Highland Thirst (22 page)

“Ah,
you are awake,” Carbonnel greeted him with an eager smile and then glanced
toward Lucy. “But I see our fair Lady Blytheswood sleeps the sleep of the
innocent. ‘Tis good to know she has not been distressed by the delay in my
revisiting you both.” His gaze swung back to Tearlach and his smile now had a
touch of lasciviousness to it as he explained, “The new maid proved to be more
entertaining than I had expected, a tasty little bundle who needed lessons in
obedience.”

He
paused, obviously recalling these lessons he’d taught, then let out a robust
breath and clapped his hands. “But now to work. I have been looking forward to
this. I hope you have too. Men. Bring him.”

Tearlach
watched him strut out of the cell as the rest of the men moved to begin
unchaining him from the wall and sighed inwardly.

Aye,
he thought unhappily. It was going to be a very long day indeed.

Lucy
was straining against her chains, her entire body hard with tensed muscles as
her ears were assaulted by the sounds in the next room. There were no screams
or shrieks of agony, no pleas for mercy, not even a curse of rage. The only
sounds were of the instruments of torture, not the results. It was the
constant, repetitive wet lash of a whip soaked in blood, singing through the
air and then cracking across skin, punctuated by the occasional question or
curse from Wymon as he demanded answers he wasn’t getting, but even those had slowed
to a stop in the endless hours Lucy had been listening.

It
was Wymon’s voice that had first woken her, stirring her from nightmares of her
brother’s death, only to bring her back into the present nightmare. She’d had
one blissful moment of confusion when she’d first opened her eyes to this
unfamiliar setting, but had quickly recalled where she was and why, and the
confusion had cleared to be replaced by a heavy sense of dread as she saw that
Tearlach was missing from their cell. Through the door they’d left open, she’d
heard Wymon cursing him to hell and back for his obstinacy in not answering his
questions, and then the singing of the whip had followed, fast and furious and,
she feared, probably wielded with vicious spite.

It
had seemed obvious from the fury and frustration in Wymon’s voice that this
sound had probably been occurring for quite a while, that sheer exhaustion from
lack of sleep the last few nights had allowed her to sleep through a good deal
of the torture Tearlach had been suffering. But once awake to it, Lucy hadn’t
been able to fall asleep again. She’d stood trembling with her tension as she
listened to the awful song of the whip.

Tearlach
himself made no sound at all; not even a grunt under each blow and she could
imagine him stern and still and proud, unbending under the punishment. She had
no doubt that very attitude would simply infuriate Wymon. It would drive him
wild. She knew instinctively he would want to see and hear the man’s pain, that
he would not stop until Tearlach was either dead or groveling before him. Lucy
suspected that the groveling would never happen. Tearlach would take whatever
was meted out with stoic calm and die for his pride, she was sure.

It
was something of a shock to her when this didn’t happen and instead the whip
suddenly went silent. That silence was ringing. Earlier the sound of men’s
voices and laughter had risen in each pause between blows as Wymon’s men had
taunted and belittled their captive, no doubt subjecting him to humiliations
she had no desire to know about. But now the silence was absolute, almost
uncomfortably so and she suspected Tearlach had earned the grudging respect of
the men and they were now discomfited by this useless continued torment.

“I
grow weary of this game. Take him back to the cell,” Wymon suddenly snarled and
there was exhaustion in his voice. Tearlach had defeated him by simply
suffering in silence, Lucy thought and wondered at what cost.

She
didn’t have long to wonder. Within moments the clank and jangle of chains rang
out and then the room was suddenly full of men as almost a dozen of them half
led and half dragged Tearlach back into the cell by at least as many chains.
They were on his throat, his wrists, his upper arms, his waist, his legs, and
his ankles. They had taken no chance of his escaping, it seemed.

“So
you are awake.”

Lucy
dragged her anxious gaze from Tearlach’s bowed head to their captor as Wymon
followed the men into the cell. He was obviously weary, his clothes disheveled
and sweat stained from his labors and he wasn’t looking at her as if he were
happy to see her. If anything, he was eyeing her like a problem when he was
sick to death of problems.

“Are
you willing to marry me yet?” Wymon asked grimly and there was a threat in his
very tone of voice.

Lucy
bit her lip and glanced to Tearlach. She wanted to say “no” on principle alone
as she caught a glimpse of his raw and bloodied back as he passed, but pride
would not get them out of here this day and she was quite sure Tearlach could
not survive a second day of such torture.

However,
she found the lie of saying “aye” stuck in her throat, so she cleared it and
said cautiously, “Mayhap.”

It
wasn’t good enough for Wymon. After the stubborn resistance of Tearlach, any
resistance on her part was too much and he was suddenly across the room and
standing in front of her, fist raised. The fist never fell, however. It was
stayed when one of his men suddenly stepped to his side and said, “He shall need
to feed to have the strength to survive tomorrow if you choose to interrogate
him some more then.”

Wymon
slowly lowered his fist, a bitter smile curving his lips. “Aye. You are right.”

Lucy
swallowed and took a slow breath, waiting. She had no idea what was coming
next, but Wymon’s smile was too unpleasant for it to be anything good.

“Unchain
her,” he ordered, turning away and Lucy blinked after him with surprise. She’d
hoped to get free for a moment or more, but hadn’t really been sure she could
achieve it. Now, here he was ordering it.

Her
attention shifted back to the two men who suddenly stepped forward on either
side of her and—even as Tearlach was chained back to his wall—she found herself
being freed. The moment her right hand was free, Lucy allowed her weight to
fall forward as if she didn’t have the strength to hold herself. It left her
slumping against the man who had freed that side and she let her hand slide
along his body as if for purchase, but it wasn’t until she dipped her hand into
his pocket that she found anything useful.

Tucking
the item she found quickly up her sleeve, she allowed the man to help her
upright as her second hand was freed and then he held her there while the other
man bent to undo both of the chains at her ankles. The moment the last chain
fell away, Wymon stepped forward and caught her arm, dragging her away from the
soldier still trying to help her remain upright. He pulled her across the room
to where the men were just finished securing Tearlach in his own chains.

“MacAdie’s
had a rough day,” Wymon announced, his grip hard on her arm. “He needs strength
for tomorrow’s trials.”

He
shoved her so close she was pressed against the Scot’s chest and Lucy glanced
from one man to the other with confusion.

“You
are going to assist him with the matter,” Wymon announced with a cold smile. “Perhaps
this will aid you in making up your mind and clear ‘mayhap’ from your
vocabulary.”

While
Lucy was still trying to puzzle that out, Wymon glanced around.

“Move
closer,” he ordered several of the men. “I do not want her dead...yet...and if
he loses control, you shall have to stop him.”

Lucy
didn’t have a clue what Wymon was talking about, but he was succeeding in
scaring her. He smiled when he saw that fear in her eyes as he glanced at her
again.

“The
MacNachtons and MacAdies are bloodsuckers. Vampire,” he told her with
amusement. “He has lost a lot of blood this day. He is weak. He needs blood and
shall have yours.”

While
Lucy stared at him with disbelief, Wymon turned to peer at Tearlach. “I
understand your kind prefer the jugular vein, MacAdie. Is that so?”

The
look Tearlach turned his way was cold and empty. He was no more going to answer
that question than he had any of the others.

“Feed,”
Wymon ordered, shoving Lucy even closer to him. They were now as close as
lovers, only their clothes pressed tight between them as a barrier.

Tearlach
stared down into her face and she saw a struggle take place in the depths of
his dark eyes, and then he turned his head away.

Wymon
chuckled nastily at his reaction, then tugged Lucy away and back to his side.
He slid his dagger from his waist and—before she realized what he was up to—jerked
her wrist to him and sliced over it so that thick red blood immediately began
to flow. She gasped as the pain of the slice struck her, then gasped again as
Wymon held the wrist up before Tearlach’s face.

“Feed,”
Wymon insisted and Lucy was about to curse the man for a fool in believing the
ridiculous rumors about Tearlach and his people when movement caught her eye
and her gaze locked on his face. As she watched in horrified fascination, the
Scot’s lips parted revealing wickedly sharp incisors that protruded past his
other teeth. She stared at those fangs with a sort of disbelief as Tearlach
inhaled the scent of her blood. What could only be described as a deep horror
rose up on her face.

His
head started to bend forward toward the offering Wymon was making, but a small
sob of sound from her lips made him pause sharply. His eyes blinked open and
found her face. Whatever he saw there made him stop cold. Mouth closing to hide
his teeth, he lifted his head and turned away.

“Fool.”
Wymon laughed and then shrugged and tugged Lucy away from the man and began to
drag her back across the cell. “Perhaps you shall change your mind come
morning. You should be very hungry by then and will need the blood to survive
another day of this.”

Lucy
remained silent, her gaze locked on Tearlach as she was rechained to the wall.
Her mind was having trouble accepting what her eyes had seen and she was
watching, hoping he would open his mouth and she would see that it had all been
a mistake. Surely, she’d not seen what she’d thought she’d seen? The rumors
weren’t true, couldn’t be. There was no such thing as vampires and—

“I
shall bid you both good night.”

Lucy
turned her gaze reluctantly to Wymon as he ushered the other men out of the
cell.

“Until
tomorrow,” he added with a grin as he followed the last man out and pulled the
door closed with a hollow thud.

Lucy
stared at the door as she listened to the footsteps fading away up the stairs.

“Are
ye a’right?” Tearlach asked as the door to the main level of the castle clicked
closed and Lucy turned an amazed gaze to the man.

“What?”
she asked with disbelief.

“Are
ye a’right?” He asked the question through gritted teeth, but there was real
concern in his face and voice.

Lucy
stared at him silently, wondering how he could ask that when he was the one who
had suffered the tortures of the damned all day.

“Yer
wrist,” he added finally when she simply stared at him in stunned silence.

“Oh.”
She glanced toward the wrist, aware that it was still bleeding. Fortunately, it
was her left wrist and she was right handed.

“He
cut ye verra deeply.” His gaze was locked on the blood slowly running down her
arm and dripping onto the floor.

It
was a hungry gaze, but Lucy decided to ignore it and simply said, “Nay. I am
not all right. And neither are you. And we are getting out of here.”

Tearlach
gave a sharp laugh at her words and asked, “And how’re ye proposin’ we do that,
lass?”

Lucy
didn’t answer. She was too busy trying to work her fingers over the chain on
her wrist and reach the metal she’d retrieved from the guard’s pocket and slid
up her sleeve. It would be difficult to retrieve with the chains on, but she
would do it. She had to.

Three

Tearlach
closed his eyes and forced himself to ignore his various pains as well as the
sharp scent of blood in the air. It was a difficult task. His back was on fire
and his hunger was a burning that was filling his chest and mind. It would have
been easier for him to ignore both agonies had Lucy seen fit to distract him by
talking again. However, it seemed that although she’d talked to him through the
last two days, now that she knew what he was, she wanted nothing more to do
with him. She hadn’t responded with more than a distracted grunt to any of the
half a dozen comments and questions he’d asked since assuring she was all
right. It almost made him sorry he’d spared her and not accepted the blood
offering Wymon Carbonnel had made. After all, the blood was now simply wasted
anyway, running down her arm and dripping from her elbow, drop after drop
hitting the ground with a sound that was overloud to his straining senses. Each
splash taunted him with what he could have had but had turned down in the face
of her horror.

Tightening
his mouth, Tearlach tried to block the sound and think of something else, but
his mind was full of unpleasantness at the moment. Memories of the torture he’d
suffered, the horror on Lucy’s face when she’d spotted his teeth and realized
what he was...