Howling in his demented state, Lucien barely noticed the Manticore who came to stand astraddle of him. In his agony, he did not see the brutal smile on that humanlike face. Nor did he feel the swipe of the weapon called a scorpion tail as it raked across his bare chest to leave behind a stinging bloody quintet of cuts.
“Remember this day, peasant,” the Manticore ordered. “If you survive the blood loss!”
Staring up into the night sky where sparks from the burning village sailed, Lucien was beyond sight, or sound or feeling. His mind had shut down and he was simply there. He did not hear the galloping hoofbeats as the Sagittary careened on their drunken way—satiated and ready to sleep. He did not hear the argument among the Manticores who demanded his flesh as dessert for the evening’s meal nor hear the vile laughter of their leader whose weapon had done such lethal damage to Lucien’s chest.
“Let him bleed to death as he thinks on the slaughter of his loved ones,” the leader guffawed. “This is one peasant who will not challenge us again! We’ll draw cards to see who will come back for his carcass tomorrow!”
Blood was cascading down Lucien’s chest from the five deep gashes. He felt nothing as his life force seeped away. Lying with his ankles still anchored to the ground and his useless, broken arms stretched out to either side of his head, he stared wide-eyed into the dark sky.
Though his mind had gone where the savagery and pain could not reach it, tears fell down the dirty cheeks of Lucien Korvina, and a low keening moan shuddered from his throat.
* * * * *
The woman heard that pitiful moan and it touched her heart. She turned her head—her hands still upon the drapes—and looked toward the bed. When she heard sobbing, her shoulders sagged and she lowered her hands. Turning, she padded slowly to the bed, never taking her eyes from the one lying there.
Lucien flipped over in his tormented state so he was facing toward the woman. The candlelight fell on his shadowy features, illuminating the tears.
“Oh,” the woman whined. Manly tears had always touched her in a strange way and even if those tears came from a creature she feared, she could not help reaching out to place a hand on his tousled hair.
Almost instantly, the moaning stopped and the creature turned so his cheek was resting in her hand.
“Magdalena,” he sighed. His lips moved over the woman’s palm in a soft kiss and before she could pull her hand away, he had captured it and pressed it over his heart.
Feeling the dampness of his sweat beneath the crisp dark hair on his chest, the woman’s heart skipped a beat. It was as though she was touching a live wire for a gentle electric current traveled from her palm to her breast. The tingling journeyed lower until it settled in the lower part of her belly, causing her to suck in a quivering breath.
“Get away from him, whore!”
The woman’s head jerked up as the guard came striding purposefully toward her. His face was ugly, his hand out like a claw as he reached for her. She snatched her hand from the creature and stumbled back, crossing her arms over her face for fear the guard would beat her.
Snarling a curse, the guard grabbed the woman and shook her. “If you have hurt my prince…”
“No!” she said. “I did nothing to him!”
The second guard was bending over the man on the bed and told his partner the prince was sleeping quietly, that he was all right.
“Bring me that chair!” the first guard hissed in a low voice. He unbuckled his belt and demanded his partner do the same.
They lashed her to the chair with the belts—arms behind her, ankles to the chair legs—then gagged her with a handkerchief belonging to the second guard. They made sure her arms were pulled tight behind the chair back. She whimpered with pain as the buckle cut into her wrist.
“If you had hurt Prince Lucien, Lord Petros would have flayed you alive, bitch,” the first guard snapped, spittle spraying from his mouth.
They left the room but did not shut the door this time.
The woman felt tears gathering in her eyes but refused to allow them to escape. She had been in worse situations than this since the Great War had destroyed the world as she knew—and understood—it. What was one more night of discomfort?
Chapter Three
Sunset came to Modartha Keep at a little past six of the clock. Outside the fierce wind that had swept the planet since the Great War ended howled and battered the windowpanes with violent gusts. In the pens, the herd shivered in their worn and tattered clothing and huddled together for warmth.
Lucien’s eyes snapped wide open at the exact moment the sun slipped behind the crest of Mount Duáilce. He lay there for a moment staring at the ceiling, hearing—and smelling—a strange presence in his bedchamber. Although he had been engulfed in acute pain when the woman had been brought to him, he knew who it was that touched his senses. He remembered as well what Petros had told him about her.
Slowly sitting up—dreading what he would see—he looked to the foot of the bed and frowned. Following the heavy chain that was hooked to the bedpost, he blinked when he saw the woman slumped in a chair, her head lowered to her chest. Realizing she was bound to the chair, Lucien snarled and flung the covers from his legs. He had just put his bare feet to the floor when a knock came at the door.
“Come!” he bellowed.
The thunderous shout woke the woman and her head jerked up. Behind the gag she shrieked, her eyes wide as she stared at the man coming toward her.
Lucien came to a stop and roared with fury. The sight of the woman—helpless and gagged—offended him so greatly he cursed a blue streak. Stomping to the chair, he reached down, took hold of the chain, and pulled it apart, flinging the broken links against the footboard so savagely, the metal took a chunk out of the eight-inch thick wood.
“Briton!” Petros shouted for the guard as he came into Lucien’s room. “Get your ass in here. Now!”
Straining as far aback in the chair as her bonds would allow, the woman was breathing heavily as the man from the bed bent over and snapped the belt holding her ankles to the chair leg as though it were paper. Likewise, the thick shackle that encircled her ankle was pulled apart and thrown viciously across the room.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” Petros asked as the guard came into the chamber. He was quickly untying the handkerchief rolled between the woman’s jaws.
“Milord, the woman…”
“I want this man flogged!” the prince ordered.
“No!” the woman grated, shaking her head. “He was only doing his duty.”
Petros bent over to unbuckle the belt binding the woman’s wrists and winced as he saw the livid bruises on the fair skin.
Lucien glared down at the tiny blonde woman looking back at him with fear rampant in her pale blue eyes. She was shivering, her teeth clicking together, yet she shook her head again.
“Please don’t punish him,” she said hoarsely. Her gaze fell upon the wicked scars striped across Lucien’s chest then quickly looked away.
“I thought she was trying to hurt you, milord!” Briton offered.
Lucien flung his hand out to indicate both his displeasure and his command for the guard to leave. He hunkered down at the woman’s feet and reached out to touch the dark bruises on the tops of her ankles. The flesh was abraded and she flinched as he put a hand on her instep.
“Send for Christina,” Lucien said.
“I will be fine,” the woman said and tried to swallow. Her hand trembled as she rubbed at her throat.
“Get her some water!” Lucien ordered.
Petros ran to Lucien’s bedside table and grabbed up the carafe and goblet, pouring as he hurried back and squatted down to offer the tepid water.
Watching the woman drink greedily, Lucien cursed again. He was so angry he was grinding his teeth, the sharp points of his canines cutting into his bottom lip. “Too much will cramp your belly,” he said, grabbing the goblet from her. “When was the last time you had something to drink?”
The woman reached up a trembling hand to wipe at her lips. “A day. Two. I don’t remember.”
Lucien’s eyes widened. “When did you last eat?”
“We found some rats on Monday,” she answered. “What is today?”
Lucien looked at Petros. “That was four days ago!”
“I’m on it,” Petros said and hopped up to run from the room.
“Wench, I offer you my sincerest apologies,” Lucien said. “We treat our herds better than this.”
The woman’s chin lifted. “I am sorry, milord, but that has not been my experience with your herders.”
Lucien blinked. Few women had ever dared talk back to him and he was shocked that one from amongst the herd would have such courage.
“In what manner were you mistreated by the herders?” he demanded and cast his gaze downward as she lifted the hem of her gown for him to see the scrapes on her shins.
“That they did in bringing me to you,” she said.
“You fought them,” he accused. “You brought that on yourself.”
“Don’t you know how badly the herds are treated?” she asked.
“Explain,” he snapped.
The woman’s face puckered for a moment but she rushed on. “It is freezing cold outside, milord, yet we humans are ill-clothed and poorly fed at best. Our rations are leftovers the guards either don’t want or of which they’ve had their fill. The huts are riddled with holes and the cold air flows in unchecked. We…”
Lucien held his hand up. “All things I will address as soon as Lord Petros gets his sorry ass back here,” he mumbled. “Have you seen the guards harm a human?”
She held up her arms where the bruises shown dark against her pale flesh. “These are love taps compared to the things I have seen in the last few days. We started out with seventeen people. Only thirteen of us made it here alive. The others died of their mistreatment.”
The prince’s eyes narrowed. “You swear that to be true, wench?”
“Why would I lie?” she countered. “You have but to check, milord.”
Lucien delved quickly into her mind and what he read there stiffened his spine and brought a thunderous look to his features.
Petros took that precise moment to come hurrying in with a tray of food. He glanced at Lucien then went to the small table by the fireplace and set down the tray. He noticed Lucien’s deep scowl and asked if something was wrong.
“Nothing gets past you does it, Petros?” Lucien snapped.
A frown mirroring Lucien’s, Petros looked to the woman. “What lies have you been telling him, wench?”
“She says the food is inadequate to sustain them, the living quarters are cold and draughty, and their clothing is little more than rags,” Lucien answered for the woman. “What do you have to say about that?”
Petros shrugged. “If any of it is true, I was not aware of it, but I will certainly check.” He cast the woman an annoyed look. “That gown she has on is clean. I can vouch for that for I saw them put it on her.”
Thunderclouds started to build in Lucien’s green eyes. “You
saw
them put it on her?” he queried.
“Well, aye,” Petros replied, digging his toe into the carpet like a small boy.
“And how—pray tell—was she dressed prior to having that gown put on her, Petros?”
Petros flinched. “Not very well as I recall.”
“See!” the woman said. Her eyes slid to the tray of food and she licked her lips.
“Eat,” Lucien commanded and his brows shot up as she flung herself at the tray and started gobbling food, shoving it into her mouth, cramming it in, and grunting as she consumed it.
Petros sighed deeply. “I’m on it,” he said, not waiting for Lucien to say anything.
“And how about sending me something?” Lucien shouted after his friend, jumping up, and going out into the hall. “Petros?”
Petros turned.
“What is her name?” Lucien asked.
Petros shrugged. “She hasn’t said.”
Lucien went back in his chamber and sat down on the foot of his mussed bed. He watched the woman snatch at a loaf of bread, tear off a hunk and stuff it into her mouth, chewing nosily. He was amazed at how much like an animal she looked and the observation drove deep.
“You don’t have to wolf it down, wench,” he said quietly. “No one is going to take it from you.”
The woman stopped with her mouth full, cheeks distended and blushed. Very slowly—with her eyes cast down—she masticated for what seemed an inordinately long time then swallowed hard. Very primly, she took the napkin some thoughtful soul had added to the tray and daintily wiped her greasy lips then her fingers. With graceful movement, she took up the goblet on the tray, looked down at it, sniffed, and then took a small sip.
Lucien almost smiled as he saw the woman close her eyes as though having a religious experience. She drew in a deep breath then exhaled slowly, her eyes still closed.
“What was in the goblet?” he asked curiously.
“Ice-cold milk,” she whispered. “Sweet, ice-cold milk.”
The prince snorted softly.
When she was finished with every morsel of food on the tray and every drop of milk had been drank, she sat back in the chair and turned grateful eyes to Lucien. “Thank you, milord,” she said quietly.