THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

holding that blade to her armpit.”
    “ Armpit , my lord?”
    “Aye. A truly odd place to slash, I grant ye, but ‘twas where the blade’s edge pressed.” His friend looked as ghastly as he felt. “Isaac, sit. Ye look about to faint.”
    Duncan hadn’t wanted another wife, but if God and Albany in their infinite wisdom lusted it so, then why in hell hadn’t they given him a sane one? Now he would die without an heir, his beloved castle, his lands, and clan would all be taken over by a Bruce or Stewart, no doubt. He toyed with her knife. Mayhap, Beth had the right of it. He should just slit his throat and be done with it.
    Isaac held out his hand. “May I have that, my lord?”
    “Relax Isaac.”
    “Aye, but just give it here.”
    He handed it over and heard Isaac sigh in relief.
    “Where’s Angus? I want the labor resumed on her apartment at once. I cannot watch her every moment, nor can I have her slipping, slicing, or jumping to her death so long as Albany lives.”
    “Angus is with the MacLean as ye ordered... the arrangement for the tournament tents?”
      “Ah.” He’d forgotten he’d sent Angus to barter fish for canvas. “Then find Brian and order the work started.” Angus’s second in command could deal with it. “And summon yer ladywife.”
    Ashen, Isaac nodded. “Rachael is in Drasmoor at present, my lord.” He looked at the blade in his hands. “As soon as she arrives I shall send her to ye.”
    Seeing the marked distress on his friend’s face, Duncan heaved a heavy sigh. “Isaac, I’ve no plans to rail at Rachael, but ask for her help. The only lock I have is on the dungeon grate, and I cannot place Lady Beth there, much as I’d like. Nor can I truss her like a goose in the solar for she will scream the walls down, surely. Nay. I want yer ladywife joined at the hip to Lady Beth, day and night, until I can cloister her for her own safekeeping. And order every knife not strapped to a man’s thigh taken out of the keep. Take them to your croft, take them to the sea, I care not where, but take them away.”
    ~#~
     
    Tears coursed down her cheeks as Beth vomited into the chamber pot. When the painful retching finally stopped, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and cursed. Since childhood, every damn time she became terrified—-felt that familiar overwhelming heartache—she’d vomit.
    Why, God? Why has he done this?
    Her breath hitched and hiccupped as she staggered to her feet. With her neck and shoulders sore, she looked at her equally aching arms and saw his handprints around her biceps.
    She’d married a madman.
    Beth limped into what had once been her bathroom, now her closet, and rummaged through the trunks. She uncovered her jeans and sweater, but no underwear. She could live without them.
    This could not be happening. Not again. God, not again.
    Just fifteen minutes ago she’d been contentedly musing over the realization that she’d fallen in love with a beautiful man, and he with her. How stupid could one woman get?
    Sniffing, she yanked up her zipper and went looking for her sneakers. She didn’t know whom to be angrier with; herself for believing in the unbelievable—-that a handsome man could love a plain woman such as she—or with him for his painful deception and blatant use of her. That she’d brought it all on herself by opening her heart to him didn’t bear thinking about. She’d known better.
    Dressed, she scoured the sparsely furnished solar for a weapon. She’d not be caught off guard again. Not physically and never again emotionally. If the son of a bitch dared come through the door while she plotted her escape, someone was going to die and it wouldn’t be her. She hadn’t fought all her life for respect to become Duncan MacDougall’s punching bag. No way.
    Her gaze settled on the cast iron fire poker. She hefted it, testing its weight and balance in her hand. It would do.
    At the window, firer poker in hand, she studied the boats leaving the quay. She had to get on one to leave, but how? The few times she’d asked to be taken to Drasmoor just to see the village, she’d been told to seek out her husband or been given some excuse as to why now wasn’t a good time. Duncan had apparently ordered his men to keep her here. But she wouldn’t stay. Couldn’t.
    She continued pacing. Haunting images of Duncan’s tenderness in the wee hours of the night and his later inexplicable brutality constantly interrupted her thoughts of