Page 43 of Bound By Deception

As often, she went looking for her handmaid.

Worry gnawed at her gut this morning, but Mirren would make her feel better.

Leaving the yard, she made her way down a narrow wynd between tightly-packed outbuildings. Ahead, the entrance to thebakehouse loomed, where the nutty aroma of oaten bread wafted out.

Bree’s mouth watered. The bread and her morning oatcakes were some of the few foods she found palatable here.

Peering inside, she was disappointed to find the bakehouse empty. Where was Mirren? It was also odd that no one was in here to tend the loaves. Even from the entranceway, she could see that the bread was deeply browned and on the cusp of burning.

Maybe she should don some gloves and save the loaves?

Bree was about to step inside the bakehouse and do just that when a muffled cry drew her attention. Her senses sharpened at the noise, her warrior instinct stirring.

Emerging once more into the wynd between two buildings, she moved farther into the shadows, toward the narrow passage that ran beneath the high stacked-stone wall encircling the broch.

And as she stepped into it, she spied three figures struggling against the wall of one of the storehouses: a woman with curly dark hair, and two huge heavily tattooed men clad in black leather.

Bree stilled.Mirren.

One glimpse at the scene and two things were clear: the men were the High King’s enforcers—and the lass wasn’t willing.

Mirren twisted and fought in their merciless grip, tears streaking her cheeks.

One of them—the biggest of the two—had his hand over the lass’s mouth, flattening her against the wall and pinning her arms over her head. Meanwhile, his companion, his bullish face slack with lust, had pushed up her tunic, exposing the lower half of her body. He gripped Mirren’s naked hips as he rutted herfrom behind, yanking her up to meet him with each vicious thrust.

She struggled wildly, her eyes feral with pain and panic.

Recognizing the brute raping Mirren—it was Drago, the enforcer who’d tried to corner the lass at Bealtunn—Bree hissed a curse and glanced around for a weapon.

Neither man realized they had a witness to their rape, but they would soon.

“Hurry up and finish,” the one holding her still rasped, his voice tight with excitement. “I want a turn.”

“Aye, you’ll have her,” his companion grunted, sweat beading on his brow as he started to thrust harder and faster. “But not before I split this bitch open.”

Bree spotted a broom leaning up against a storehouse then, no doubt left by a servant. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

“Leave the lass be.” Her voice echoed through the passageway. “Now.”

The men cut their attention Bree’s way, their gazes narrowing as they settled upon her.

“Fuck off,” Drago growled, grinding himself into the lass so she made an agonized sound against the hand gagging her. “Unless you want me to take you next.”

“She’s the chief-enforcer’s wife,” his companion muttered, his expression darkening. “Maybe, we should—”

“Retrace your steps, bitch,” Drago grunted, angered rather than worried by this declaration. “Now.”

Bree lunged.

The broom caught the rapist under the jaw. Her second blow broke his friend’s nose.

Mirren crumpled to the ground as they released her. Her choked sobs ripped through the air as she yanked down her skirt and crawled away into the shadows.

Meanwhile, Drago hauled up his trews and drew one of the knives strapped across his chest. “I warned you,” he snarled.

A heartbeat later, the two men launched themselves at Bree. Their tattoos remained dull; they clearly didn’t think her a threat.

That was a mistake.

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