Rose didn’t know how long they’d been traveling. Long enough that her legs had fallen asleep and her arms were aching from being folded beneath her. She was certain that the bastard Lysle had left a permanent boot print on her back, and her anger was a simmering cauldron in her stomach.
The coach slowed and she wanted to weep and laugh when the toe of Lysle’s boot dug into her side, making her wince. Every ache and pain fed her fury.
“Get up,” he said. “We’re stopping for the night.”
It was night? That much time had passed? Then again she didn’t really know what time it’d been when they’d stopped before or how long they’d been traveling before that. Days could have passed since she’d been taken from Holyrood.
She wondered if Will knew she was missing. What about Margaret? Margaret would have been the one to notice first. Rose hoped her friend had raised the alarm. Margaret would never believe that Rose had willingly left to marry Lysle. But Rose wasn’t certain what good raising an alarm would do when it was Mary herself who had decreed the union.
“Get up, I said.” He kicked her in the shin as he climbed over her and opened the door to the carriage. The fresh breeze was a welcome relief even if it was biting. They had traveled north and the weather had responded accordingly. She shivered as she slowly straightened her legs and stretched her arms.
She sat up, wincing at her sore back where Lysle had repeatedly kicked her, and looked out the open door of the carriage. She couldn’t see Lysle. He’d certainly not stayed to help his betrothed out of the carriage. Idly she wondered what she looked like. A fright, no doubt. She was wearing the same blue gown that she’d met Queen Mary in. There was vomit on her hem and the skirts were irreparably wrinkled. Somewhere she had lost a shoe, probably when she had tried to run away.
Her hair trailed down her back, over her shoulders and into her eyes, her pins gone for good.
She could care less what she looked like. Lysle would be the one embarrassed by her appearance, not her. She poked her head out of the carriage. The half dozen of Mary’s guards were standing around talking, their horses being led away by wide-eyed stable boys who probably had never seen such fine horseflesh.
The inn was not a bustling place by any means. In fact, their party seemed to be the only ones about. Not surprising. Who else would be traveling this far north in the middle of winter? Most people with means would be at Holyrood for the baptism or tucked into their warm homes.
Rose gingerly let herself down from the carriage, not at all surprised that no one lent a helping hand. Lysle was talking to the proprietor, all smiles and large hand gestures. He turned to Rose and beckoned her toward him. She took her time getting there, exaggerating her limp caused by her missing shoe.
The proprietor frowned at her, and she glared at him. She would not pretend that this was a pleasant experience.
“The poor dear has been so sick while we are traveling,” Lysle was saying. “We just need a warm room for her to lie down in.”
The proprietor, a tall skinny man who looked like he needed a good meal, took a step back and Rose grinned at him.
“Oh, no. No, no,” Lysle was saying. “She’s not sick like that. It’s the motion of the carriage and well…” Lysle seemed embarrassed and leaned closer to the proprietor. “She’s in the family way, you know. Makes her terribly ill in the beginning.”
Rose thought she couldn’t be any more shocked by Lysle, but the man continually surprised her. “No, I’m not,” she said.
Lysle’s eyes widened in surprise while the proprietor’s narrowed.
Rose turned to the tall man. “I’m not in any family way. I’ve been sick and this man has kidnapped me.”
Lysle grabbed her arm in a grip so tight that she yelped, drawing the proprietor’s gaze to her arm.
“You’re hurting me,” she said between clenched teeth.
Lysle chuckled but his face had paled and his eyes were deadly. “She’s very petulant. She was that way with our first child.”
She yanked her arm from his hold. “I’ve never had a child. There is no other child. I’m here against my will.”
“Just show us to our room,” Lysle said, choosing to ignore her.
The proprietor hesitated, his gaze raking over Rose’s disgusting appearance then to the guards in the background. There was no mistaking that they were the queen’s guards, and it was their presence that convinced him to comply with Lysle.
“This way,” he said.
Lysle’s fingers dug deep into her flesh until she swore he would snap her arm in half. She tried to pull away but he was having none of that and he marched her up the stairs sandwiched between him and the tall man who led them to the room at the top of the steps.
“This is our best room,” the man said. “I’ll have my daughter start a fire and bring up water for a bath.”
“No need,” Lysle said. “My wife won’t be needing any of that.”
“But you said…” The man’s gaze strayed to Rose’s flat stomach.
“I’ll let you know if we need anything.” Lysle practically pushed the man out of the room, closed the door and stood in front of it, his chest heaving. He closed his eyes and breathed deep for several long moments.
Rose moved to the other end of the room, frightened of what he was going to do to her, but determined to stay strong.
He pinned her with a deadly look. “Don’t ever do anything like that again.” His voice was calm, as if they were having a conversation in the middle of one of Mary’s salons.
“I won’t make this easy for you,” she said.
He took a step toward her then stopped as if he were afraid of what he would do to her. “You will do as I say.”
“I will not. I will never do as you say.” She could keep her voice calm as well. There was an inner peace that was stealing over her. It was a strange sensation because she knew her life was in very grave danger yet she would not go down without a fight. If there was one thing Turners knew, it was how to fight back.
“Oh, my dear.” He stepped toward her, then around her so that he approached from the side. She turned to him, knowing to always have her enemy in front of her. “You will learn quickly. Trust me.”
She looked at him steadily, and she could see in the flicker of his eyes that she confused him. She was not acting as she should. She was not showing fear. She was not cowering and he did not know what to do about that.
“You have stolen me away from Holyrood at the behest of the queen to silence the knowledge I have of a conspiracy to kill the king. Your plan is to wed me, then murder me. I will not comply. I will not behave. I will not be silenced.”
“Oh, you will,” he said, edging closer.
Rose didn’t want to move away from him. She wanted to stand firm and face him but she also had a sense of self-preservation. Idly she wondered if Margaret had spoken to Will, if Will knew what had happened and if he was on his way to save her.
At the same time she knew that only she could save herself. She couldn’t rely on outside sources to sweep her out of this. She had only herself.
She didn’t move away fast enough. His hand arched out and backhanded her across the cheek, causing her head to whip to the side and making her gasp.
He smiled.
Her cheek was numb, her mind shocked, but she stood her ground and stared him in the eye. “You may beat me,” she said. “But I will fight back.”
His hand moved toward her, and she couldn’t help herself. She flinched and he laughed. “We shall see who will be the victor here.”
“It might be you,” she said. “But you will not walk away without wounds, I assure you.”
He cocked his head to the side. “You’re a cheeky bitch.”
“And you’re a conniving bastard.”
Fury turned his face a dark red, and he grabbed her shoulder with one hand as he slapped her across the other cheek with the other. He hit her again and again until her ears were ringing. She heard someone yelling but it was a moment before she realized it was her. Screaming. She was screaming, and he was yelling at her to shut up but she wouldn’t.
“Kill me now,” she screamed over and over. “Kill me now.”
She was certain the entire establishment could hear her and by the look in his eyes he knew it too.
He dragged her to the bed and ripped off the top bedsheets with his free hand. She fought him, hitting him with her fist but the blows fell ineffectually on his back. She kicked but she used her bare foot and it did nothing but hurt her, not him.
He threw her on the bed and she rolled away from him, was almost to the other side before he pounced on her, pushing her face-first into the soiled, rank-smelling mattress until her nose and mouth were covered. She bucked, terror overtaking her. She was going to suffocate. He was going to snuff the life out of her and she was going to die in this no-name inn in the middle of nowhere Scotland on a dirty bed. She was screaming but no one could hear her because her mouth was pressed into the mattress. She tried to draw in air but only managed to suck the bottom bedsheet into her mouth, causing her to panic more.
Lysle flipped her over and pulled her arms above her. She drew in a much needed breath and bucked against him, using her legs as best she could but he was tying her wrists together. He knotted the other end of the cord he’d taken from the curtains to the bedpost.
“You’re a bastard,” she said and screamed as loud as she could, knowing no one would save her but feeling better for it. If she died here those men out there would have the weight of her soul on their shoulders for the rest of their lives, and it gave her some pleasure to know that she had cursed them with that at least.
“Shut up,” Lysle said wearily. “No one here is going to save you. I will pay the proprietor so much money that he can retire and live a life of ease.”
He tugged hard on the rope to make sure it would stay. Rose kicked him, landing a solid blow to his midsection. He sucked in a deep breath of pain, grabbed her foot and twisted it until she cried out. It felt as if her bones were grinding against each other, and she had no doubt that Lysle had every intention of shattering her foot.
“Do it,” she said between clenched teeth.
“You are mad.” He released her foot and backed away as if he were frightened of her.
“You picked the wrong lass to wed,” she said with a tight smile. “I pray you regret your decision.”
He looked around the room then down at the bedsheets lying on the floor. He grabbed one and tore a strip off then tied it around her mouth. She saw him coming and knew his intention, attempting to foil his plan by whipping her head back and forth, but there was little she could do and he quickly knotted it in the back, catching strands of her hair in the knot and pulling them.
He stepped back. She glared at him and tried to kick him but he was standing too far away with a smug look and—dare she hope?— a little bit of relief in his eyes.
He opened the lone window, turned to give one long considering look at her skirts rucked up past her knees and her bare legs. There was a glint in his eyes that made her tremble. If he decided to take her now there was not much she could do about it. Everyone would ignore her screams. After all, a husband could do what he liked to his wife. She would be helpless.
The feeling didn’t sit well with her, but she also knew that at some point he would have to untie her and let her leave this bed and that was when she would have her revenge.
She glared at him, daring him to do what he wanted. He looked into her eyes, blanched and walked out of the room, leaving her uncovered, the bitter air blowing in and causing her to shiver.