De Bourgh gave a slow nod and sighed. “You leave me no choice. James, take off her short coat and her tunic.”
Amber closed her eyes. Her cheeks flushed and burned as James Baker cut her leather jacket and her shirt and ripped both off her. Her naked skin prickled sharply as air touched it. From the top, she was now only in her bra.
Silence hung in the room. She opened her eyes and found both men staring at her bra with puzzled expressions.
“That as well, my lord?” James Baker said.
“What is that?” de Bourgh said.
“Does it matter?” Amber said.
“No,” de Bourgh replied. “Remove that, too.”
With some sort of giant scissors, James Baker cut her bra, and it fell on the floor.
A shiver ran through Amber. Would she lose her breasts now?
“Flog her,” de Bourgh said.
Flogging…
Fuck.
If she didn’t bleed to death from that, an infection would kill her. She wished she knew something about the Bruce to trade for her life.
With a sinking stomach, Amber watched James Baker go to the wall of torture tools and take a whip off it. It was like a snake attached to a big stick. Amber’s whole body shook, her breath coming in and out in shudders. She locked her eyes with James Baker as he walked to stand behind her wearing that same sad expression.
“You will pay for this,” she said. “I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But you will.”
Somehow, she knew that if she survived this, Owen wouldn’t let this go. He was no one to her, and she was no one to him, but something told her he wouldn’t take this lightly.
“We’ll see. Begin,” de Bourgh said.
A crack echoed in the air behind her, and red-hot pain scorched her bare back. She grunted and sank from the impact. But before she could recover and take a breath, another lash tore her apart. This time, she couldn’t stop a scream.
Blows rained down on her, one after another, and soon, the only thing that existed was world-shattering pain.
Chapter 8
The door to the dungeon screeched and clunked somewhere in the darkness. Owen jumped to his feet and leaned on the iron bars. A torch lit the hall, then another. Heavy feet pounded against the stone floor as the two lights approached. The dungeon’s other inhabitant fussed in his cell by the exit.
“Food. Water, please,” he begged.
Owen’s stomach rumbled, too. His lips were parched, and his head ached. He hadn’t had a drop to drink in he didn’t know how long. He didn’t know what time of day it was now. Mayhap it was tomorrow? Mayhap they were still in the same endless day.
His main concern was Amber. His stomach had dropped and the calm and peaceful demeanor had disappeared when they’d taken her, and every moment she was away was agony.
What was de Bourgh doing to her? If he touched one hair on her head, Owen would make him wish he were never born.
He peered into the darkness until his eyes hurt, but he couldn’t make anything out beyond the light of the two torches against the blackness.
“Amber?” he said. “Is that ye?”
“Shut up,” came a male response.
Owen gripped the iron bars until his fingertips were numb. Finally, they were close enough that he could see a man marching with two torches and behind him—
Icy fingers gripped Owen’s core.
Two men carried Amber’s limp body.
“Amber!” Owen called.
She didn’t move. Some sort of a cloak covered her shoulders.
“She can’t hear you.” The man with the torches opened the door to the cell.
They carried her inside, her feet dragging over the ground. They placed her on her belly on the bench attached to the wall in the darkest corner of the cell.
“Don’t turn her on her back.” The guard gave one torch to Owen.
With that, the three of them left. Owen’s wide eyes remained fixed on Amber’s immobile body.
Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, please, let her be alive.
He wouldn’t forgive himself if she died. Wherever he went, trouble and tragedy followed. The feud with the MacDougalls, the deaths of his grandfather and Lachlan, Marjorie’s misfortunes, Ian’s…
Even when he was a wee lad, he’d always managed to make a mess of things. Like when the MacKinnons had come to visit Glenkeld. Owen had begged his da to let him go out on the hunt with the men. He was a good shot for a ten-year-old. But his father had barely acknowledged Owen’s request. He’d been too busy talking to his guests.
A disgruntled young Owen had fed the hounds so well that morning, they’d been tired and not interested in the hunt. Consequently, an angry boar had almost attacked the MacKinnon chief. It was only Owen’s father’s excellent aim that had saved the man’s life.
Later, when his father realized who was responsible for the mischief, he’d given Owen a hiding with a soft whip that hadn’t broken his skin but had stung nonetheless. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taught Owen to behave. It had taught him a way to get his father’s attention.
But Owen couldn’t mess this up. Not when the life of an innocent woman was at stake. Especially since the woman was Amber. He put the torch into a sconce on the wall above the bench and sank to his knees by Amber's side. In the light of the fire, he could see her back rising and falling in small, shallow motions. She was pale, but she looked serene. They hadn’t hit her face.
Carefully, he lifted the cloak a little from her shoulder. Bare skin. De Bourgh had undressed her. What else had he done to her? A painful chill went through him, followed by a hot rush of anger.
That bastart… Oh, he will pay. If there’s a single bruise on her…
He lifted the cloak higher, until he saw the first cut. It was a lash, red and broad. The skin in the middle of it was broken, and the cut bled.
“Oh, lass,” Owen whispered. His fists clenched, fingernails biting into his palm.
He uncovered her back completely and saw a dozen or so long, bleeding cuts.
“Holy Mother of Jesu,” he muttered in horror.
He needed to treat her. Wounds like this could be deadly. She could get a fever, especially here in this dirty, moldy underground. But he had nothing, not even clean cloth to cover the cuts. And where were her clothes? She needed to stay warm to stay alive.
Owen covered her again and stood. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked around, hoping to find something that would help him. Any warrior knew the basics of how to treat cuts and wounds, so he was ready to help her. But all he had around him was dirt, dust, and rocks.
He sank to his knees again and felt Amber’s pulse on her neck. It was weak, but it was there. Had she passed out from pain? A dozen lashes would be tough for a healthy man, and as strong as Amber seemed, she was a woman. And the days on the road weakened her.
He needed to speak to the guard. Plead with de Bourgh to take her to a healer. He could make a deal, trade some insignificant or even false information for Amber’s recovery. It had been a brilliant move on de Bourgh’s behalf to start the torture with Amber and not Owen. He couldn’t stand to see her suffer so.
The door to the dungeon screeched and gnashed again, and he rushed to the bars.
“Please, help,” he called to whoever carried a torch towards him. “She needs a healer.”