He smiled at her, politely, and nodded as if he often dined with starving tigresses. She measured the distance across the table and put down her knife. Whatever happened next, she'd at least had one decent meal, and she had her own clothes back. Now, if they'd just let her sleep . . . .
"Maureen, you must become my wife."
"Why don't you just rape me, you bastard? Don't you have the balls?"
He studied her quietly, as if he was measuring her hatred and weighing how much to let her know. "You must become truly the Lady of this castle. I want you to bear my children. Unless you come to my bed willingly, you could cast out any seed I plant in you. This is the Summer Country. You wouldn't need a doctor or an abortion. A woman of your blood has such power and more."
Abortion.
The word sent shivers down her spine, waking memories of the grisly pictures Father Donovan used to carry when he led his parishioners on the picket line down at Planned Parenthood. Mom had always dragged her daughters along, forcing them to study the horrors while they knelt on the gritty pavement and prayed for the souls of dead babies. Those were such lovely images for a child of five to worship.
Amazing how deep the programming went. Maureen hadn't been to Mass in years, but the word "abortion" and the memories still made her sick. What did that bearded patriarch on the Sistine Chapel ceiling have to say about the child of rape? Don't punish the child for the sin of its father? Bullshit!
"What makes you think I wouldn't lie to you, spread my legs, and then strangle you in your bed?"
He smiled again. It wasn't a friendly smile this time. "I'd know. This is my magic, if you will, the magic by which I train hawks and hounds and dragons. If you said 'yes' today, you'd be lying. I wouldn't trust you. The day will come when you'll mean it. I'll know."
She stared into her wine. The alcohol and lack of sleep combined to tangle her brain. Dangerous. Good-cop, bad-cop. He'd whipped Padric after ordering him to beat her. When she gave in to Dougal, he'd probably kill Padric just to make her happy. Torture her jailer to death, gouge out those leering eyes that had feasted on every inch and opening of her body and rip the nails from his filthy brutal probing fingers, and she'd be watching every minute to cheer him on. Padric was nothing more than a tool to Dougal.
The wine, the dinner, they were nothing more than tools to him. He'd starved her to set it up. He knew she needed the booze. He knew she was an alcoholic, a binge drinker. The whole scene gave new meaning to AA's "hitting bottom," didn't it?
When she gave in to him. Not if.
A growl formed, deep in her throat. "God damn you straight to Hell!"
The wine flew across the table, glass and all, splashing his face and chest and arms. He only smiled as Padric pinned her arms and lifted her bodily from her chair. The grip on her arms was an iron clamp as hard and fiery as the bracelets that shorted out her rage.
Words took too much energy. She spat catfight noises and kicked the empty air. Padric just carried her back and dumped her in her cell.
* * *
Something shook her shoulder again, and she burrowed deeper under the pillow. The luxury of smooth clean sheets and a warm comforter were nothing compared to the simple joy of sleep. She'd just gotten to sleep. Deprive a person of sleep long enough and she goes crazy, she muttered to herself. Even just interrupting dreams will do it. And you weren't sane to start with.
The rude hand shook her again and pulled the pillow off her head. Bright light flooded through her eyelids.
"Fuck off," she muttered.
"Maureen, wake up. You've got to help me."
It was a man's voice. There was a man in her bedroom, and she remembered she was sleeping in her underwear--some frilly transparent stuff more suited for a honeymoon or a whorehouse than for comfort. She clutched the bedclothes around her and forced one eye open.
She faced a stone wall. She was still in that damned nightmare dungeon cell. Her head pounded with the revenge of the wine, her gut boiled in an uproar over her rampage through the dinner table, and that goddamn hand on her bare shoulder had to be Padric or Dougal.
She spun around with her hand in a claw, trying to rake his eyes out or at least smack him with the iron bracelet. Dougal caught her wrist, effortlessly. His face was inches from hers, and for an instant she thought he was going to kiss her. She bared her teeth, ready to bite.
"Maureen, you've got to help me."
"Why don't you just go off in a corner and fuck yourself?"
He shook his head. "This isn't for me. Your sister followed you here, and she's in terrible danger."
"Fucking liar! How the hell would she get here? Did that slimy shithead kidnap her, too?"
"I don't know how she did it, but she's out in my forest. I didn't bring her here. You've got to help me find her before something eats her."
Padric stood behind him, looking worried through the bruised welts of the whipping. Hide and seek. Find-the-sister. She tossed the comforter to one side and swung her legs out of her bunk, sneering at the fact that she gave both men a full-beaver shot of her crotch through those stupid panties. Dream on, you rapist bastards.
Her jeans slipped on over her vanishing hips, much too
