Brigand Page 4

  “Did you close the door?”

  Her bubbling sympathy evaporated in a rush. She stuck her tongue out at him but only because he couldn’t see. Then, with a heavy sigh, she levered herself off the floor and closed the door. Well, slammed it.

  His chuckle annoyed her more.

  He leaned forward and peeped at her over his shoulder. “Come along now. My back isn’t going to scrub itself.”

  She took her place behind him again, careful not to look at his broad, furry chest as she approached. She wet the soap and sponge and created a lather. Being very careful not to touch him, she began to scour his back.

  He winced. “Not so hard.”

  His plaintive tone probably shouldn’t have sent a shard of evil satisfaction through her but it did. This man had been a boor to her from the moment he’d found her on the floor in Callum MacAllister’s cottage. She dug deeper.

  He lurched forward. “Ouch!”

  “Hold still,” she muttered, making a wide swath across the ridged skin. “You’re filthy. I need to scrub.”

  “I am not filthy.”

  “You are. Stop wriggling.”

  Amazingly, he did, though her efforts bordered on abuse. But my, it felt good.

  When she started on his neck and ears, he caught her wrist. “All right. I think that’s enough.”

  “I’m not done.”

  “Oh, you’re not done.” He tugged her around to the side of the tub so she faced him. She focused on his crooked nose, schooled her attention not to drift lower. “Now it’s time for you to scrub my front.”

  She really disliked his tone. There was mischief—and something much darker—coiling in there. “Fine.” She dropped to her knees and wet the sponge again, but rather than dunking it, merely skimmed the surface of the water.

  Fortunately the bath was murky so she couldn’t see anything. But she knew what was down there and she didn’t want to find it by accident. She trained her attention on his chest and her heart lurched.

  A long, nasty scar scored him. Like a puckered lightning bolt, it made its jagged way from his left nipple down to his belly. Her pulse skittered. Her breath snagged in her throat. She’d only ever seen a scar like that once before.

  A scar exactly like that.

  Her gaze snapped back to his face. She looked at him. Really looked at him, perhaps for the first time. Her mouth went dry. The gray eyes laced by thick black lashes. The broad, smiling mouth. The curve of his jaw.

  It couldn’t be. Could it?

  “W-where did you get that scar?”

  He glanced down and stilled. Annoyance flickered across his features. “Every man has scars.”

  “Not-not like that.” She sat back on her haunches. She didn’t realize she was squeezing the sponge until water seeped through her skirts.

  “All right. A knife fight.”

  “Knives don’t cut like that.” It was uneven and rippled, as though the flesh and been shorn off in places and sliced in others.

  “Well, it was a goddamn knife fight. I was in a vicious battle with a man in an alley. I gutted him.” His lip curled into a sneer. “Does it frighten you, my lady?”

  “No.” But that was a lie. It did frighten her. Because Ewan, her friend, the boy who had saved her, had gotten an eerily similar wound rescuing her from a watery grave. And surely this wasn’t Ewan. It couldn’t be.

  Ewan was gentle and sweet. He had liked her, maybe loved her. He had kissed her. And this man… This man had taken her prisoner and mauled her and put her to work.

  And she hated him.

  He couldn’t be Ewan. He couldn’t. It would break her heart.

  “Goddamn it, girl, finish washing me. The water’s getting cold,” he barked.

  But she couldn’t. She needed to know. She had to know.

  “It wasn’t a knife. It was ice.” A whisper, but he heard it. He froze, his gaze locked to hers. “You jumped in and found me in the water. Lifted me out. But you couldn’t get out yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re babbling about.”

  But he did. She could see it in his eyes. There, for a flash of an instant, she saw that boy in his eyes.

  She licked suddenly dry lips. “Ewan? Is it you?”

  He rose from the tub in an unholy rush. She didn’t have time to glance away. The vision of his naked body, hard and lean, scarred and perfect, burned on her brain. He grabbed a cloth and covered his loins.

  “This bath is over. Get out.”

  She stood. Tried desperately not to tremble. “It is you. It is.”

  “Get out. Go!”

  “What happened to you, Ewan?”

  A dark cloud lowered on his already stormy brow. “What happened to me? You mean how did I become the beast that I am?” The vitriol in his voice made her shake but she didn’t back down.

  “No, Ewan. Where did you go? No one would tell me and I always wondered…”

  Every muscle in his body tensed, vibrated. Violet knew because she could see them all, a magnificent panoply. She should have been afraid. She should have been horrified. She should have skittered away like a frightened little rabbit. But she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t run.

  She knew—knew—her Ewan would never hurt her.

  Indeed, as he stared at her, his fury passed. He scrubbed a palm over his broad face. “Go,” he croaked. His tone was laced with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. Desolation? Grief? “Just go.”

  This time, she did.

  Chapter Five

  Goddamn it.

  Ewan dried himself off and jerked on his braes and his shirt. He should have known. Should have realized she’d recognize his scar—even though she hadn’t recognized him. It was far too memorable.

  But he’d forgotten about it long ago. It had been a part of him for so long he never thought about it anymore.

  But now…she knew.

  And worse, she hated him. He’d seen the horror, the revulsion on her face as the realization hit home. He’d seen her lips part, her chin tremble as she grappled with the realization that the boy she’d known had become the man she despised.

  He didn’t know why the fact that she knew ate at him. He’d taken perverse satisfaction in the knowledge that she hadn’t recognized him. That she’d forgotten him so easily.

  But she hadn’t.

  She hadn’t.

  He slumped into the chair and stared into the fire.

  He had wanted to make her pay for what she’d done. He’d burned to make her pay. Now those flames sputtered.

  A niggle of inconvenient hope, a specter of his long-dead love for her, arose.

  No. He had to strengthen his resolve.

  Violet Wyeth had betrayed his trust. She’d told her father something only the two of them knew. And because of that treachery, his life had been destroyed. Because of her faithlessness, his mother had died in a disease-ridden hovel. Because of her, he and Sophia had had to scratch and steal and suffer just to survive.

  He would never forgive her.

  He would never weaken.

  Maybe it was time to up the stakes.

  * * * * *

  Violet sighed and dunked Mungo’s enormous shirt in the rinse water. A hank of her hair flopped onto her face and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. She was so tired, almost too tired to bother. It wasn’t past noon and she was already exhausted.

  Granted, she hadn’t slept a wink last night. Morna had come to her shortly after her altercation with Ewan to announce that she would now be sleeping in the servant’s quarters, which turned out to be a stark, soulless cell in the underbelly of the castle, with no windows and a hard cot. The blanket she’d been given was threadbare at best and the stony chamber had been frigid. Violet had shivered all night. That she’d been locked in hadn’t soothed her soul at all, though Morna assured her it was for her own safety.

  But even if she’d been ensconced in a soft, warm bed with a downy pillow, she probably would have tossed and turned all night as though
ts of him roiled in her head. The revelation that the McCloud was her Ewan had shaken her to the depth of her being. The boy against whom she’d measured all men—and found them sorely wanting—had feet of clay.

  Tears burned at the reflection, which surprised her. She’d thought she’d already cried herself dry.

  And it wasn’t just the painful truth that broke her heart. Now that she knew who he was, he wanted nothing to do with her. Absolutely nothing. As though he couldn’t bear to glance at her. Couldn’t stand to be in her presence. Every time she entered the great hall, he turned away. Every time she approached him, he turned his head. Each time it happened, her heart ached, her throat burned.

  And he’d exiled her from his solar.

  As if that weren’t enough, he’d directed Morna to double her duties. Oh, no one had said as much, but when Morna awoke her—long before dawn—and presented her with a truly horrifying list of chores, there had been a tinge of pity in her expression. The grueling workload clearly had not been her idea.

  Pip and Jessie also had seemed chagrined when they told her they weren’t to lift so much as a finger to help.

  She did not know why he hated her so.

  She had loved him, missed him, dreamed of him for years. And he despised her.

  That was the worst burden of all. Not knowing why.

  Her belly growled but she ignored it. There would be no breakfast until she finished this task. She couldn’t bear to think of the pile of unwashed linens. She had not yet heated the water for those.

  She squeezed the water from Mungo’s shirt and arranged it over the drying line. Her gaze snagged on her hands. They were red and puckered from the hot water. Her skin burned from the lye. Her nails were cracked and torn. She looked like a washerwoman. Which she was.

  Tears threatened again but she forced them back. She would not break. She would not show him he’d beaten her down. She would be brave. Continue on. If it killed her.

  “Well, well. What have we here?”

  Violet stiffened. A flame of fear flickered in her breast as a too-familiar, oily voice slithered through the washing room. She turned, not because she needed to see who it was but because self-preservation demanded it. Craig was the kind of man one wanted to keep an eye on.

  She really didn’t like his expression as he kicked the door closed with his heel. Violet had left it open because otherwise the steam from the boiling pots filled the room.

  She forced herself to stiffen her spine, to pretend his presence here did not make her quake in her worn-out slippers. “What do you want? I have work to do.” She hated the quaver in her voice.

  He said nothing as he prowled toward her, rubbing his palms on his braes. He was a large, muscular man with a thick neck and a scraggly beard. His nose was blunt and turned up like a pig’s; his eyes were close-set, ratlike and clouded by a dark, bushy brow. A scar traced his right cheek. But none of that mattered. It was his expression that made her shudder.

  As he neared, she backed away but there was nowhere to go.

  His breath reached her first. Her belly clenched, churned at the stench.

  “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t ya?” He reached out a paw and rubbed a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. “But a prissy miss. Acting like you’re so much better than us.” He fit his hand around her throat and tightened on her windpipe. She gasped for breath. Her head spun. Dark spots clouded her vision. He sniggered. “I could snap your neck like a little bird, girly. You know that, don’t you?” As he spoke, he closed in on her, pressing his sweaty body against hers, backing her up to the damp wall.

  “L-let me go.”

  Again a dark laugh, one that rumbled ominous and low. “I don’t think so. How often does a man corner such a high-flown sweetmeat like you?”

  His head lowered. Dear God. He was going to kiss her. Acid churned in her gut. Bile burned in her mouth. He was a very strong man, all muscle and sinew. She was a small girl with no weapon save the wooden paddle she used to stir the pots and that was out of reach.

  So she did what she could. She turned her head.

  He snarled as his mouth found only a mutinous cheek. He gripped her chin so tightly she cried out in pain. Resolutely, he held it in place…and sealed his mouth on hers. Revulsion swept through her at the taste of him, the feel of his damp lips, his thick, insinuating tongue.

  Her gorge rose. And as his hoary claw found her breast in a bruising grip, it erupted. Into his mouth.

  There wasn’t much because she hadn’t eaten for nearly a day, but it was enough to make him lurch back with a feral roar. He spat on the floor and fixed her with a furious glare. “Bitch,” he growled. “You’ll regret that.”

  He backhanded her. The blow felt like Thor’s hammer. It sent her flying. She bounced off a stack of heavy pots—sending them crashing to the floor—and landed in a crumpled pile on the waiting linens. He was on top of her before she could regain her bearings. On top of her, heavy and hot. He pinned her with his bulk. His breath came in fetid pants. He grunted and rubbed himself against her like an animal in heat.

  Her horror rose when she felt him fumble with her tattered skirts, yanking them up. At the same time he pulled her bodice down. She barely heard the rip. Her ears rang. Her chin throbbed. Her entire body ached.

  She was so weak, she couldn’t fight. Couldn’t resist in the slightest.

  She knew what was coming but she was too tired, too dispirited to so much as contemplate her terror. She would lose her virginity now. To this man. He would rape her.

  It was more than she could bear.

  She wished he had hit her harder. Wished he had killed her, perhaps. Wished, with all her heart, that Ewan had been a different kind of man.

  Craig tugged at the ties on his braes, yanked them open. The head of his manhood nudged her thigh. Violet clenched her teeth and closed her eyes and turned her head and willed herself away. As though another girl lay on the floor in the washroom with a beast of a man holding her down. Another girl so close to disaster and unable to save herself. Another girl…

  A dull thud echoed in the far reaches of her consciousness. A pained wheeze. Craig stiffened then collapsed on top of her. The air gushed from her lungs as his bulk crushed her. His drool, a cool trickle, tickled her neck.

  Violet opened her eyes and tried to focus on a blurry form standing over her. She blinked and her vision cleared, though the black stars were back, making it difficult to see.

  Ah. Pip. Holding a heavy frying pan. And Jessie behind him. Violet opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  “Get him off her,” Jessie snapped and together they rolled the insensate man toward them.

  Blessed relief gushed through her as her lungs once again filled with air.

  Pip stepped over Craig and knelt at her side. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice unusually high and sharp. “Did he…?”

  Violet shook her head. “No.” But her lips only formed the words. Her voice refused to cooperate.

  “God.” Jessie stroked her cheek, reminding Violet of that pain. She’d almost forgotten the thudding agony in the ensuing panic. Now it flooded back and she groaned. “He whacked you a good one.”

  “That’s gonna bruise like hell.” Pip glared at Craig.

  “Come on.” Jessie took her hand. “Let’s get you out of here before he wakes up. He’ll be in a right fury.”

  Between the two of them, they helped Violet to her feet and supported her as she stumbled into the hall. They took her to Pip’s small chamber off the kitchen, which turned out to be a cheery room with a warm glow and a soft down tick. They helped her wash and Pip prepared a cold compress for her cheek. Jessie gave her a dress—it wasn’t much but it had a bodice, one that wasn’t ripped to shreds. And then, bless him, Pip brought her a plate of food.

  “We’re not supposed to feed you until you’re done with your chores,” he said with a grin as he presented her with a
chunk of bread, a slab of pork and a cup of warm broth. “So don’t tell anyone.”

  “And don’t worry about the laundry,” Jessie said. “We’ll finish it for you.”

  Pip winked. “Don’t tell anyone that either.”

  Violet tried to smile but it was a wobbly effort at best. “T-thank you.” A croak. Her throat still burned from the bile, still ached from Craig’s crushing grip.

  “And here.” Pip slipped something long and cool into her hand. Violet gazed at it as though from very far away. A knife. “Keep this with you. At all times. It’s not much but it will hold him off for a bit at least.”

  Violet’s heart stuttered. “Do you…do you think he’ll do this again?”

  Pip and Jessie exchanged a glance. Jessie frowned. “Just carry it.”

  “And try not to be alone if you can. We happened to be passing by this time. Next time you may not be so lucky.”

  Violet nodded. “I will carry it.”

  “Take my advice.” Jessie lowered her voice. “Don’t hesitate to use it.”

  Pip nodded. “And whatever you do, never let him see your fear. He feeds on it, that one.”

  Violet shook her head but only to bring order to her thoughts. Blood still rushed in her veins but it was waning. And with it, absolute exhaustion set in.

  She knew the McCloud was a brigand—Kaitlin had told her as much. But why did Ewan have such a foul monster on his crew? What kind of evil endeavors was he engaged in?

  The possibilities scored her soul. She couldn’t think on it. She just couldn’t. She closed her eyes, hoping against hope she could shut out the world.

  “Poor thing. She’s all in.” Pip sighed.

  Jessie stroked her hair with a gentle touch. “Get some rest, Violet. And don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything.”

  Something blossomed in her chest. Something she hadn’t had call to feel for a very long time. Something sweet.

  Gratitude. She wasn’t so alone here. She wasn’t despised by all. The knowledge was a balm to her battered soul.