Page 18 of Sinful Scot
Maggie smiled at the pride in his voice, but Baron Bellecote just snorted. “That’s the same as being a heathen.”
Anger churned within her. Och, how she detested the baron! There was no other way to describe it. She looked to Deirdre, hoping to see her sister similarly angry and perhaps wanting to beg the queen to release Maggie from the betrothal, but Deirdre looked more troubled and fearful than infuriated.
Once McCaim was fully tied to the flogging pole, the baron raised the whip and speared Maggie with his gaze. “He’ll not look very pleasing when I’m done with him.”
It was then that she realized why he was doing this. He was not only a despicable man but a jealous one. And he was to be her husband… If she showed emotion during the flogging, it would likely make things much worse for McCaim.
She couldn’t believe it had come to this. She honestly had not thought they’d be able to take him captive with the ferocious way he had fought them in the woods, even if they had weapons. It was a silly thought. She knew it was. Even weaponless, she’d seen right away he was a fearsome fighter, but he’d had no sword, and the baron and his men had swords as well as daggers. She’d still thought perhaps he would escape.
Being forced to stand here now, to watch him be flogged until he renounced the Devil, made her sway with horror and guilt. She broke out into a sweat, and as the baron began to flog McCaim, Deirdre clasped her hand, and Maggie pressed her lips together and bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from screaming her rage at what was happening. She expected him to grunt at the very least when the whip cut open his skin, but he stood there, his face like stone. The only sign he felt any pain was the way his stomach muscles tightened. When the blood appeared, she had to swallow back her nausea, and by the third hit, she curled her hands into fists, wanting to run to the baron and pummel him.
McCaim was panting heavily now, and he was not standing quite as straight as he had been in the beginning. On the fourth hit, an involuntary moan came from her when he grunted loudly. Suddenly, McCaim turned his head toward her, their gazes locked, and an insolent grin lit his face, as if he was trying to convey to her that he could survive whatever Baron Bellecote delivered to him. She smiled back in an attempt to reassure him, and he responded with a tilt of his head.
In that moment, they could have been the only two people in the courtyard. It was but a breath, a heartbeat in time, yet she felt as if this stranger, so different from any man she’d ever met, so out of place, understood her and how she felt better than anyone who claimed to know her. She was different, too, out of step with everyone around her. They were the same in that.
There was a curious swooping pull at her innards, and if she did not know better, she’d have sworn that a connection, a bond, had just formed between them. Whatever it was, the moment ended when the next hit came.
How long will this last?
The thought echoed in Maggie’s head. The courtyard was silent except for thethwackof the whip to flesh and the occasional grunt. Then on the sixth hit, McCaim’s breath left him in a forceful whoosh, and Maggie squeezed her eyes shut for a second, the agony of watching nearly too much for her to bear.
“Are you ready to renounce your ties to the Devil?” the baron asked in a sickeningly pleasant tone, as if he was inquiring about the weather.
McCaim lifted his head, which had lolled forward briefly. His eyes were no longer clear but dazed, and Maggie’s throat constricted. But then a wide grin spread across his face, and he said, “Kiss my ass.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was outrageous—funny, foolish, and bold. And for his impudence, the guard punched him in the face. She cried out then as she heard the fine bones of his nose crunch and break. Blood spurted from the injury, but the reckless man grinned wider and he winked at her. He had actuallywinked, which enraged Baron Bellecote, sending him into a frenzy. He lashed McCaim over and over, until he exhausted himself and lowered the whip.
With each lash, McCaim’s chest had grown bloodier, but he had not cried out, and he had not renounced his ties to the Devil. He had stood stock-still, taking the beating. It was Maggie who had broken under the knowledge that he could not renounce what he did not possess. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks before she even realized she was crying. Her foolish words had led to this.
The baron threw down the whip, and then mercifully, McCaim’s eyes closed, his body sagged, and he hung where he’d been tied, too stubborn to die and too stubborn to submit.
Chapter Five
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
~ Lord Byron (George Gordon), “She Walks in Beauty”
Words were playing in Rhys’s head each time he gained consciousness, however brief:the smiles that win, the tints that glow.
It took several times of coming to awareness before Rhys could recall that the lines were from a poem by Lord Byron. Just as he grasped that stored knowledge, multiple other thoughts crashed through his mind before the darkness took him again.
Water was dripping on his head. Damn, it felt good.
He was on fire. His body was a raging inferno of pain. The flames licked at his stomach.
His dad had loved that damn poem, “She Walks in Beauty.” He had said it reminded him of Mom. He was here for mom. Where were his brothers?
Rhys thought of the woman, Margaret, as the poem played in his head again and water dropped from the dungeon ceiling like manna from God.
She’d groaned for him. His pain was hers. Those clear blue eyes of hers had clouded with shame and outrage. Beautiful. She was beautiful, like a starry night. Like a cloudless sky. Like a calm ocean. But she’d also brought the storm to his door.
He was going to die here.
