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She didn’t want to. Couldn’t.
But did.
A short, grimy man let St. John and Daigh into the cottage. Another filled them in on the prisoners.
“Barely et, sir, though I gave them what you left. Heard them in there talking, but couldn’t make heads nor tails of what they said through the door. Gentleman’s not tried nothin’ for a while, though we been watchin’ for it. He’s poorly. Mebbe that’s what’s keeping him quiet.”
“Bring them out.”
“Aye, sir.”
The men disappeared up a narrow stair, their boot heels echoing on the floorboards above Daigh’s head. Raised voices followed by a dull thud of fists striking flesh. A woman’s scream.
Daigh strained against the black rage. The presence so close to the surface, the gleam of the serpent’s eye filled his vision. The glistening, black scales slid just below his skin. Every second his humanity unwound like wool from a skein.
“Here they are, sir.”
St. John motioned the couple forward into the room.
Sabrina started in her captor’s arms. “Daigh!” Was yanked back fiercely.
Beside her, held upright only by the men supporting him on either side, slumped Brendan Douglas. He cocked a head up, one golden eye studying him from beneath a shaggy head of hair. “So, Máelodor managed it after all. A Domnuathi.”
Daigh stiffened, addressing St. John. “You agreed. The tapestry for their release.”
“No,” St. John countered. “I agreed the tapestry and I’d not carve your lover into bite-size pieces. Did you know the sea lies a mile southeast of here? My associates, when they’re not engaged by me, own a fishing boat. According to them, a body weighted and dumped just yards offshore will never be found.”
“You lied.” Tugging the billhook from his belt, Daigh surged forward, only to be brought up short by Sabrina’s captor pressing a cocked pistol to her temple.
“Careful,” St. John admonished, holding a hand out for the makeshift weapon. “You wouldn’t want to be responsible for a stray shot, would you?”
“Bastard,” Douglas rasped. But a brutal punch left him hanging useless between his captors.
“What of Sabrina’s brother?” Daigh asked, slapping the billhook into St. John’s open palm.
St. John shrugged. “He’s not part of our bargain.”
“She’s no more use to you. Let her go.” Daigh tried to keep the pleading from his voice, but by the smug curl of St. John’s lip, the man knew full well to what extent Daigh would go to secure Sabrina’s release.
“And why should I?” He studied Daigh with renewed interest.
Palms damp, skin crawling, his stomach churned as he stared the man down. “Because I asked.”
St. John opened his mouth as if to reject his request, his expression slowly changing as if he read something in Daigh’s eyes that pleased him. He motioned toward a dimly lit back passage.
Without once looking at Sabrina or her brother, Daigh followed St. John out.
They had been returned to their prison, Brendan dumped unceremoniously upon the bed, and given a rough boot to the ribs to keep him quiet. She, shoved inside with a leer and a filthy remark that left her face flaming. When the door finally slammed behind them, the turn of the key came like a turn of a knife in Sabrina’s breast.
She slid down a wall to huddle upon the floor, arms wrapped about her drawn-up knees.
“Damn it. Seven years hidden, and just like that—” A bout of coughing interrupted Brendan’s tirade. He lay back on the bed, an arm shielding his face as he sought to recover.
; “Daigh didn’t do it because he wanted to. He did it to save me.” She pressed a hand to the dull lump just under her breastbone.
“Why would a soldier of Domnu barter to save you? And why does St. John assume you’re lovers?”
