Page 50 of The Beast

Caelan coughed and pressed his lips together as if trying not to laugh. “Why did he hold yer wrist so hard?”

Beatrice shrugged. “It was as if he was desperate that I did not tell Duncan I had seen him.” She returned her attention to her husband. “He said it was best ye did not know he was here.”

“Did he give ye a name,” Duncan said dryly. “I am sure it is someone angry over me beating him in the games. I will find whoever it is and ensure they do not spread lies about me again.”

“How close did he say they were?” Caelan asked sliding a look to Duncan.

“I do not find the accusations one bit humorous,” Duncan snapped.

Beatrice frowned. “He said ye and he had…been intimate.” Both she and Caelan watched Duncan for a reaction, and she at least was surprised when he didn’t react. Instead, he gave her a droll look. “What is the man’s name, wife?”

“Farlan Reid,” Beatrice replied dryly. “I have to admit to being shocked that a man would say such a thing publicly. Someone could be hanged just for speaking about participating in such a thing.”

“Very true,” Caelan said as he stood and came to Beatrice, blocking her view of Duncan. “Come with me, I wish to speak to ye about some changes ye may wish to make in the house.”

Beatrice glanced around Caelan to Duncan, who looked at her and nodded. “Go on, I must speak to the guards about a man being able to approach ye without them knowing.”

“A guard did come when he saw what happened. The man, Farlan, left before the guard arrived. I informed the guard he was an acquaintance. So do not punish them for it.”

Once she and Caelan went to the dining room, Beatrice spoke in a low tone. “Are ye sure he will not do anything rash?”

“If my brother wishes to beat the man to a pulp for bruising yer wrist, I will not blame him,” Caelan replied in a curt tone. “I would do the same. Do not hold him back from it.”

Chapter Thirteen

The gathering of clouds and grey skies promised rain and colder weather to come. Duncan guided his horse through the woods keeping his gaze forward, not bothering to worry about a possible attack.

He knew exactly where to find Farlan. Not because there were only a few places to hide, but because he knew and understood him. The man had spoken the truth in that they’d grown to know each other well. However, they’d never been intimate. He was sure Farlan had said that to Beatrice to draw him out.

“I want to die,” Farlan said, gasping out each word. The man shook with the aftereffects of the harsh blows he’d just received. His left arm was misshapen and swelling.

Stretching as far as his chain allowed, Duncan was able to grab a rag from a pile they used to dress with or cleaning tasks. He tore one to strips, tied it together to make it longer, and then crawled to where Farlan lay. The feverish man, used to pain, barely made a sound as he set the arm and wrapped the makeshift bandages around it. Unfortunately, their tormentors would probably use the broken arm as a weapon against Farlan, to make him do whatever they asked.

Some days either he or Farlan would resist doing whatever horrible tasks they were forced to do. It mattered little because the beatings were a source of entertainment for their captors and often whether they acquiesced or not, there would be punishment.

“What did they want ye to do this time?” Duncan asked looking up at the ceiling. If Farlan had not done what they wanted, then it was possible they would want him to.

“Fight against the big one… or be thrown overboard.” Farlan’s voice was low and faraway. “I ran toward the side, hoping to jump, but they stopped me and hung me by my arm until I lost consciousness.”

From the bruising on Farlan’s face, Duncan realized he’d had to fight with one broken arm.

He went back to his side of the dirty room and lay on his side. It was best not to be found caring for Farlan. For some reason it angered their captors.

They were on a Spanish ship. Had been traded to them just months earlier after a battle. A peace offering of sorts.

Their captors hated the British and although both Duncan and Farlan were Scots, the Spanish didn’t seem to realize it, or care.

“Help me die,” Farlan said lifting his head to look at Duncan. “I beg ye. Kill me.”

There was a path made by the wildlife and Duncan guided his horse down it until he reached a clearing. There he dismounted and walked around the clearing looking through the trees for movement.

It wasn’t long before Farlan appeared. Immediately Duncan was transported back to the years that he fought daily to forget. “Why did ye approach my wife?”

Despite being only about five years older than him, Farlan had aged a great deal. His hair graying. His face drawn and scarred.

He had a slight limp and his left arm remained bent at an odd angle. The dark eyes that met his were filled with hate. “Is that what ye really want to ask me?”

“There is nothing else for us to speak about.”