to a bluish-red shade atop the bonfire tended by Pellin, whose shirt darkened in blood-glazed stripes. It helped mute the pain when whiskey was sloshed onto Thayne’s backside, but did nothing against the removal of Dunn-Fyne’s dirk. The flood of blood stayed the men’s teasing. And then Thayne was arching in a silent scream of agony as Pellin burned him, although it took three of them to hold him for the chore.
Tears blurred the ground at his nose, despite every effort to stay them. Blinking sent them down his face. And nothing stayed the absolute agony. Thayne leaned his forehead into the ground . . . yanking in and shoving out breath after breath, and then he got angry. Curt. Foul-tempered and nasty toned. That made the shove to his feet possible, where he slashed an arm across his eyes and then limped to his horse. And if he could have mounted it without an assist, he would have. Thayne spent countless moments standing at his Clydesdale’s side, willing strength into his arms, before he had to ask for help. That just started the teasing again, especially his sideways lean to elevate his injury from any contact. Thayne sneered more than once at Jamie’s men and called his own taunts, before they were finally heading toward the hut, the wet-nurse somewhere in the line behind him. Thayne didn’t look to verify it. He didn’t think he could. It took every bit of concentration to absorb the throb centering at the bottom of his spine and radiating through every portion of him. There wasn’t room for any other sensation.
Dawn infused the clouds with rose-shaded light before they cleared the forest fringe. It sent a fairy-tale look over the treeless landscape and probably did the same to the macabre scene that had been Dunn-Fyne’s camp. Every step of the horse brought pain, every flex of any kind in his leg brought worse, and he knew they needed speed. They needed to reach the woodcutter hut and Jamie. Thayne would’ve commanded it, but he’d locked his jaw and set his teeth. It was the only way to stop the woman-cries from sounding.
The shepherd hut was a hovel of impossible description. It got worse the more she studied it as the torch slowly faded and then dawn started slipping in through the cracks. Amalie looked down at the babe in her arms and begged her to stay quiet. Just a little longer . . . until Thayne returned.
The babe hadn’t spent an easy night. She’d been screaming with hunger and anger when MacPherson fetched her down. She’d continued her cries as Amalie juggled her, crooning and rocking and even dipping her smallest finger in the whiskey flagon-thing MacPherson held out for her before trying to give that to the baby. It hadn’t worked. Nothing worked until the infant used up her strength and slept exhausted, her face red and covered with tears. Amalie hugged the babe close, defensively, especially when Jamie threatened to use a fist to stop the noise. She was terrified of what would happen if the wet-nurse wasn’t there when the babe woke again. And what Jamie would do.
That’s when she got a complete dose of reality and how unprepared and useless she was about any of it. Whatever happened, Amalie was powerless to prevent it. It preyed on her mind and filled her imagination until she panted with emotion. She hadn’t known freedom came with fear . . . or that independence came with risk and peril. She didn’t feel free. She felt small and insignificant and helpless and powerless. She fought tears more than once with the realization.
Everything Jamie MacGowan said to her made it all worse. Once the babe quieted, he wouldn’t cease the words; cajoling, bragging, and occasionally getting angry from his side of the hut.
He’d been drinking. He’d gone through all of Thayne’s supply and then MacPherson’s. It made the MacGowan laird bold, crude, vulgar. Completely uncivilized. And then he got talkative. Jamie spoke on all kinds of things. Most of it meant to put his little
Tears blurred the ground at his nose, despite every effort to stay them. Blinking sent them down his face. And nothing stayed the absolute agony. Thayne leaned his forehead into the ground . . . yanking in and shoving out breath after breath, and then he got angry. Curt. Foul-tempered and nasty toned. That made the shove to his feet possible, where he slashed an arm across his eyes and then limped to his horse. And if he could have mounted it without an assist, he would have. Thayne spent countless moments standing at his Clydesdale’s side, willing strength into his arms, before he had to ask for help. That just started the teasing again, especially his sideways lean to elevate his injury from any contact. Thayne sneered more than once at Jamie’s men and called his own taunts, before they were finally heading toward the hut, the wet-nurse somewhere in the line behind him. Thayne didn’t look to verify it. He didn’t think he could. It took every bit of concentration to absorb the throb centering at the bottom of his spine and radiating through every portion of him. There wasn’t room for any other sensation.
Dawn infused the clouds with rose-shaded light before they cleared the forest fringe. It sent a fairy-tale look over the treeless landscape and probably did the same to the macabre scene that had been Dunn-Fyne’s camp. Every step of the horse brought pain, every flex of any kind in his leg brought worse, and he knew they needed speed. They needed to reach the woodcutter hut and Jamie. Thayne would’ve commanded it, but he’d locked his jaw and set his teeth. It was the only way to stop the woman-cries from sounding.
The shepherd hut was a hovel of impossible description. It got worse the more she studied it as the torch slowly faded and then dawn started slipping in through the cracks. Amalie looked down at the babe in her arms and begged her to stay quiet. Just a little longer . . . until Thayne returned.
The babe hadn’t spent an easy night. She’d been screaming with hunger and anger when MacPherson fetched her down. She’d continued her cries as Amalie juggled her, crooning and rocking and even dipping her smallest finger in the whiskey flagon-thing MacPherson held out for her before trying to give that to the baby. It hadn’t worked. Nothing worked until the infant used up her strength and slept exhausted, her face red and covered with tears. Amalie hugged the babe close, defensively, especially when Jamie threatened to use a fist to stop the noise. She was terrified of what would happen if the wet-nurse wasn’t there when the babe woke again. And what Jamie would do.
That’s when she got a complete dose of reality and how unprepared and useless she was about any of it. Whatever happened, Amalie was powerless to prevent it. It preyed on her mind and filled her imagination until she panted with emotion. She hadn’t known freedom came with fear . . . or that independence came with risk and peril. She didn’t feel free. She felt small and insignificant and helpless and powerless. She fought tears more than once with the realization.
Everything Jamie MacGowan said to her made it all worse. Once the babe quieted, he wouldn’t cease the words; cajoling, bragging, and occasionally getting angry from his side of the hut.
He’d been drinking. He’d gone through all of Thayne’s supply and then MacPherson’s. It made the MacGowan laird bold, crude, vulgar. Completely uncivilized. And then he got talkative. Jamie spoke on all kinds of things. Most of it meant to put his little
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