Page 65 of Devil Black

“Father, speak to me. Answer me! You must get me away out of here—we both must leave! These men are not your friends, as you think. Take me home to Yorkshire if you will, punish me as you may. But let us be gone—”

She paused, stricken by her father’s continued failure to respond. The empty cup sitting on the bench beside him gave her the answer: drunk. Her father, who never touched what he called the demon whisky and frequently lectured on its ills, had now taken so much he did not know where he was or who she was.

He could not understand the danger she faced nor lift a finger to help her.

All the breath rushed from Isobel’s body. She turned her head slowly and looked at Randal MacNab.

Once more, he smiled that unpleasant smile, the one that left his eyes cold. “Stupid girl, you have been far too much indulged. That is the error my good friend, here, has committed. But as you can see, he has now entrusted you to my hands.”

“He has not!”

“Can he say differently? Bertram!” He bellowed the name, which was the last Isobel wanted to hear, and when his son came trotting in, the cold and sleet upon him as if he had just returned from checking his borders, Randal gestured at Isobel.

“Our charge needs to learn obedience.”

Isobel looked at Bertram. His eyes, unlike his father’s, did not look devoid of emotion. Emptiness would have been much better than what Isobel saw: eagerness, anticipation, cruelty. He seized her arm and twisted. “Come.”

No fear Isobel had ever felt rivaled what assailed her as Bertram dragged her back up those stairs, past the old woman from the kitchen, past the guards and other servants, all staring. She struggled, kicked, and lashed out, injured herself on the stones, but did not break free. She did not care how badly she hurt herself. She suspected if she once more entered that bedchamber she would never again come out, but she would suffer—this man would assure it.

At the top of the stairs, when one of her wild blows connected with his face, he shouted, “Stop it!” He then released his hold on her arm and seized her hair instead. Isobel howled as the excruciating pain brought immediate tears to her eyes.

The door of the dreaded chamber still stood open. Bertram threw her inside like a bundle of sticks, and she landed hard on the stone floor and skidded. He followed her in and slammed the door behind him.

For an instant, winded, Isobel lay where she had fallen. Her scalp roared with pain and her shoulder, which had absorbed most the impact of her landing, screamed at her.

Bertram stood over her, legs spread, like wrath impersonated.

“You are wanting discipline,” he pronounced, “and I can give it.” He fumbled with the front of his kilt. “On your knees.”

“No.”

“That is a word which will never cross your lips again! When I tell you to act, wench, you will obey.” He reached down and seized her hair again. Isobel gasped as he hauled her to her knees, but she had not yet lost her fight.

“If you put any part of your vile body near me, I shall bite it,” she promised.

He struck her across the face so hard it sent her sprawling backward. She fell onto her injured shoulder, hit her head, and saw stars.

Bertram loomed over her, pointing a condemning finger. “Do not ever threaten me! You will obey, understand?”

Isobel raised a shaking hand and wiped blood from the corner of her mouth.

“You will accept me the next time I walk through that door,” he continued, “and you will prove willing. Else we will see how well you learn obedience, tied spread on that bed whilst each member of my warrior guard takes you, one after the other.”

Somehow Isobel scrambled to her feet. “You would not!”

He grinned cruelly. “Try me, lady. Try me, just as each of them will try you.”

A wave of nausea surged through Isobel, so strong it nearly knocked her down again. For the first time she realized she stood where Aisla once had—poor soul!—and Aisla had not survived.

Evil, she thought, as Bertram took himself out through the door and slammed it shut. This time she heard a bar being lowered across it. The man personified evil, walking. And Dougal—

She quivered with longing at the thought of him. Would he tumble to where she was? Would he attempt to rescue her? Did he care enough? Oh, yes, though it might not be love but hate that brought him. Yet he would come; he would never allow MacNab to keep the woman he called his wife.

The question remained: would Dougal come in time?

Slowly she walked to the bed, a fourposter, the frame carved of dark wood which, when she inspected it closely, chilled the blood within her. For each of the four posts bore chafe marks as if rope had been threaded around them and had bitten deep.

Isobel believed it then: Bertram would follow through on his threat, carry out his vile plan as he had done to Aisla in this very chamber. She had suffered here unspeakable hurt and humiliation. Had she died in this room? Had her last breath tainted the air?