Spellbound by Kelly Jameson Read Free Book Online Page A

after each battle. Lips now cold in the grave.
    He looked hard at his captive. Pain surged through him like the cold rush of the winter tide. “Aye, Christel. This I vow. Ye’ll rue the day ye were born. Yer punishments from now on will be more severe than trifling kisses.” He flung her over his shoulder once more. She drummed his back with her fists.
    He carried her through the main hall, ignoring the curious glances of those in the room, continuing through a maze of stone archways and up two flights of narrow stone stairs before depositing her unceremoniously in a chamber with a guard outside its door, and shutting her in alone.
    Maighdlin looked around and felt her stomach sink. The rumination of a fire flickered in the great hearth; wall hangings of painted wool and linen adorned the walls and served the purpose of checking drafts. There was a great bed with a heavy wooden frame overlaid with pillows and a silky gold coverlet. The linen curtains hanging about the bed were pulled back, and the room was littered with chests.
    There was a stool in one corner, and wooden pegs held a man’s rich robes and tunics on the wall. A simple cross of Rowan wood hung above the door.
    Sweet Lord. She was in his chamber. She knew it instinctively. It smelled faintly of the man—musky, like shadowed forest. She quickly crossed to the window and unlatched the shutters, but a jump from that height would mean certain death on the sea-washed rocks below. She thought of her own home now with a great ache, even though it was merely a two-level cottage of mud-plastered branches and straw with a roof of thatch.
    The rooms had dirt floors, the only furnishings a long bench, a table, and a chest to hold clothes in the common room. In a small loft, she slept on a corn-chaff mattress beneath blankets woven from wool. Her father owned a few iron pots, a considerable luxury, and more often than not, a cow wondered through the common room. The interior of the cottage was lit by candles made of tallow. When their supply ran out, her father lit iron crusies, which gave off a smoky, smelly flame. Here, iron candelabras held flame high in the walls, shedding a glow about the room.
    For a time, she watched the sun fall below the horizon in a splash of colors—pink, blue, and rose—before all became dark. She felt uncomfortable surrounded by his things, the sheer masculinity of them. It would be a blessed mercy when someone came to take her to the tower, for surely she would feel more comfortable there. Why was she here? She crossed to the hearth, thinking of her village, her father, and Erskina.
    Maighdlin’s skirts were soaked from the high heather and patches of wet ground; her feet ached and were as filthy as her tunic. She crossed to the meager fire and curled and uncurled her fingers above the heat, trying to find a thread of warmth. But it was useless; she shivered yet. She returned to the stone window seat.
    She jumped when she heard the latch of the door being lifted, but it was merely a servant bringing a trencher of roast meat, a chunk of oat bread, and a mug of ale. The young, doe-eyed girl set the food down quietly and left. It took no time for Maighdlin to decide to eat it; she would need her strength to plan her escape.
    She thought of her captor, the sinewy strength of his body, the merciless way his lips had moved over hers. She ate quickly, slaking her hunger and then her thirst, and returned to the window. She looked out over the vast stretch of land. The moonlight was clear. There was not a cloud in the sky, nor even a drift of mist twisting about the hilltops. That a good sign; it usually meant she wouldn’t dream, wouldn’t have visions. The trees themselves were a journey in faith, their long, arched limbs reaching toward the sky though they were rooted in place.
    The great bulk of the ben stood out black and clear, and from somewhere across the mountains came the high skirl of a lone piper. Deer and wild boar sheltered in the