The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) by Julia Brannan Page A
Authors: Julia Brannan
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loved me. Loved me enough, in fact, to throw away twenty thousand pounds that you have need of, and to take the risk that I might betray you anyway. That’s what changes everything, what changes me, not my freedom! Can’t you see that?” Unbidden, her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away from him, searching in her pocket for a handkerchief.
He stared at her, frozen. He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to throw her down on the hearthrug and take her now, brutally. He wanted to cradle her on his lap and kiss away the tears she was trying so manfully to swallow back, not wanting him to pity her. He could not do any of those things. Instead, in desperation, he did the only thing he could do, without giving in to her.
“Christ, woman, have ye gone daft?” he shouted, losing his temper. “It’s no’ a game I’m playing. If I’m caught, I’ll be tortured until I betray my friends. Then I’ll suffer a traitor’s death. D’ye ken what that is, lassie?” Before she could open her mouth to answer, he continued, scrubbing his hand viciously through his hair. “First I’ll be paraded through the streets on a hurdle, for people to spit and throw shit and stones at me. Then I’ll be allowed to make a brave speech for the entertainment of the crowd, while I try to hold on to my bowels so as no’ to disgrace myself. For I’ll be terrified, knowing what’s going tae happen next, and knowing there’ll be no escape from it. Then I’ll be hung, not long enough tae die, ye ken, just long enough to suffer, badly. After that I’ll be cut down and have my private parts cut off, before being disembowelled slowly, and my heart thrown on the fire. And I’ll be alive and feeling for every endless minute of it. That’s what I’m risking. And I can expect no mercy, because I’ll hae made a fool o’ the king, and of half the aristocracy of the country. And by Christ, they’ll make sure I suffer for it!” He glared at her. Her eyes were huge in her white face. He had frightened her. Good. He stood up, towering over her, and passed his hand through his hair again.
“And as for yersel’,” he continued, his Scottish accent more pronounced in his passion. “If ye do as I tell ye, and leave me now, and then I’m discovered, you’ll be cast out of society, which I ken ye dinna care a fig for. If ye insist on coming wi’ me and having romantic and glamorous ‘adventures’, as ye seem tae think they’ll be, and we’re caught, then ye can at least be assured that women dinna suffer quartering. Ye’ll merely be burnt alive, or if you’re really lucky, hung until dead, which can take up to an hour, depending on the skill of the hangman. Have ye ever seen a hanging?”
“No,” she replied quietly, “But…”
“Well, then,” he interrupted. “I have, many times. It’s no’ a pretty sight, I can tell ye that, certainly no adventure, and in all the hangings I’ve seen, no one has ever come riding in on a white horse at the last minute tae rescue the damsel, as they do in all the best poems and novels. Before they burn or hang ye, however, ye’ll be kept in a filthy, cold prison cell for weeks, in between being ‘questioned’, which, as ye’re no a lady o’ quality, but a mere barbarian Scot’s wife, will consist of a damn sight more than polite requests for you tae reveal your accomplices. Whatever ‘unpleasant experience’ ye suffered that made ye so feared of my advances the other night was nothing compared to what you’ll suffer if you get a brutal questioner. Which you will, because you’ll be the wife o’ the man who made a fool o’ the king and all society!”
Her face flushed scarlet at his last words, and he knew he had hit below the belt. But he didn’t care. He had to make her realise the seriousness of the situation. He turned away, pacing the room, and scrubbed his fingers through his hair again, as he always did when deeply disturbed. When he turned back, she was looking at him,
He stared at her, frozen. He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to throw her down on the hearthrug and take her now, brutally. He wanted to cradle her on his lap and kiss away the tears she was trying so manfully to swallow back, not wanting him to pity her. He could not do any of those things. Instead, in desperation, he did the only thing he could do, without giving in to her.
“Christ, woman, have ye gone daft?” he shouted, losing his temper. “It’s no’ a game I’m playing. If I’m caught, I’ll be tortured until I betray my friends. Then I’ll suffer a traitor’s death. D’ye ken what that is, lassie?” Before she could open her mouth to answer, he continued, scrubbing his hand viciously through his hair. “First I’ll be paraded through the streets on a hurdle, for people to spit and throw shit and stones at me. Then I’ll be allowed to make a brave speech for the entertainment of the crowd, while I try to hold on to my bowels so as no’ to disgrace myself. For I’ll be terrified, knowing what’s going tae happen next, and knowing there’ll be no escape from it. Then I’ll be hung, not long enough tae die, ye ken, just long enough to suffer, badly. After that I’ll be cut down and have my private parts cut off, before being disembowelled slowly, and my heart thrown on the fire. And I’ll be alive and feeling for every endless minute of it. That’s what I’m risking. And I can expect no mercy, because I’ll hae made a fool o’ the king, and of half the aristocracy of the country. And by Christ, they’ll make sure I suffer for it!” He glared at her. Her eyes were huge in her white face. He had frightened her. Good. He stood up, towering over her, and passed his hand through his hair again.
“And as for yersel’,” he continued, his Scottish accent more pronounced in his passion. “If ye do as I tell ye, and leave me now, and then I’m discovered, you’ll be cast out of society, which I ken ye dinna care a fig for. If ye insist on coming wi’ me and having romantic and glamorous ‘adventures’, as ye seem tae think they’ll be, and we’re caught, then ye can at least be assured that women dinna suffer quartering. Ye’ll merely be burnt alive, or if you’re really lucky, hung until dead, which can take up to an hour, depending on the skill of the hangman. Have ye ever seen a hanging?”
“No,” she replied quietly, “But…”
“Well, then,” he interrupted. “I have, many times. It’s no’ a pretty sight, I can tell ye that, certainly no adventure, and in all the hangings I’ve seen, no one has ever come riding in on a white horse at the last minute tae rescue the damsel, as they do in all the best poems and novels. Before they burn or hang ye, however, ye’ll be kept in a filthy, cold prison cell for weeks, in between being ‘questioned’, which, as ye’re no a lady o’ quality, but a mere barbarian Scot’s wife, will consist of a damn sight more than polite requests for you tae reveal your accomplices. Whatever ‘unpleasant experience’ ye suffered that made ye so feared of my advances the other night was nothing compared to what you’ll suffer if you get a brutal questioner. Which you will, because you’ll be the wife o’ the man who made a fool o’ the king and all society!”
Her face flushed scarlet at his last words, and he knew he had hit below the belt. But he didn’t care. He had to make her realise the seriousness of the situation. He turned away, pacing the room, and scrubbed his fingers through his hair again, as he always did when deeply disturbed. When he turned back, she was looking at him,
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