Beneath the Forsaken City - C. E. Laureano Page 0,25

look over his shoulder. “That’s where you’re wrong, my lady. There is no safety in your aunt’s house.”

CHAPTER TEN

“How bad is it?”

Aine jerked upright at Taran’s voice behind her, feeling as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. She rolled down her shredded sleeves to conceal the scrapes she’d been washing in the stream and straightened her dress before turning.

“Not bad. Just needed cleaning to avoid infection.” She kept her tone light, but the memory of those terror-filled moments pinned to the forest floor made her shudder. She wrapped her arms around herself and trudged up the bank toward camp.

Taran came alongside her. “Are you all right?”

How was she supposed to answer that question? Aine had not allowed herself to dwell on the day’s events, but they still hovered in the back of her mind. In fact, all the terrible things that had happened—Conor’s ambush, her kidnapping, their bloody escape from Glenmallaig, and then her near-drowning in the Amantine Sea—hung like a dark cloud over her subconscious. But that wasn’t the answer Taran sought. He wanted to know if she could hold herself together until they arrived at Forrais, nothing more.

“I’m fine.” Aine gave the mercenary a wan smile. “Can I help with camp?”

Taran shrugged and fell into step beside her as they walked back to the men.

Nearby, Sigurd stood watch over Lord Gabhran, where he’d been tied to a tree. Pepin was putting dried meat, vegetables, and fresh herbs into a wooden bowl of water. Aine watched, baffled, until he nudged several small rocks from the fire and used his leather vest to drop the stones into the bowl. Steam hissed from the water, which began to boil before her eyes.

Taran immediately took up a hand ax and began to chop kindling. Apparently their discussion, cursory as it had been, was over.

There was no room for another person in this well-rehearsed dance, so Aine found herself a seat on a rock out of the way of camp preparations. Unfortunately that brought her closer to their prisoner than she wished to be.

“Girl,” Lord Gabhran called to her.

She stiffened, but she ignored him.

“You might as well tell me. Why does Lord Riagain want you so badly?”

Aine turned her head away and fixed her eyes on the crackling fire, determined not to answer him.

“Are you a witch? Is that why my lord wants you? You know, your aunt takes a dim view of witchcraft. You might have been better off at Brightwater.” Gabhran paused, and his tone was softer when he next spoke. “I’m sorry, you know. It was bad of me not to stop him sooner.”

Aine jumped to her feet and spun to face him. “Sooner? Don’t fool yourself, Lord Gabhran. You are no more noble than the horse you ride. You would have let him have his way with me, and then perhaps you would have been convinced to have a turn.”

Gabhran’s gaze raked her from head to toe, and a smile parted his lips. “You may be right on that. You are a beautiful woman, Aine Nic Tamhais. Especially when you’re angry.”

“No.” Her voice shook with the effort of holding herself in check. Sigurd stood by, his eyes flicking between them, but he didn’t look inclined to intervene. “I’m not angry. I’m furious.”

Her eyes homed in on the dagger at Sigurd’s waist. Before either of the men could react, she yanked the mercenary’s blade from the sheath and fell upon the prisoner. She jerked his head back by a handful of hair and pressed the point of the dagger to the soft spot beneath his jaw.

Gabhran stiffened, not daring to move a muscle, his eyes wide with shock.

“How does it feel, Lord Gabhran, being completely at another’s mercy?” She put more pressure on the blade, and a spot of blood appeared at the point. “Knowing that any moment, I could kill you or maim you and there’s nothing you can do about it? That’s what fear tastes like.”

“Aine.” Taran’s hand touched Aine’s shoulder.

“Someone stop her!” Gabhran appealed first to Taran, then to Sigurd. “The woman is mad!”

Sigurd crossed his arms across his chest and stared at Gabhran, his expression never changing.

“Stop me? Like you stopped your man back there?”

“Aine, that’s enough.”

Taran’s quiet voice broke through her anger. She withdrew the blade from Gabhran’s throat and turned away, her heart pounding so hard it crushed the air from her chest. Fury still surged through her veins. For a moment, she’d considered killing him, and Taran wouldn’t have stopped her. She