Chapter Five
Justice demanded that she be charged with treason, the same as her father.
A red haze of fury clouded James’s vision as he snatched his wife’s upper arm, hauled her to the bed and threw her across it. His pride stung, demanding retribution. In his mind, he heard his father jeer. Stupid fool! You are too soft to be a leader. An unworthy son.
She landed with a thump, and James forced himself to unclench his fists to keep from beating her to death with his bare hands.
A sharp twinge throbbed in his chest, slashing across the knife wound. The blade was stuck shallowly into his shoulder and the dagger’s quivering hilt caused wave after wave of stinging pain. He drew a breath, forcing himself not to look at her lest he be tempted to turn the knife straightaway on her.
With a mighty wrench, he yanked the dagger from his shoulder. He grunted. Blood trickled down the blade and wetness ran down his chest.
She scrambled to her knees on the bed. Her fingers trembled, but she glared at him all the same.
Taking a deep breath, he released his anger and refocused on his duty to the king.
Milksop, his father taunted, speaking to that dark part of himself that wanted to rashly slit her throat, to damn the consequences and slander of having a murdered bride in his past.
With strength of mind, he shushed his father’s voice. His rage was not the best way to serve his country. But, all the same, insolence would form in his ranks if it were believed that he could not handle his own wife. He would be the laughingstock of the army. The King’s Enforcer would become The Wife’s Dunderhead.
The blade shook, but, through force of will, he made his hand open and dropped it to the floor. It clattered on the planks, and with deliberate, slow motions he commanded himself to don his hose as he decided her fate.
Earlier he’d thought the note to bring him to this castle was prompted by her father—now he realized that she, too, was a key player in the rebel scheme to unseat the king.
If he took her to London, the king would have her beaten and tortured. Likely, she’d be passed around the army. Pass her around to your men, his father taunted, only a sap would give her the benevolence of a quick death.
Nay. He would not allow that. Not even for her.
He would execute her here…but he wouldn’t do it in the bedroom to have the castlefolk and all of England’s rebels able to clamor around her as a martyr.
His mind made up, he reached for her leg.
Brenna scrambled backward on the bed, her pearled veil and the enormous wedding dress twisting around her body. Ermine trim fluffed in the air.
At her insubordinate action, fury fogged his brain, giving a hazy quality to her wide-eyed face.
“Move off that damn bed and I’ll kill you right now.”
A strong pulse beat in her neck; she glared at him, but she didn’t get off the mattress.
He stepped back, determined to make it to the courtyard before executing her for treason. To not give in to the rage that coursed through him.
Milksop, the dark voice sneered.
Brenna swallowed against the hard knot in her throat as she watched Montgomery buckle his leather belt around his waist and slide on his boots. Should she scream? Fight? Run? She straightened her skirt over her legs. His anger was a tangible force in the room and, feeling like a dog sent to its kennel, she dared not test his threat to leave the mattress.
“What are you going to do wi—”
Her mind froze, the words dying on her tongue, as he straightened and looked at her. His eyes were no longer cobalt, but steely blue with a red mote glowing in the left one.
Vengeful eyes. Determined eyes.
And she knew. Knew beyond a doubt, she was a condemned woman. He may not have turned the knife directly on her, but he planned to execute her all the same.
As was his right as The Enforcer.
Panic radiated through her limbs. For a fleeting instant, she recalled her sister’s warning that he had murdered his first wife.
Glancing at the door, the window, the garderobe, she searched frantically for a means of escape. Her chest constricted so tightly she could barely breathe. Cornered. Trapped. Nowhere to run.
“The battle is lost,” he said as if reading her mind. He stepped toward her, his jaw hard.
Not allowing herself to think, she lunged, attempting to race past him, to go somewhere, anywhere besides here. He grabbed her arm in an easy twist as if he had expected such a move and hauled her upright until her nose nearly touched his.
“You will have three lashes for every defiance you give me between here and the woodchopper’s block.” A tight tic pulsed in his jaw as if he was just holding himself back from striking her. As if he feared that once he started beating her, he would not stop. “I can have the skin stripped from your flesh and leave you to die from the wounds or have your execution done with one stroke to your neck.”
Her knees began to shake. In her mind, the cold metal of the axe was already biting into her neck. With a bravado she did not feel, she squared her shoulders. “I’m not sorry for what I’ve done.”
“Three lashes.”
She lifted her chin, her ire rising. “Do what you will with me, I won’t cow down to you.”
His hand on her arm tightened into a biting grip. “If you care naught for your own flesh, I can have the skin stripped from your sisters’ bones as well.”
Hot, angry tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Before she could compose an answer, Brenna found herself pulled upward and slung over Montgomery’s shoulder. The room spun, her paintings forming blurs of colors. His scent, which had enticed her only moments earlier, terrified her now.
“Put me down!”
“Nay.”
She beat on his back with her fist.
“Six lashes.”
She stilled, his shoulder pushing into her stomach. There was no sense in acting the fool. She would face death with dignity.
He paced to the door, opened it and began his march down the hallway. If the wound she had inflicted bothered him, his movement did not indicate it.
About halfway down the steps leading into the bailey, one of his men met them.
She cringed, embarrassed at being held in such an undignified position.
“My lord?” The man was a tall, thick-limbed brute with a crooked, ugly nose and deep frown line betwixt his brows. He took in the bloody red slice across Montgomery’s chest, silently nodded and moved to follow them outside. As if he too understood what would happen.
Flashes
