When she didn’t respond, he lifted his head, fixed his gaze on her. “You’ll want to answer me, lass,” he said.
Those lashes swept down, telling him she knew a command when she heard it. But it took her another second to get it out. “The first night I was back from the infirmary, they came in at dawn, cut my arm, made me draw the S. It is expected in such a situation.”
When he crossed the room and clasped her wrist, he could feel her fighting not to move. He pushed up the sweater sleeve and suppressed an oath. Had they used a bloody rusty steak knife? The jagged cut had been made over another mark, a fleur-de-lis enclosed in a circle of Latin script he couldn’t make out because of the wound. At some point the tattoo must have been infused with her Master’s blood to make it permanent, kept fresh with periodic re-inking. Evan did it to Niall’s own tattoos every so often; otherwise Niall’s third mark would re-knit skin, mar the design.
“What’s this writing? Beneath it?”
“My InhServ mark. The fleur-de-lis is enclosed by the motto Forever Bound; Blood, Body and Soul.”
Her voice was flat, though he expected at one time she’d explained it with reverence or even pride. Dropping to one knee, he eased up the hem of her skirt. Her knees and calves were raw and abraded from the sharp bits, but the few cuts were minor, as she said. Not like her arm. The blocker Lord Brian was giving her was likely impeding her third-mark ability to heal any wound quickly, but perhaps when Evan second-marked her, it would help.
Niall wrapped his fingers around her leg above her knee, noting how his rough, tanned fingers looked against that supple, silken flesh. Christ, she was a beauty, but she seemed more fragile now than when she’d been screaming and raging, Stephen doing his best to break her mind.
By walking on eggshells, he was making it worse. Well, hell with it. Evan always said he had more intuition than brains.
“Our Master doesnae like a servant hurting herself without his say so,” he said brusquely. “Ye haven’t earned a punishment from him; dinnae do this to yourself again. Aye?”
She became paler, as if she’d been chastised severely. Damn it all. Gripping her shoulders from his kneeling position, a fairly easy thing given his height, he gave her a little shake. “Can you tell stories? Sing a bit?”
“I’m trained in all the cultural arts. Yes.”
“Guid. It’s a long flight, muirnín. Perhaps ye could tell me a story or two to put us down for a nap, so the jet lag willnae catch us. It’s not an order,” he added gently. “Just an idea to keep us both busy. I know this is bloody awkward for you. If you’d rather read a book or be silent as a stone, that’s fine.”
“It would be my pleasure to tell you stories.”
Apparently giving her something to do settled her. Poor lass was a duck out of water and trying to paddle her way through sand.
“All right, then. If ye run out of tales to tell, I ha’ drinking songs from every country Evan and I have visited. And I bray like a mule. They’re bawdy songs, mostly about beautiful, big-breasted women and their highly unlikely encounters with sweaty sailors. The pilot will crash the plane to shut me up.”