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“Sir…?” She was bemused, relieved yet disappointed. He had said ten, had promised her ten strokes and absolution. He could not fail her now. “No, it is not… I must… Please.”
“I am satisfied. Clan McGregor has had its due.”
Roselyn shook her head, oddly determined that they were not yet done and she could not leave here until the matter was properly concluded. “Ten, my lord. You said it had to be ten. I shall be satisfied with nothing less.”
“I see. Very well, though I shall count from here on or we might be here the entire evening since you seem to be struggling to recall your numbers.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The next four strokes, the final ones, were delivered in swift succession. Roselyn did not cry out, nor did she struggle. She lay still, relishing each fresh wave of pain as it washed through her spent body. Even after he tossed the switch aside and released her ankles she made no attempt to move.
Blair untied her wrists and drew her hands up above her head. Roselyn clutched at the blanket beneath her stiff fingers as he massaged the stiffness from her aching shoulders. She yearned to crawl up the bed, to sink into the comforting warmth of the furs which covered the mattress but she could not shift so much as a muscle. She hurt, every part of her hurt and she could not muster the strength of a newborn babe.
Blair lifted her in his arms. She whimpered though he was gentle and took care not to touch her punished skin as he laid her face down on the bed. Roselyn lay motionless, concentrating on drawing in one breath after the next. She was exhausted, in pain, utterly spent and totally exhilarated.
She was alive, and she felt freer than she could recall in her entire life.
She stretched out her hand, seeking… something. Blair laced his fingers through hers.
“Here, you must drink.”
Roselyn attempted to protest but was too weak. Blair eased her up to place her weight on one elbow, her torso twisted to face him. He held the earthenware cup to her lips. “‘Tis mead, your favourite. Take a little then you may rest,”
It did not occur to Roselyn to disobey nor even to question his instruction. She parted her lips and allowed him to tip a little of the sweet liquid into her mouth. It slid down her dry throat, the flavour rich and soothing.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You are welcome.” His response was low, his voice soft. She may have been mistaken as to what happened next. Could he really have smoothed her tangled hair back and kissed her forehead or was that just something conjured up by her fevered imagination? No one had treated her thus since her mother’s death almost five summers ago.
Roselyn abandoned any further effort to grasp what might be happening around her, she no longer cared. Her usually acute senses were dulled, her reasoning confused. She buried her face in the fluffy softness of the pillow and allowed herself to drift off to sleep.
* * *
“Roselyn? Are you awake?”
No, too tired. Leave me.
“Roselyn, open your eyes.”
Why? What would be the point?
“It will show me that you are awake and heeding my words. Obey me, please.”
How do you know my thoughts?
“Ye’re speaking them out loud, which suggests to me that ye might be awake.”
She wrinkled her brow, puzzled, then fell back on the one certainty of which she had no doubt. “Leave me. I need to sleep.”
“And so ye shall, soon enough. You are speaking to me, but I want to know that you are conscious and fully sensible afore I leave.”
“Leave? Must you go?” A sharp pang of disappointment pierced her reluctantly dawning consciousness.
“Not at once. I have some time and wish to speak with ye, if ye’re strong enough.”
Roselyn parted her eyelids. “Is it morning?”
“Aye. Well, daybreak at least. Not quite light yet.”
