Free Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) by Eliza Knight Page B

stone walls. Whips. Ties. All the things she used to torment her subjects, but not one fucking blade?
    She was obviously being too kind to her guests.
    Then her eyes lit on the rune-carved trunk. The place where she kept her souvenirs. Precious objects she didn’t want anyone else to find. The chest had been passed down for decades within the womenfolk in her family, just as some of the implements of torture had been. She was not the first woman warrior in the MacAlpin clan.
    Soon, she’d need to have the trunk moved to another hiding place. The shackles and chains torn down. The various instruments of torture relocated. For it would not be long before the Bastard and the Bitch found her little nook. She knew he’d be looking for it. He’d threatened her enough while she’d whipped him. Probably had already begun his search. He wanted to burn her special chamber to ashes.
    Well, she doubted he’d ever find it.
    She’d concealed the entrance well when she had been mistress here—and then she’d drugged her brutal husband, chained him inside and given him exactly what he’d given her.
    No mercy.
    When he’d disappeared, there were questions from his guard. There were questions from the people, but it didn’t last long. Not when some semblance of peace and order remained. And whenever someone went missing—though it wasn’t too often—there was a little bit of grumbling and then it was over.
    People were glad to be rid of those who went against the grain. The ones who did not follow her rule. The council’s rule.
    That was why the Bastard and the Bitch had to go. Maybe they would go missing like her husband. And then she could finish what she’d started. Pity though about Ceana. She had liked the little imp once. Had wanted to keep her for herself.
    Beatrice liked to believe that she had been the most powerful of Morrison rulers, though she knew she was probably not, compared to some men, like the great Olaf the Black. Bastard. If she’d met him one hundred years before, she’d have given him hell. Maybe even subdued him enough to drag him into her little space.
    She’d just have to settle for being the most notorious and powerful female warrior to ever rule Sìtheil.
    And she wasn’t about to give that up to some idiotic little cunt.
    The trunk creaked as she wrenched it open. She riffled through her precious trinkets. Bits of fabric, jewels, a leather pouch of teeth, a cup, slippers, gowns, scarves, a small targe, a pair of men’s boots, several rolled and yellowed scrolls and then she found it—the dagger.
    The dagger that had belonged to Ceana’s mother. Isla MacRae. Beautiful as she was dangerous. Beatrice had taken the dagger when she’d taken the gown, slippers and clan sash.
    Beatrice hated Isla from the moment she met her until she’d watched her breathe her last. Ironically, she’d loved her fiercely, too. She’d wanted to be Isla. To make Isla hers. To climb inside her.
    Her death was perhaps the most tragic event Beatrice had ever encountered—beyond any of the battles, her victims, her marriage, the lives she’d taken. She mourned Isla.
    Mourned her and despised her for making her still care all these years later.
    And Ceana, looking so much like her mother, and acting the part—well, she hated her, too. But her hatred of Ceana was borne of many ills—foremost that she’d taken Macrath. That he made love to her. That his cock raged hard for her when it had not risen at all for Beatrice.
    Beatrice wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the amethyst-jeweled dagger, gripping tight enough to feel a sting of pain in her palm. She brought the metal tip to her naked thigh and pressed hard. Pain seared her skin. A crimson drop colored her pale flesh, and then she dragged it an inch, watching as a red line instantly appeared and the pain of the cut took away some of the agony in her heart.
    Another inch and she gasped, dug a little deeper. Between her thighs throbbed and pulsed as the blood