Free Torn (The Handfasting) by Becca St. John

anyway.  She slipped in, as quick as a snake and slithered
through the rooms. She knew where she was going, hoped her man would be there waiting,
though he probably wouldn’t be.  To many guards these days, watching too close for
a man to pass as a woman, for anyone without taking note of who they were and
when they passed.
    Oh,
aye, but she needed to see him, to celebrate, excitement running high in her
veins, between her legs.  She had killed the child, probably the mother too. 
There had been so much blood.
    Och,
and the Bold, poor thing, was in torment.
    She
bit back a laugh, afraid of the echo, and rounded a corner into the body of a
man whose smell she knew oh so well.  Her man.
    “Did
you bring food?”  He whispered into her ear causing her to heat even more.
    “In
the basket.”  She lifted her arm, showing the large woven basket she carried,
holding up a candle in the other hand so he could see.  “But I’m hungry too.” 
She offered.  
    He
looked over his shoulder.  The darkness shifted, revealing at least three more
men.  “Me first?”  He asked then turned away to pull a hunk of cheese from
beneath the cloth that covered her wares.
    “Not
here,” she hissed.  They were too close to the store rooms, too close to where
bored guards would hunt down any sound.
    As
he bit into the cheddar his other hand cupped her breast.  “I thought you were
hungry?”
    And
she was, damn him, and ready for all he offered, even to the others.  The
thrill of danger spiked the heat in her.  “You’re not a silent lot when you get
going.”  She charged.
    “No,
I suppose not.”  He smiled against her face, “but neither are you.”
    “Go
on, the lot of you,”  she pushed at his shoulder, “lead me out of here to where
I can tell you just how bad it is in the castle.  To where we can laugh and
make merry at the torment caused.”
    He
slapped her backside.  “I’ll make you scream.”
    “Oh,
aye, you always make me scream just as I make you beg.”
    She
saw his frown  but she didn’t care.  She had the power, stolen from the Bold, one
loss too many for the man. 
    There
had been a time when she thought the MacBede wench had broken him by leaving. 
But he brought her back and with her a brewing babe. The man was too full of
himself with all that.  He deserved to be brought down.
    She
accomplished that.  The arrogant bastard would be no more.  His heart would be
broken, his spirit trampled and his reputation shredded.
    Oh,
aye, she had the power now.

CHAPTER 6 – DEVIL’S CLAN
 
    "If
you're staying, be useful. Lift the girl, get her to the bed," Ealasaid
commanded, and suddenly Talorc pulled from his stupor.
    He
lifted Maggie in his arms, held her as Ealasaid bustled forward, her commands
cutting through his stupor as she pulled back sheets. "Gerta, get that
hide on here, so she doesn't ruin the bed, and Caitrina, help your mother, move
the pillows to where we'll lay her hips. They need to be higher."
    Talorc
tilted his burden, hips higher than head, as Deirdre held a sheet, once white,
now scarlet, between Maggie's legs.
    Too
much blood. Too much bloody blood. "We need cold.”  He commanded. “There's
ice at the pond but not down by the stream, don't waste time with that." 
He looked about the room, caught his cousin Seana standing in a shocked stupor,
"Go tell the men, we need ice and now!"
    He
was glad to see Seana run, to do his bidding, to escape a smell sharp with
scent of battle. It was the blood, Talorc told himself. Not a battle, not an
attack. It was a matter of nature.
    He
felt useless, helpless as he stood there, pushing against the pressure of
Deirdre who pushed hard with the sheet, against the apex of Maggie's thighs. The
bed was readied, a hide down, fur side up for comfort, a cool sheet over the
top. He laid her down carefully, with pillows under her hips. As soon as he
did, Ealasaid pushed forward, to lift Maggie up and over as she placed a
twisted sheet under