“Perhaps we should inspect the larder,” Bowen said. “Or perhaps ’tis better we never discover what’s within.”

Teague nodded his agreement and then pushed his food aside. “I have not the stomach for this today. I was dreaming of savory food back at Montgomery Keep when we were overtaken by the soldiers bearing us news that you were under attack.”

Brodie’s eyes gleamed with sudden light. “What say you we make a round of the borders. It could double as a hunt and, God willing, we’ll bring back something that’s actually fit for the table.”

Teague brightened, his stomach already in agreement if the rumble was any indication.

“A pox on both of you,” Bowen said sourly.

Teague grinned. “And nay, you aren’t allowed to come with us. We’ll be back before the evening meal. I’ll set Geoffrey and Deaglan on you to ensure you don’t overtax yourself while we’re away patrolling our borders.”

“Patrolling my arse,” Bowen grumbled.

Still, as restless as he felt, and as much as he resented being confined to the keep and unable to participate in the patrol or the hunt, he was eager for an opportunity to spend more time with Genevieve without having to offer explanations to Teague or Brodie.

Teague rose and clapped a hand on Bowen’s shoulder. “We’re off. Pray that we are successful. ’Tis no telling how long we’ll have to wait for a decent meal otherwise.”

Bowen watched as the two men departed the hall. Teague and Brodie seemed to have developed a liking for each other that went beyond mere tolerance. It was an odd thought, the idea of a Montgomery ever willingly embracing friendship with an Armstrong, but it would seem that Teague and Brodie had done just that.

The cold food in front of him held no appeal, and yet he was famished, not having eaten in two days’ time. With a grimace, he forced himself to choke down a healthy portion of the food and he chased it with copious amounts of water.

When he was done, he rose, his stomach feeling as though it were filled with rocks. It may have been a better idea to have suffered hunger rather than actually partaking of what was masquerading as food.

He headed up to his chamber, though he had no desire to remain there. His chest did bother him, aye, but he had no intention of spending another day abed.

Once inside his chamber, he put on his boots and then combed out his long hair. He secured it at his nape with a leather tie, though it was still damp from washing.

His fingers positively itched for a sword. Some kind of activity to remove the clumsiness from his blood. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. He was slower to process and to react. A good battle would serve to wake him up.

After examining his stitching to ensure there were no tears or bleeding, he adjusted his tunic and then left his chamber once more. Surely someone would accommodate his need for exercise this morn. He was in the mood to beat someone into a pulp.

Genevieve had done an excellent job of avoiding situations where the McHugh clansmen would be present. It gave her no pride to admit that most of her time had been spent behind the closed door of her chamber.

Only by going to the stream in the wee hours of dawn had she been afforded the privacy in which to bathe, although the last two times she’d gone, Bowen Montgomery had made an appearance.

’Twas obvious it was a practice she was going to have to give up.

She paced the interior of her chamber, pausing ever so often to stare out her window to the distance. She’d seen Teague Montgomery and Brodie Armstrong depart with a few men accompanying them many hours past. It was well into the afternoon now, and she’d not eaten since Taliesan had brought cheese and bread to her chamber that morn.

Anxiously she awaited the signs that the rest of the keep had taken their afternoon respite. After the midday meal and the tasks of the day were completed, the clan was allowed a time to rest and do as they wished.

So far Bowen hadn’t changed the practice, though she’d never seen him, his brother, or his men take part in a period of rest. They seemed always to be so focused.

Finally, the courtyard cleared and clansmen returned to the keep as well as to their cottages. Genevieve watched from her window as they walked toward their respective quarters.

This was a time when she could venture outside to breathe the fresh air. Being sequestered in her chamber was enough to drive her daft. Even a short walk to the river and back would be most welcome. But the tedium of being isolated had not been enough to make her risk confrontation with the McHughs—any of them. Especially as it was probably widespread by now that she’d been the one to kill Patrick.

Collecting her hooded cape and then gathering the hood tightly at her chin so her face was hidden from view, she left her chamber and hurried down the stairs.

Not wanting to risk going through the hall, she slipped through the door to the courtyard. She stayed close to the keep as she rounded the corner to head beyond the walls to the river.

Perhaps she’d merely sit on the hill overlooking the grassy section where sheep had once grazed. There was only one sheep and her lamb, left only because Patrick had likely been unable to catch them. But the grassy knoll was pleasing to the eye, and it brought her a measure of peace to soak in the beauty around her.

She sat with her back pressed to a huge rock outcropping so it would shield her from the view of anyone looking from the keep. Pulling her legs to her chest, she rested her chin on the tops of her knees and let out a deep sigh.

It was such a beautiful afternoon. The sun was still high, and only just leaning toward the horizon in its descent. The skies were painted a vivid blue, with not so much as a whisper of clouds to mar the perfect canvas.

She inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet-scented air. The sun’s rays bathed her in warmth, caressing her skin and instilling a comfortable lethargy. A nap would be next to heaven. Just her stretched out under the Highland sky, with the sun dancing across her flesh while the wind whispered a soft melody in her ears.

Her eyes were closing, her muscles loosening as tension seeped from her body. She had nearly drifted off, her thoughts and dreams of forgotten places, when a sound rudely jerked her back to awareness.

Her eyes flew open and her head whipped up to see that there was an intruder on her solitude.

Fear and dismay gripped her throat and squeezed her stomach when she saw that Corwen McHugh stood only a short distance away, a belligerent look on his arrogant features.

Ice spread through her veins until she was numb. What was he doing here? His presence could mean nothing good. Not for her.

Instinctively, she scrambled to her feet, turning in the direction of the keep, looking for something … anything.

“Are you happy now that you’ve brought destruction on the whole of the McHugh clan?” Corwen barked, his voice angry and petulant, like a child deprived of having his way.

But he was no child. A chill snaked up her spine, and she shut her mind to the awful images that her memories conjured.

He had long been her tormentor, and she hated him for that.

“I’ve done naught that was undeserved,” she gritted out.

Corwen’s lips twisted into a sneer. “You’re naught but a whore, and you were treated as such. ’Tis thanks to you that Ian and Patrick both are dead. Cursed female. You bring nothing but death and ill fortune.”

Hatred took hold and she glared fiercely at him. “Aye, ’tis true enough. I am cursed. You’d do well to avoid me lest you suffer the same curse.”

For a moment, she saw a spark of fear in his eyes, and she thought he might well simply turn from her and hasten away. But then his eyes darkened and his face twisted into something dark and evil. Menacing.

He advanced, too quickly for her to escape. She tried to back away but stumbled, and her arms flew out in an attempt to steady herself.

He caught both her wrists and yanked her up against his body. She opened her mouth to scream, but he tossed her around so that her back was pressed to his chest and he clamped a hand over her mouth.

She fought back, kicking, hitting, twisting her body frantically as she tried to escape his hold. She attempted to bite the hand covering her mouth and he yanked it away long enough to strike her with his balled fist.

She went down hard, sprawled on the ground, stunned by the blow he’d administered.

“Stay down, whore,” he spat. “You’re naught good for anything but spreading your legs. You’ll give me ease or you’ll receive a sound beating.”

A strangled cry ripped from her throat, past already swollen lips. She tasted blood, her mouth split from his fist.

She tried to roll away and rise to her feet, prepared to run as she’d never run before. But he was on her, knocking her facedown to the ground, her breath torn from her chest.

His weight pressed her down, and she struggled to escape him to no avail. Not again. Never again. His was a face burned into her memory along with Ian’s. If only she’d seen him in battle the day she’d sent an arrow through Patrick McHugh’s neck. She would have surely killed him and not felt a moment’s remorse.

He’d held her down while Ian had slashed open her cheek. He’d held her down while Ian had raped her, her blood smearing them both. And then he’d taken his own turn, forcing himself upon her repeatedly.

She closed her eyes and tried again to scream, but Corwen flipped her over and smashed his mouth to hers in a brutal kiss. ’Twas not a kiss. A kiss was something wonderful. Romantic. Something exchanged by two lovers. Playful. Passionate. But not punishing. Nay, this was not a kiss. It was something horrible and evil.

She bit into his tongue and was rewarded with another fist to her face. Her vision blurred and she shook her head, trying to clear the fuzz from her mind. Pain rocketed through her, and she was dimly aware of him tearing at the bodice of her dress.

Shock held her immobile. This couldn’t be happening.

Was she never to be safe from the unwanted advances of men? Was she forever consigned to rape, and to men taking from her what they pleased, damn the damage done to her in the process?

How much more could she take? Her face, her body, her very soul had been ripped from her. Nothing was her own any longer. She’d become someone else, Genevieve McInnis dying, and in her stead a woman Genevieve hardly knew anymore.

No.

No!

The word screamed through her mind. Stuttered hoarsely past swollen, cracked lips. It echoed over and over until it became a litany. A denial that this could be happening.

Rough hands underneath her skirts. Painful between her legs. He grunted in satisfaction when he managed to rip most of her dress from her body. But her cape remained intact, spread wide as he tore her dress, baring her body to his view.

Coldness swept over her. A frightening numbness took hold. Acceptance that this was happening and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Just like so many times before.

Something inside her turned off. Darkness crept in, a soothing balm to the fear and rage that blew through her. She could no longer feel his hands upon her. She couldn’t feel anything at all.

Hatred and bleak realization were all she knew.

An ungodly roar sounded. It was unlike anything Genevieve had ever heard before. A moment later, Corwen was ripped from her body, and thrown a good distance.

With casual indifference, she watched him sail through the air and hit the ground with a thud that she felt as much as heard.

And then Bowen’s voice, anxious and worried.

“Genevieve! Are you all right?”

Chapter 24

Bowen hovered anxiously over Genevieve, rage and worry blowing like a wildfire through his veins. She focused her stare on him, but it was a dead, lifeless stare, as if she had no awareness of her surroundings.

“Speak to me, Genevieve,” he urged.

He was afraid to touch her for fear of hurting her. Blood trickled from her mouth. ’Twas obvious the bastard had dealt her at least one blow, but who knew how many more or what the extent of her injuries were?

He had been in time to prevent her from being raped, but the lass was still deeply traumatized.

“I’m all right,” she said faintly.

It was enough to make him rise and turn his attention to the McHugh warrior, who lay on the ground a few feet away. Fresh anger smoldered within him. He was seething with fury that this man would dare to abuse Genevieve.

The warrior attempted to scramble to his feet, but Bowen leveled him, knocking him flat upon his back again. Bowen’s chest protested, his wound fiery with pain, but he paid it no heed. His sole intent was to remove this man as a threat to Genevieve forever.

The warrior threw a punch in an effort to dislodge Bowen, but he was solidly pinned to the ground. Bowen doubled his fist and rammed it into the other man’s face, and then before the warrior could respond, Bowen grasped the McHugh man’s head and gave it a great yank, effectively breaking his neck in one swift motion.

’Twas the truth he’d rather make the bastard suffer, but his focus was on ending things quickly so he could attend to Genevieve.

Bowen dropped the warrior’s head and it lolled to the side, his eyes glassy in death. He stood to his feet, staring down in disgust, before turning his attention once more to Genevieve.