Page 1 of Fallen
Prologue
I Will Die First
Dunan broch
MacKinnon territory,
Isle of Skye, Scotland
Winter, 1338 AD
COIRA LAY UPON the bed and thought about the best way to kill him.
She could lunge for his dirk.
Or she could reach for the heavy iron poker lying next to the hearth.
This was her chance, and yet she didn’t take it. She’d swing for murdering a clan-chief anyway—so it was just as well that she lacked the courage to act upon her thoughts.
The young man in question—Duncan MacKinnon—was getting dressed a few feet away, whistling a smug tune as he laced his braies and reached for hisléine. Now that his lust had been slaked, he had no use for her.
Coira watched him go through his usual routine, hate cramping her belly.
Every part of her body hurt.
She lay naked on her side, resisting the urge to curl up into a tight ball—resisting the urge to whimper. Instead, she breathed shallowly. Her gaze never left the tall, broad shouldered figure who pulled on his léine—a loose shirt laced at the throat—before buckling on his belt.
He was handsome, yet she’d soon learned that the clan-chief’s good looks hid much that was rotten beneath.
Running a hand through his short brown hair, MacKinnon then fixed her with his storm-grey gaze, and an arrogant smile quirked his mouth.
“That was a delight,” he drawled. He then circuited the big bed, to where he’d heeled off his boots earlier in a hurry to disrobe so that he could plow his favorite whore. As he passed her, MacKinnon slapped Coira’s naked bottom. “Ye always give a man good sport, don’t ye?”
Drawing in a slow, measured breath, Coira squeezed her eyes shut. Rage, hot and prickly, rose up within her. Hate thundered in her breast; her heart pounded painfully against her ribs. She took one deep breath, and then another. Her fingers clutched at the tangled sheets upon which she lay.
She didn’t answer him. And she knew he wouldn’t care.
MacKinnon didn’t visit her for conversation.
She listened to the scuffing sounds while he pulled on his boots and then his heavy tread as he left the chamber, the door thudding shut behind him.
After that she heard the creak of the floorboards while the clan-chief walked across the landing and descended the stairs to the lower levels ofThe Goat and Goose, Dunan’s most popular brothel.
Still lying upon the bed, Coira squeezed her eyes shut even tighter. A tear managed to escape nonetheless, trickling down her temple and onto the sheet beneath. However, it wasn’t a tear of despair, but of fury.
Today, on this bleak winter’s morning, she’d had enough.
I will never suffer that man’s touch again, she vowed.I will die first.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and pushed herself up into a sitting position. Glancing down at herself, Coira tensed when she saw the raised red welts on her breasts, belly, and thighs. As usual, he’d been rough—pummeling, squeezing, and pinching her body as he rutted her.
Coira rose to her feet, swaying slightly as her head spun from the pain that knifed between her thighs. Out of all the men who visited this brothel, MacKinnon was the one she dreaded the most. Few of the customers were gentle, but the clan-chief delighted in hurting her, in humiliating her. Trembling, Coira wrapped her arms around her torso. This time had been one of the worst.
Her gaze dropped then to where a rumpled, dark robe lay pooled at the foot of the bed.
A nun’s habit. It was one of MacKinnon’s peculiarities. Part of what got him really excited was for her to dress up as a nun. He went into a frenzy at the sight of it, his gaze gleaming with lust when he ripped the habit off her.
Coira had no idea why such a guise excited him. But she preferred not to delve into Duncan MacKinnon’s motivations. She didn’t want to think about the man at all.
