Page 51 of Much Ado About a Scot

The guards were walking her without rest, without sleep, trying to gain a confession. If she confessed to her crimes, there would be no trial. They would simply sentence her to death and take her to the gallows to hang.

Another splash of icy water hit her in the face, forcing her to draw a startled breath. Fully awake now, fear rippled along every nerve in her exhausted body. She focused on the shadow before her until she realized it was another face, peering into her own.

“I’ve been waiting for two days to talk with you, Isobel. I am Alaric Wyth, or the witchfinder if you prefer. My men here tell me you are not yet broken, not ready to confess to your crimes.”

“Ne-ver.” She croaked the word out.

“We shall see about that.” He motioned to the guards. “Leave us.”

Isobel heard the brisk clip of the footsteps as they left the cell. The door closed behind them then locked. The clang sent a ball of ice into the pit of her stomach. As her exhaustion faded, fear returned. She straightened her back, refusing to let the man before her know just how scared she was.

“Remove your clothes,” he commanded.

“I will do no such thing.” Isobel shuffled backward, away from him.

“If it preserves your modesty you may keep your shift on.” His eyes glinted in the torchlight.

She instinctively wrapped her arms around her. Her heart thundered in her chest as she pressed back against the cold stone wall.

“Either you remove your clothing,” he said as he drew a dagger from his belt, “or I shall cut them off. And remember these are the last garments you are likely to ever wear again. You can hang in a lovely dress or in tatters. The choice is yours.”

Resigned to the humiliation, Isobel stared straight ahead, and with angry movements loosened her bodice and slipped her dress over her head. When she was done, she balled her fists at her sides and waited while Alaric Wyth walked slowly around her.

“Where should we begin?” In his hand he held a long, cylindrical needle, larger than any she’d ever seen before. It tapered down to a point that looked sharp, lethal, and in the right hands—deadly.

Isobel swallowed hard as her fear mixed with fury. If the witchfinder was going to prick her, why didn’t he do it instead of making her feel as though she were a hunted animal? He stopped before her and narrowed his gaze on her face.

“Could it be that obvious?” he asked himself as he stabbed the pricker’s needle into a mole near her jawline. She cried out in pain and shock. Warm blood trickled down her neck. Alaric Wyth’s smile vanished and his eyes filled with disappointment. “We must find a mark that does not bleed.”

His second prick was to her neck, and she tried not to flinch. He pricked her again and again. His eyes widened with pleasure every time she cried out so she bit down on her lip to hold any sounds from escaping.

“The Devil has hidden his mark well,” he said as he stood before her. Sweat dampened his brow as he lifted her shift and pierced her thigh.

She gasped at the assault, then with all her strength, forced herself to keep looking straight ahead while he pierced first one thigh then the other over and over again. Her shift now clung to her body with the blood that rippled across her skin. It seemed like hours that she stood there panting with terror and anger, anticipating where he would pierce her next.

He brought the needle to her chest and with the tip sliced her shift from her chest to her abdomen. He brought the needle to rest on the soft tissue of her belly. Silently she screamed for him not to touch her there, she stiffened her legs, but weak from exhaustion, they refused to support her and she collapsed in a heap on the floor. Blissful darkness claimed her.

*

“I must do something!” Too anxious to sit, too unsettled to stand, Xander paced the length of the common room at the White Hare Inn where he and his brothers had taken lodging. The air in the chamber was thick with smoke from the fire, but several lanterns cast ample illumination around the chamber to make the flooring and stone walls appear warm and inviting.

Rhys motioned to a plate of roasted lamb with leeks and onions on the table beside him and five of his brothers. Only Malcolm was absent and no one knew where he had gone. “Come, sit and eat. It will at least give you more sustenance for all your restless pacing.”

“We understand your frustration,” Lachlan Douglas said. “I personally know how horrific it is to be pricked and tortured. From all you’ve told us, Isobel is strong. She will survive this. If you do anything to interfere, it will only make matters worse for her. What we need to focus on is freeing her from all charges.”

“She is not a witch.” Xander’s voice vibrated with agitation. What was taking the king so long to respond to their request? They should have had an answer from him yesterday. “If we don’t hear something from King James soon—”

“You will,” Reid Douglas interrupted. “King James has not failed us yet. We have to trust he will honor our request.”

“Trusting anyone besides all of you has never been a strength for me.” Until Isobel. He had thought his initial mission to her lonely little farm would be an easy task. He’d thought he could remain remote and untouched, to manipulate events to his liking, in order to find and arrest Bothwell. But Isobel had broken through a lifetime of barriers he had erected to protect himself from hurt and he’d given her his heart completely. And now, that hurt was back tenfold. The last two days of wondering if he’d ever see her again, knowing she was suffering, had his emotions coiled so tight he felt as though he would go mad if it continued much longer.

Cameron pushed back from the table and stood. “If it would help to vent your frustration, I’d happily challenge you to a battle. Swords out back? A good physical workout might help to calm your mind.”

“Hear, hear.” A cheer rose from the table as his other four brothers set down their utensils and stood.

Quinn Douglas came up beside him and clapped one hand on Xander’s shoulder in camaraderie. “We will all fight you. That will keep you busy for a while.”

They turned toward the door just as it burst open. Malcolm filled the frame. “Greetings, brothers.” His gaze sought out Xander. “I grew tired of watching you fret. So I took matters into my own hands.” He stepped aside and made a low bow as he revealed King James.