on, slipping the key into it before he pulled on his tunic. As he strode through the open door, he forced himself not to look back. He knew if he looked, if he saw the frantic expression in her beautiful blue eyes, he might do something stupid, like kiss her again. If he did that, then he’d have to make love with her, and if he made love with her, he knew he’d never, never let her go.
At a steady pace, Lock headed for the distant woods. The clear night and full moon made traveling easy. Though he wasn’t quite sure where he was headed, he knew he could live in the forest until he made a decision about the best way to catch a ship back to the Archipelago.
And while I’m on my way to freedom, Sparrow will be tortured for the sole crime of showing me compassion . He remembered all too clearly the agony of the lash, the strain of the rack that threatened to tear his arms and legs from the rest of his body. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could still smell the burning coals beneath his ravaged back, could smell his flesh burning as the knife carved symbols into his arms. Thief. Murderer .
Afterward, when his life had been an endless cycle of pain—pain when he breathed and moved, during wakefulness and sleep—Sparrow had been his only relief. Sparrow and even that old witch Shea-Ann with her salve and potions. It had been Sparrow, however, who faithfully applied the salve to his back. When his fever had climbed, it had been Sparrow who had sat with him day and night, bathing him with cool water and seeing to his most personal needs. He’d blamed his physical weakness for the strange feeling in his stomach whenever she touched him, but as he grew stronger, the feeling remained, eating at him from the inside like a fanged worm trapped in his gut. She made him feel things he’d never felt, like warmth and good humor. She was making him soft, and though he wanted to get as far from her as possible, part of him wanted to bury himself in her, body and spirit.
She’d been the only person in his entire life to ever show him a shred of kindness, and he’d left her with two dead bodies and the possibility of torture.
He thought of how her skin had felt when he’d fondled her. She was a strong woman, her hands callused from hard work, but the flesh of her round, warm breasts and sleek abdomen, as well as the rest of her body was soft as the belly of a baby animal. The idea of that tender skin being cut by the lash made him wince.
He glanced around, realizing he was partway into the wood, the trees dark, spiky silhouettes around him. He stopped, squeezing his hands into fists, feeling the hot sticky blood on his palms from when he’d broken free of the chains.
“Damn the crazy bitch!” he hissed through clenched teeth as he turned abruptly, stalking out of the woods and back over the fields toward Sparrow’s farm. “I think her insanity has infected me.”
Chapter Eight
Sparrow sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, her arms wrapped tightly around her body, tears dripping down her face. What in the name of the twin goddesses was she going to do? She had two dead bodies in her house, and Lock was gone.
If he escapes, you get tortured until you faint .
“No way.” Sparrow suddenly regained her self-control, wiped her eyes with her palms, and began packing her few belongings into a large sack. She’d set all her animals free, take one of the horses, and be gone by sunrise. She’d go to Shea-Ann’s village and tell her friend what had happened. Maybe she could even settle there and start a new life. Maybe—
Her eyes shot up from where she knelt, unloading the trunk at the foot of her bed. Lock strode through the door, his pale eyes brilliant with a barrage of emotions: anger, confusion, and something else Sparrow dared not hope for.
“You came back.” She stood but didn’t take a step closer to him.
His lip curled. “Can’t have them taking the lash to you now, can we, girl?”
“I knew you
At a steady pace, Lock headed for the distant woods. The clear night and full moon made traveling easy. Though he wasn’t quite sure where he was headed, he knew he could live in the forest until he made a decision about the best way to catch a ship back to the Archipelago.
And while I’m on my way to freedom, Sparrow will be tortured for the sole crime of showing me compassion . He remembered all too clearly the agony of the lash, the strain of the rack that threatened to tear his arms and legs from the rest of his body. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could still smell the burning coals beneath his ravaged back, could smell his flesh burning as the knife carved symbols into his arms. Thief. Murderer .
Afterward, when his life had been an endless cycle of pain—pain when he breathed and moved, during wakefulness and sleep—Sparrow had been his only relief. Sparrow and even that old witch Shea-Ann with her salve and potions. It had been Sparrow, however, who faithfully applied the salve to his back. When his fever had climbed, it had been Sparrow who had sat with him day and night, bathing him with cool water and seeing to his most personal needs. He’d blamed his physical weakness for the strange feeling in his stomach whenever she touched him, but as he grew stronger, the feeling remained, eating at him from the inside like a fanged worm trapped in his gut. She made him feel things he’d never felt, like warmth and good humor. She was making him soft, and though he wanted to get as far from her as possible, part of him wanted to bury himself in her, body and spirit.
She’d been the only person in his entire life to ever show him a shred of kindness, and he’d left her with two dead bodies and the possibility of torture.
He thought of how her skin had felt when he’d fondled her. She was a strong woman, her hands callused from hard work, but the flesh of her round, warm breasts and sleek abdomen, as well as the rest of her body was soft as the belly of a baby animal. The idea of that tender skin being cut by the lash made him wince.
He glanced around, realizing he was partway into the wood, the trees dark, spiky silhouettes around him. He stopped, squeezing his hands into fists, feeling the hot sticky blood on his palms from when he’d broken free of the chains.
“Damn the crazy bitch!” he hissed through clenched teeth as he turned abruptly, stalking out of the woods and back over the fields toward Sparrow’s farm. “I think her insanity has infected me.”
Chapter Eight
Sparrow sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, her arms wrapped tightly around her body, tears dripping down her face. What in the name of the twin goddesses was she going to do? She had two dead bodies in her house, and Lock was gone.
If he escapes, you get tortured until you faint .
“No way.” Sparrow suddenly regained her self-control, wiped her eyes with her palms, and began packing her few belongings into a large sack. She’d set all her animals free, take one of the horses, and be gone by sunrise. She’d go to Shea-Ann’s village and tell her friend what had happened. Maybe she could even settle there and start a new life. Maybe—
Her eyes shot up from where she knelt, unloading the trunk at the foot of her bed. Lock strode through the door, his pale eyes brilliant with a barrage of emotions: anger, confusion, and something else Sparrow dared not hope for.
“You came back.” She stood but didn’t take a step closer to him.
His lip curled. “Can’t have them taking the lash to you now, can we, girl?”
“I knew you
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