his cock, stroking upward, eliciting pleasure beyond even that of the food. He closed his eyes, moaning.

“You want me,” she said.

“Aye,” he answered.

She pushed him back onto the pallet and climbed on top of him, her knees pinning his arms to the ground beside his body. She hiked up her gown, and her wet sex pressed to his cock.

“How bad do you want me?” she asked, rolling her hips.

He gritted his teeth against the pleasure, forcing himself not to climax. “I cannot breathe without you.”

She smiled cruelly and tapped him in the nose, then wrapped her long fingers around his neck. “You are right about that.”

The bitch squeezed tight against his throat, at the same time impaling herself on his erection. She cried out, tightening her hold on his neck.

Now he truly couldn’t breathe, but that didn’t bother him all the much. If Ulric died making love to her, then so be it. What kind of existence did he live anyway? Not much. He was tortured. Abused.

She rode him hard and he bucked upward, thrusting deep inside her. When he climaxed, he was close to losing consciousness and it was the best of any release he’d had with her yet. She let go of his neck, nails digging into his chest as she bounced hard atop him, her  screams of pleasure ricocheting off the walls.

Her body jerked as she ground against him, the walls of her sex clenching. And then she slowed to a stop.

“You please me much, darling,” she said, climbing from atop him. “You have my permission to breathe now.”

Ulric gasped, gulping wildly.
When I am strong, I will take your breath away
.

She jerked her gaze to him as she walked to the wash basin. Had he said his thoughts aloud? She’d kill him if he did. But she didn’t pull out a dagger to slit his throat. Instead, she dipped to grab up the cloth she’d washed him with and then cleaned herself in a second bucket of water. Then her fingers were inside her. His eyes widened and he found himself repulsed by her. She produced half of a turnip and showed it to him.

“So I don’t bear any of your vile offspring.”

Vile? Hardly. And what would be wrong with her bearing them, other than that she might eat her own young?
Everything.
He wasn’t her darling and he doubted his name was Ulric. He had to figure out who he was. He had to beat her at her own game.