Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Remove your clothing—all of it.” Latham demanded, even as he had last time. Eyes agleam, he spoke from the large chair where he lounged in defiance of the energy Tansy could feel inside him. Tansy shivered, and her eyes darted around the room, seeking escape. Sunlight, cold and clear, flooded the chamber through the two floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard. She wondered if men passing through that space might peer inside and watch what took place, and whether they’d dare.

She had never considered herself particularly modest and had been eager enough to shed her clothing in front of Ossian. Now, however, the expression in Latham’s eyes—cruel and avid—caused her to freeze where she stood.

He waved a hand impatiently. “Come, did you no’ hear me? You were biddable enough before.”

“Aye, Master.”

Tansy thought of the fathoms Malcolm might put between himself and the keep while she distracted this monster, and reached for her laces. “I just wondered if I might no’ be cold.”

“There is a fine fire burning. And I mean to keep you far too busy to chill.”

He watched her through slitted eyes while she loosed her bodice and dropped her skirts.

“Now tak’ down that hair. I like to see it loose around you.”

Tansy obeyed, grateful for any cover.

“The last time you came to me,” he mused, as her fingers worked the pins, “I mounted you like a bitch in heat and found it pleasing. Did it please you also, lass?”

Tansy’s mind darted, even as her eyes had. How clever and powerful a magic, that could make him believe he’d done what he wished and had what he’d had not! For an instant, she felt unusually impressed with herself.

But dared she attempt the same again?

When she stood clad in nothing but her hair, Latham crooked a finger, summoning her closer.

“Tell me, lass, ha’ you ever taken a man into your mouth?”

Tansy stared as her skin flushed in mortification. Sudden memory swamped her—that of welcoming Malcolm’s hot, silken strength between her lips. But she would not admit that to this man, and the lie came easily. “I am sorry, Master, I do no’ believe I understand.”

His impatience increased. “Pleasuring him wi’ your mouth, and accepting his seed.”

Tansy shook her head violently, though her lips had been all over Malcolm, including that wondrously hard length of him. She could not imagine such an act in relation to this man. “Nay!” She denied it. “People do no’—”

“I assure you, women do. And you will, if you ken what is good for you.” He flipped aside the folds of his kilt and revealed that he jutted up, fully aroused.

Tansy’s stomach lurched, bringing up the little bit of food she’d taken this day, into the back of her throat. “I canna’.”

“You can. On your knees, lass, here before me.”

She told him with scrupulous honesty, “I will vomit.”

Their gazes met in a moment of silent contest before he growled, “I care no’ what you do after, so long as your mouth be hot and welcoming first. Or perhaps you would rather feel the lash on your naked back?”

“Nay.”

“Then on your knees, I say.” Not willing to await obedience, he lunged forward, seized her hair, and twisted his handful of it into a knot. Tansy cried out as the pain of it brought her to her knees in the required position.

And she could smell him, a rank, heavy scent of unwashed male animal. In days now well gone, Ossian had smelled good to her—like sawdust and, occasionally, horses. And Malcolm—well, his scent served to inflame her, to set her alight. This made the sickness flood her mouth and caused her to choke it back desperately.

“Please, Master…” Could she even reach for her magic from this place, subjugated and nearly helpless?

She stared up into his face, now looming above her. Cruelty warped his features; his eyes gleamed with malice and anticipation.

“Get busy. And put your throat into it.”

Horror drenched Tansy with renewed heat. She took one dismayed look at his manhood, rearing up at her lips, and closed her eyes, seeking her power, summoning it like dark light.

It came with a hum, softly at first. It whispered and moaned and bubbled up; she reached for it frantically even as Latham, unwilling to wait, pulled her by the hair, closer to his groin.

At the touch of his flesh on her cheek, her power exploded. She felt it rush like a gout of fire to dry kindling, all too swiftly beyond her control. The strength of it allowed her to jerk away from him; once more they stared at one another and as they did the color drained from his face.

Tansy did not know what he saw in her eyes, but quite plainly he beheld something. The desire to murder? The fire of her rage? The power that filled her?

Whatever it was spurred him. He could not readily rise with her kneeling on his feet, but he shoved up against the back of his chair, and a single word issued from his lips—first as a whisper and then as a hoarse groan—

“Witch. Witch!”

“Nay.” Tansy scrambled off his feet and backed away from him, as terror hit the pit of her stomach. Caught still in the snare of his gaze, even as he seemed caught in hers, she could not flee. He, too, froze; they stared, connected in a moment of pure communion.

She could feel his darkness, the cruel edge of the hate that lay at his heart. Could he then feel the extent of her power and the contrasting uncertainty?

He sucked in air, recovering first from his paralysis, and bellowed, “Witch! Guards, here to me!”

Tansy hit him between the eyes with her power, punching out with it as she might her fist, her aim true. Always in the past had she persuaded and suggested, or at the most, pushed. She’d never conceived her power might become so strong a weapon.

Latham fell back into the chair, his eyes rolling up in his head. But the alarm had been given; already Tansy could hear hurrying footsteps outside the room. She wanted to flee so badly she could barely breathe for it; she also wanted to cover her nakedness.

No time. She snatched up her clothes—or most of them—and tore open the chamber door, almost stumbling into the first of the guards answering Latham’s summons.

Startled, the man—and his companion hurrying after—stepped back. Tansy shoved between them and, her hair trailing her, made for the stairs, where she hesitated.

Should she go to Catha or try to make her way out the main doors? But nay, they now stood filled with more guards, and the wooden bridge and watchtower the same, beyond. And she naked as the day.

She hurtled up the stairs, wondering if she but raced into a trap.

****

“List to me, Tansy. List! Do you think you killed him? Is he dead?”

It seemed to be the main question on Catha’s mind; she’d already repeated it twice. The two women sat half-crouched on the bed in their chamber, Tansy wearing only her chemise, tears running down her face.

When had she commenced weeping? She rarely wept and prided herself on resisting such weakness. But she palmed her wet cheeks before she replied. “I do no’ ken. He fell back—I do no’ ken.”

Catha raised her golden head, seeming to listen to the commotion beyond her door—plenty of commotion that penetrated even the stout oaken panel. Raised voices and more pounding footfalls; the slamming of a door.

She pondered and said, “God willing, you ha’ slain the bastard. And we maun leave here before the keep recovers. Don your clothing in layers—all you wish to take. And bind your hair—it will garner far too much attention like that.”

Tansy hurried to obey, hands shaking and stomach roiling. “Do you think we can get awa’?”

“I am no’ certain, but we will try.”

“The portcullis. And the bridge—”

“Both well-guarded, aye. Can you swim?” Catha asked the question while donning her own garments and confining her hair.

“A wee bit.” Tansy did not like water.

“’Twill ha’ to do. I swim like a trout, me, and will help you.”

“You never mean to attempt a swim to shore? But ’tis cold out. We will tak’ our deaths.”

“No more dangerous than staying here, then.” Catha gave Tansy a meaningful stare. “Look you—if Latham lies dead, his men may be in too much disarray to pursue us swiftly. If not, and he remembers what happened—”

Tansy hissed between her teeth. “Curse it! I forgot.”

“Forgot?”

“To whisper the word ‘forget.’ I was so frighted…”

“And no wonder.”

“He spoke the name ‘witch.’ ” She’d already shared this truth with Catha; it bore repeating.

“Then come.”

Catha opened the chamber door, and the noise from downstairs increased. Men shouted; some called loudly for the dispenser. All the furor remained, so far, at the foot of the stairs.

Catha seized Tansy’s arm. “Swiftly, now.”

“We will never get past there.”

“We will not try. This way; there must be another stairway down.”

With Catha’s hand locked around Tansy’s wrist, the two women sidled down the dim hallway, encountering no one. They had taken a score of steps before Tansy froze.

“What is it?” Catha breathed.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“I thought I heard his voice from below. Latham.”

Catha stared at her, aghast.

Tansy’s eyes once more flooded with tears. “Curse it all. I hoped I had succeeded in killing him.”