This startled us all, even me, who’d never contemplated it: King William was of the Stuart clan. And therefore, it now appeared, so was I.
“Stuart?” asked the minister, his curiosity momentarily overcoming his anxiety.
Ogilvie held one of my shoulders, turning me to present my tattoo. He moved my hair aside and lowered the cloth of the tunic over my shoulder, so my inkedmark could be viewed by the minister. “She is the king’s issue. She is the child he searches for.”
The minister’s disapproval was hardly concealed. “Has the king been notified of her whereabouts?” He was obviously becoming more and more distressed by the events surrounding this highly unusual marriage ceremony. As were we all.
“The king will be notified of her whereabouts,” said Ogilvie, “as soon as this marriage is official. Now, please continue.”
Ogilvie adjusted the tunic back in place, his hand lightly fingering and stroking my hair. In response, Wilkie growled from his chair, a sound of total agony, as though doom and torment mingled with his rage and led him beyond his breaking point.
Ogilvie signaled to Mumford, who lashed the whip fiercely across Wilkie’s bare back. Wilkie’s teeth clenched, and he braced and grimaced. And he silenced himself.
The hooded guard to the right of Mumford raised his sword slightly, almost in a reflex reaction to Wilkie’s beating.
“Continue,” barked Ogilvie.
The minister’s wide eyes looked into mine. “Roses S-Stuart,” he stammered. “Do you take Laird Errol Ogilvie to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“Nay,” Wilkie said softly. Again the whip found its mark, swishing once, then cracking through the cold air before its sound turned abrupt: the sickening, slicing sound of opening flesh.
I could feel the hopeless pleading in my eyes as the minister rushed on, falsely assuming an end to this ceremony would mean an end to the violence. “Give meyour consent, lass,” he urged. “You must give your consent before the marriage can be blessed by our Heavenly Father.”
“Roses, nay,” growled Wilkie, his words dipped in pain.
“Give it!” yelled Ogilvie, his face fairly purpled from his ire. Then, to Mumford: “Again!”
The whip lashed into Wilkie’s raw skin, the sound cutting into me, breaking my heart and bloodying my soul. Oddly, the other of the hooded guards who flanked Mumford gasped and fumbled slightly. I wondered if they were newly appointed; they seemed to be having trouble stomaching the torture.
“Don’t do it, Roses,” Wilkie groaned. “Do not do it.I can take a thousand more lashes.”
In answer, Mumford thrashed him again. The hiss of the whip as it cut him echoed throughout the room.
Wilkie made no sound. He just closed his eyes as his strung-out body tensed and bled.
It was too much.
Without being aware of my own actions, my body hunched. My fists balled, and I drew them to my face to block out the light and the scene. I wailed quietly and fell to my knees.
I felt Ogilvie’s hand grasp my arm and pull strongly. “Get up and give your consent!” he spat. “Or I’ll kill him now.”
He pulled me to my feet, and I composed myself enough to look Ogilvie in the eyes. The eyes of the man who had prowled around me for many years, infusing my life with fear and dread and worthlessness. As I had once before, under the hungry, almost triumphant gloat of him, I made a decision. And the decision gaveme strength even as I knew it doomed me in this life, and Wilkie, too.
“I willnevergive my consent to you,” I said. “Kill him and I’ll die along with him, but not before I take your life with my own. You will not win. I will be Wilkie Mackenzie’s wife, or no one’s.”
A ripple of disbelief fluttered crossed Ogilvie’s expression, quickly followed by all-out rage.“Bitch!”he seethed, and he slapped me hard across the face. It pained me and stunned me, but I did not fall. I lifted my head to glare at him, and a few white stars flitted across my vision. I hated him with a ferocity that astonished me, even before he confessed a shocking truth. “You deserve a life of suffering and servitude,” he said. “Your father fought me, aye, threatening me with death if I ever pursued you, the insolent fool. It wasmysword that cut him down on the battlefield. Your mother called to him, even in death, as I took her as my own. Knowthatbefore you die.” His head turned to the executioner. “Lash him until his life bleeds away.”
The minister was murmuring frantic, quiet prayers.
For a very brief moment, my eyes met Wilkie’s, and I would remember the color of them and the sureness of their love as long as my short life would allow.
I would have lunged at Ogilvie then, as useless as my attack may have been, attempting to find his knife, or to pain him or maim him in any way I could. But the two hooded guards who flanked the torturer in that moment revealed their faces.
Ritchie. And Ronan.
My friends, who had taught me to fight, who’d given me men’s clothing to wear, to hide myself from the leeringwatch of Laird Ogilvie. And Ritchie, who’d allowed me to escape from the advancing search party.
They seemed taller than I remembered them and more imposing.
