Ronan's Bride by Gayle Eden Page A

that twisted his guts.
    “He flogged you.”
    Sefare stiffened and whirled around, her eyes large and stark. She backed toward the wall until plastered against it. Arms across her middle, she shook her head.
    Ronan took a step toward her, another, before stopping because she dropped her gaze.
    He murmured, “He flogged you, Sefare?”
    “Nay.” She sounded choked as she stared at the ground, squeezing herself with her arms. She said between her teeth as if speaking was painful, “They had a room in the topmost of the tower, with a contraption the women were taken to. An altar-like structure, with horns, which we knelt and clasped. There were ties to keep your hands fixed there. I was not always taken there."
    She drew in a breath, “More oft than not, he simply threw me on the bed and sat astride. But aye—t’was there I got the scars. The weapon was made from reeds or rushes. I know not.”
    Ronan dared another step, and grasp her chin, lifting her head, forcing her to meet his eyes. “What else?”
    She closed her lips tight a moment. Then seem to find her inner strength again, “And will you tell me of every suffering on the road to the tower—every blow and abuse then and after?”
    “Nay.”
    “Neither do I wish… to live it again.” She was harder in her stare. “He beat me. It matters not if it was bare handed or else. It matters not what other means he used to do harm—it was done.”
    Ronan understood that. Though he wanted to know simply because he was aware that having Pagan with him then meant he had someone who knew, someone who needed no telling, but who was witness and shared it. It made some difference. Yet the woman before him, her eyes holding the memories—defiant, somehow determined, to give it nothing more of herself to it—touched something in him too.
    Unthinking his thumb brushed over her cheek. He husked, “He is dead and rotting. He cannot harm you anymore.”
    Sefare wet her lips. “This, I know.”
    Ronan fought the urge to enfold her in his arms, to embrace her with his strength. He was aware that she flinched. But not, from his touch, as he was remembering what she had said, about his eyes—and the mask. Such dangerous thoughts, combined with the emotional moment, and his attraction to her, set off a war inside him.
    They were locked in that moment for some time— until a noise from the yard seem to shatter it. He dropped his hand and looked in that direction, seeing the watch changing that marked the evening hour.
    “I think I will soak and take supper in my chamber,” she murmured and brushed past him to leave.
    Ronan stared, letting her gain several steps ahead, before he caught up, and emerged with her. The day seemed too bright, the space too wide, too populated for some reason. Ronan was conscious it was more his internal state than reality—that intensity that lingered.
    She turned and entered the keep. He went on, to gather his things from the exercise yard, too perceptive that they had both exposed something to each other that could not be erased.
    He sat on the wall past sundown, wrestling with images, her beauty—the scars, the image of that torture room, and of a man twice her size pinning her down. He no more understood that compulsion to abuse women, one’s wife, than he could reconcile his own harsh fate.
    It hung with him, a miasma, during his return and bathing, dressing in the black breeches and boots, a tunic of light gray flannel. He heard the lads filling a tub for her. One of the female servants was speaking, after bringing up a tray. He smelled the Khava brew she enjoyed. Which he too liked.
    Ronan sat on the newly finished bed, staring at the stone floor. His skin felt alive, his blood too warm, his mind going where it would. When he arose finally, realizing the great hall was likely full and food served, his steps led him first to the door between their chambers. Eyes closing, his mask covered forehead leaned on the wood. He recognized the sound