Page 2 of The Scot Beds His Wife
Thorne’s title meant nothing to him. He was only glad to be clever, that he’d a wit for words, as he’d lock away every detail of his experience with Tessa McGrath to describe in graphic, envy-inducing detail on the morn.
That was the last thought he’d spare for Callum until much, much later.
Who could focus on aught but the encompassing sight of the willing lass splayed before him?
Then, the Laird producedthewhip, and Thorne’s anticipation and arousal withered like a salted snail.
Hamish’s favorite instrument of pain and terror had been a Mackenzie acquisition from the Roman era. Legend had it one of their Pictish ancestors had ripped it out of the hands of a Legionnaire and beaten him to death with it.
Thorne didn’t know if the story was true. But he knew the pain of its kiss, and missed the flesh it had torn from his back upon occasion.
A desperate “no” tripped from his lips as the Laird ran the whip over the purring whore’s back. She’d arched and gasped in anticipation…
Until the first two lashes had bit into her own perfect flesh.
Thorne shrank away as his father stalked to their side of the bed and held the detested whip’s pommel out to his sons.
“Two lashes from each of ye,” he’d ordered.
“She’ll not survive that,” Thorne had protested against his better judgment. He hated the crack in his high voice, and the slight pitch of hysteria at the sight of the blood welling on the woman’s soft back.
He’d not seen the blow coming from his father, though he should have, he reflected wryly, as he blinked away stars from the flat of his back and swallowed a mouth full of blood.
“Two. Lashes. Each,” the Laird repeated. “I doona care which of ye gives how many, but she’ll not be released until she’s been whipped six more times.”
None of the Mackenzie lads spoke. They barely breathed. Though Thorne looked to Liam who glared at their father with a hatred that seemed to match his own.
“Ye do it,” the Laird ordered with an evil smile. “Or I’ll do itmyself.”
Hamish the younger had reached out for the whip, a frightening anticipation building beneath the apprehension on his less-compelling features.
“Nay.” Liam had stepped forward, wrenching the whip out of his father’s hand before Hamish could take the chance to. “I’lldo it.”
Six lashes. Six long, hellish, screaming eternities.
Thorne’s cheeks were gritty from the salt of his tears by the time it was over. He wept not only for the poor lass, but also because of the darkness gathered on his brother’s features. Liam. His hero. His savior. The brawniest of them all wielding the one instrument of wrath they’d all come to fear. He looked like a demon there in the candlelight, conducting violence upon a defenseless woman.
He looked exactly like their father.
It was a sight Thorne knew he would never forget.
Deep down, he understood Liam had no choice. That his brother didn’t hurt the lass like their father would have. That maybe he didn’t want Hamish and Thorne to have to do such a dreadful thing.
But that night, the pain writhing on that woman’s facewould paint his nightmares for the entirety of his life. Because that night had changed everything.
It hadn’t ended with the whipping.
It hadn’t ended with the hour of unspeakable things the Laird had forced them to do to Tessa McGrath.
Nor had it ended when she’d been released.
Nay, for Thorne, the terror had just begun.
A dark pride and a sick relish glinted in the Mackenzie Laird’s eyes as Liam bore the woman out. She couldn’t walk correctly, but, to her credit, she spit and fought and vowed retribution.
“A rare lass, that,” Hamish considered. “Never submitted her will…”
The Laird turned his cold notice to Thorne, who’d lost his ability to cry somewhere in the middle of it all.
