WINDREAPER by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

if disbelieving him, she didn't move. He'd slay any man who dared to touch her, and he sensed she knew the truth.
    She stood in the torchlight. Her hair glowed as though it were on fire. Her shapely body was soft and alluring, and he felt a tightening in his breeches that brought him even more anger. "I said I don't want you, woman. Get lost!" He turned away his face.
    "Milord?" she whispered, gaining his attention with her throaty, sensual drawl.
    He snapped his head around, feeling hostile and sullen, then stilled as he saw what she held in her hands.
    Amber-lea let her shawl drop to the stone floor. Clutched tightly in her fingers was a lethal-looking rawhide whip.
    He went livid with loathing. His lip curled with distaste. He was amazed a woman with such beauty could want this vile thing done to her. "You've got the wrong man, Sweeting. If pain is what you want, you'd better find one of the Tribunal guards to play with you."
    Amber-lea took a step closer. He could smell the faint tang of her perfume—a mixture of wild herbs and lemon. "Look at it, Milord. Tell me what you see."
    He flicked his gaze over the horrible thing, willing himself not to quiver. "I see metal barbs, glass, and leather! What the hell do you see?"
    She let the whip unravel until it lay curled at her feet. "Do you see the dried blood on it, Milord? The pieces of flesh that still cling to its barbs?"
    He shuddered, unable to keep his hands from shaking. "What kind of woman are you?" he breathed, shocked to the roots of his soul at her depravity.
    "Look, Your Grace! Do you not see your flesh and blood attached to this repulsive instrument?"
    He stared at her with sheer terror. The woman knew who he was! He pushed his back up against the clammy wall, moving as far from her as he could. He couldn't stand looking at the odious whip. "What the hell do you want from me?"
    "Nothing, Milord." She reached out to touch his leg, but he jerked away, bringing his legs onto the cot and circling them with his trembling arms. "I did not come here to hurt you, Milord. I came to offer you my help."
    "What's going on?" Brelan snapped as he entered the cell.
    "Please, Lord Brelan," she pleaded. "Don't be angry. I was sent here to help His Grace. I—"
    "Who the hell are you, woman?" he snarled.
    "Nobody, Lord Brelan. I am no one." Her tears flowed copiously; her mouth trembled. "Let me help him, Lord Brelan. Please!"
    "Let her go, Brelan," Conar said.
    "She knows who you are!"
    "Aye." Conar put his feet on the floor. He pointed to the whip. "Get that damned thing out of here."
    Brelan looked at the whip, obviously recognizing it, for he blanched as white as a sheet. He shoved past the girl, then stooped, grabbing up the whip in a flash of movement that belied his height and weight.
    He pivoted on his heel and fixed the girl with a stony, malevolent glare. "Where did this come from?"
    "Leave us, Brelan," Conar whispered.
    "You don't know who she is! She could be an enemy! Where could she have come by this whip if not from the Tribunal?" He glowered at her, his mouth set in mulish rage.
    "It doesn't matter where she came by it, just get it out of here!"
    "If you so much as touch him," Brelan growled at her, "I'll slit your throat!" Spinning on his heels, he stormed from the cell, mumbling dire curses.
    * * *
    Amber-lea's heart ached at the sight of Conar's ravaged face. He was warily gazing at her, waiting for her to explain.
    "I did not come to hurt you, Lord Conar. I did not come to cause you pain. I came only to help." She edged closer to him, praying he would not bolt again. When he remained still, she took heart and crept closer until she could kneel at his feet. She went to her knees and looked up at him.
    "Where did you get that thing?" he asked.
    "From my mother, Lord Conar. She was in the square that day. When Lord Legion threw away the whip, she grabbed it and hid it."
    "Why?"
    She hesitantly touched his knee. He stiffened, but didn't move. "Prince Conar McGregor