“And yet she championed you,” Bowen said softly. “I wonder why she bothered.”
The woman flushed, her cheeks growing red. Her eyes lowered in shame, and the man shifted uncomfortably beside her.
“She is naught but Ian’s whore,” the man muttered.
Bowen exchanged glances with Teague, Brodie, and Aiden. Then his gaze settled on Taliesan. It was obvious he would find no answers here. None that would satisfy him at any rate.
“Where would Genevieve have gone?” Bowen asked.
His brother looked surprised. Brodie looked puzzled by Bowen’s question, and Bowen supposed he could understand their confusion. He had very abruptly turned the topic of conversation. But the truth was, he couldn’t stomach standing in front of Genevieve’s tormentors. What measure of person would seek to humiliate another in such a fashion?
They had the matter of the McHugh holding to determine, as well as the fate of the clansmen, and yet he was inquiring as to the lass’s whereabouts. He wasn’t even sure himself why he’d asked, but the look in her eyes, the absolute desolation that had washed the color right out of her face, still haunted him.
“She oft spends her time alone,” Taliesan whispered. “Usually in her chamber.”
“And where is her chamber?” Bowen asked patiently.
“ ’Tis up the stairs,” Taliesan stammered. “All the way to the end of the hall. In the tower. Next to Ian’s chamber.”
Bowen noted the hesitation in her voice, saw the way her gaze skittered sideways when she mentioned the proximity to Ian’s chamber.
He wondered how much truth there was in the taunts of the others. The idea that this woman had been Ian’s mistress turned his stomach. How could she give herself willingly to an abuser of women? She well knew what had happened to Eveline. She’d been the one to point Graeme to the dungeon. And yet she’d willingly give her body to such a monster?
His disgust nearly choked him.
He glanced at Teague. “Have Taliesan give you a tour of the holding. Ensure that she suffers no pain or injury.”
Taliesan flushed, her eyes cloudy with embarrassment over Bowen’s matter-of-fact reference to her damaged leg.
To Bowen and Aiden he said, “ ’Tis a good idea for you to accompany Teague. We will meet in the courtyard after you’ve viewed all there is to see. Call the clansmen together so that we may address everyone in residence.”
“And where are you going?” Teague asked, his brows drawn together as he stared at his older brother.
“I have matters to discuss with Genevieve,” Bowen said.
Genevieve sat rigidly on the small mat that served as her bed. She hadn’t bothered lighting a candle or pulling the furs far enough from the window to fully bathe the room in light.
She was finally breaking, and she marveled that it hadn’t happened before. The horror of last year would have broken even the strongest person, and yet she’d been determined that she would never crack in front of Ian.
It had infuriated him. He wanted to break her, had become obsessed with coming up with more ways to humiliate her, to hurt her, to demean and debase her.
She’d become immune to the remarks of others, and Ian had allowed them to speak to her and of her as they liked. They could look, but not touch. They could torment her, but she was Ian’s possession—obsessively coveted to the point of madness.
She existed in a world that had become her public and private hell. In the first months, she’d spent an inordinate amount of time questioning. Why? Why was this being done to her? She was obsessed with knowing what sin she’d committed to merit such treatment. Animals were treated with better regard than she.
Every word, every comment, every dig, she’d taken to heart. Until the day she’d become numb to it all. It worried her on a distant level that she’d become so … inhuman. Like a thing. A ghost with no feelings, no emotions. Her body remained, but her spirit had long since departed.
But how else was she to survive? Moreover, why was she so determined to survive? It seemed so silly that her pride wouldn’t allow Ian to fully break her. She wouldn’t give him or his clan the satisfaction of knowing they’d completely destroyed her. Nay, she’d survive this, and after she left this place? Then she could die or not die. Survive or not survive. It mattered not, because no one would know.
She sucked in several breaths as they jerkily left her body in ragged spurts. She’d very nearly lost control of her emotions there in the hall, in front of everyone.
Her humiliation had been so great that she’d been tempted to tears. To let it all unravel there and finally let go.
Thank God she hadn’t. Thank God she’d kept it together just long enough to seek solace in the tiny chamber that was her only sanctuary. If only she could bar her door against the world, but Ian had allowed her no bolt, no lock, no loops in which to place a slat of wood to secure the door shut.
She had no privacy save that afforded by others. She had no rights, no privileges, not even the basest, most inconsequential things that others took for granted.
The mat was hard and uncomfortable. Her leg was prickly and numb from the awkward position in which she sat, so she drew her knees upward until she hugged them to her chest and hunched over to rest her cheek over the tops.
She closed her eyes and wondered what bargain she could strike with Bowen Montgomery that would gain her the freedom she craved above all else.
There was only one skill she possessed that a man like Bowen Montgomery might be interested in—if one could even call it a skill. And the idea of whoring herself willingly sickened her to the point that her stomach rebelled and protested vehemently.
But what else was she to do? What else did she have to offer?
Nothing.
What was one more coupling compared with gaining her freedom? Surely Bowen could not be as brutal as Ian. There was kindness in his eyes. She hadn’t imagined it. Perhaps he would be gentle with her, or, at least, not as sadistic as Ian.
It was a hope that she clung to when there was nothing else to hold on to.
Fear struck her as she remembered Bowen’s brother and the two Armstrong warriors who’d accompanied Bowen on his quest. What if they demanded her services as well? What if Bowen wanted to share her with them?
A low moan escaped her. It was a pitiful sound that came out as more of a soulless wail. She clamped her mouth shut, refusing to give in to the abject despair that clawed at her.
She wouldn’t give up. Not now. Not when she’d survived so much.
She had hope, no matter how unlikely it might be. It was more than she’d had in the past. Ian was dead. He couldn’t hurt her, couldn’t control her, any longer. Now she just had to trust that not all men were as evil as Ian. And pray to God they didn’t prove her wrong.
Chapter 6
Bowen stood in the doorway of Genevieve’s room, staring through the three-inch opening to where she sat on a shabby sleeping mat.
Her legs were drawn protectively to her chest, and he wondered if she had any idea how vulnerable such a position made her look.
Then she let out a low wail that was so filled with despair that it clutched at his throat, squeezing until it was difficult to draw breath.
He hesitated, his earlier determination to speak to her waning. She was suffering. Privately. Away from prying eyes and the disparagement of others. He should walk away and not let on that he’d been here at all.
But he couldn’t. It made no sense to him that he was fascinated by this particular lass. She intrigued him. She was a mystery he was determined to solve.
And he owed her a debt for the aid she’d given his brother in finding Eveline. Aye, he did, and he left no debt unpaid.
He pushed her door open wider and took a step forward. When she didn’t stir, he cleared his throat, alerting her to his presence.
Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing in alarm. Her stance was immediately defensive, and so automatic that it seemed she’d had much practice in defending herself. That thought made him frown.
“Why do you take it from them?” he asked bluntly, because there was no subtle way for him to ask what he wanted to know.
Her eyes widened, as though she couldn’t believe that he’d been so forthright.
“Why do you suffer their abuse and allow their words to go unchecked. You don’t strike me as an overly meek lass.”
She lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug that shrouded her in a look of utter defeat. Exhaustion swam in her eyes and there was such resignation that it made him flinch.
Never had he witnessed such expressive eyes, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. Every emotion was there to see in the aqua-green pools. Her early stoicism was gone, and now he realized how hard she’d had to work at keeping her face expressionless. The façade had crumbled. One had only to look closely to know exactly what she was feeling. She’d never make a warrior. She gave away entirely too much.
“They only speak the truth,” she said in a brittle voice. “Should I rail at them for daring to say what is true?”
Bowen frowned, his stomach revolting at the thought. And yet he still couldn’t quite accept it.
“You were Ian McHugh’s whore?”
She flinched at the baldness of the question, but Bowen had never been one to mince words. Graeme was far superior with honeyed words. Bowen had the disconcerting habit of speaking his mind.
Then she raised her gaze to meet his, and he blinked at the dullness that had replaced the wash of emotion. It was as though someone had doused a lit candle, plunging a room into darkness.
“Aye, I was Ian McHugh’s whore,” she said bitterly. “ ’Tis common enough knowledge. Ask anyone in the keep. They’ll tell you the way of it.”
He couldn’t help his expression or the distaste that crept into his mouth. He shook his head, unable to comprehend why.
She pushed herself from the mat and paced a few feet away before turning, her arms securely folded over her chest. Again, he noted the protectiveness of her stance. It was as if every movement were for the sole purpose of self-preservation.
“I would speak to you on a personal matter,” she said in a careful tone.
Perplexed by the abrupt change of topic, he merely nodded, curious as to what the lass would say to him.
“I do not wish to remain here any longer,” she said. “I have nowhere to go. No family to aid me. The McHughs are not my kin and they will not care what happens to me. I cannot depend on their generosity to provide for me.”
Bowen started to interrupt her, to say that the McHughs had little say in what happened at this keep, but Genevieve continued in a trembling voice, the only hint of how unsettled she was.
“Please, good sir, pray let me continue before my courage leaves me.”
Bowen nodded his agreement, and Genevieve took in a deep breath. She turned her face away, so that the scarred cheek was hidden from view. He didn’t know if she did it apurpose or if it was purely instinctive to hide that part of herself.
“I should like to seek refuge in an abbey, but I would need transport and … coin … neither of which I possess,” she whispered. “I aided your brother, and though it was not why I did such a thing, I would be ever appreciative if you would see fit to provide for my entry into the abbey.”
His brows drew together as he stared at her in disbelief. It was the very last thing he imagined her requesting.
Her hands fluttered nervously and she rubbed self-consciously over her scarred cheek before pulling her hair forward to hide the deformity.
“I would be willing to stay for as long as you need assistance in assuming leadership over the McHugh clan. I can give you information. I can also give you … ease.”
Her cheek colored and her gaze fell. She wiped her hands down the skirts of her dress over and over as she waited.
“Ease?” he echoed, not at all sure what she’d just offered. He had an inkling, but surely not.
“I would act as your leman,” she blurted. “For as long as you want or need, provided at the end of our … liaison … you would escort me to an abbey so that I may seek entrance.”
He gaped incredulously at her. And then he laughed, because what else was there to do? She spoke of entering an abbey and in the next breath offered to act the whore for him.
Perhaps he hadn’t fully believed the truth of what she was to Ian until now. She bargained with her body like a seasoned whore, and he was disgusted by the idea that she would sell herself to him, bartering as if this were a common exchange of goods and services.
More color stained her cheeks, and her eyes flashed with … hurt? How could she possibly be hurt? Nothing about this woman made any sense to him, and he had the idea that he’d never fully know the whole of her. It would likely infuriate him to ever try to understand the inner workings of her mind.
“I know I am naught to look at,” she said quietly. “I do not blame you for your disgust. ’Tis said I have skill in … bed.”
She choked out the last word as if it were suffocating her. The color had fled from her face, and she looked ill.