There was no hearth, only a small charcoal brazier beneath the window. There was one wooden chair, a small floor mat made of sea grass, and a night table next to the bed. On that nightstand, there were a half dozen tapered candles stacked neatly and a single, tarnished candlestick.
The room was positively Spartan and stifling, and the notion that she must live within these walls for a full year made Mared blanch. It was the very opposite of her chamber at Talla Dileas, with its old sitting hearth and the thick rugs, and the old, enormous sleigh bed. The poverty of Talla Dileas was at least comfortable—the poverty of this room made her ill. So ill, in fact, that she leaned against the bureau for support and stared blindly at the floor.
Payton moved her portmanteau aside and pointed to another, small door. “There’s a privy in there.”
A closet with a chamber pot was hardly a privy, but Mared said nothing.
He walked to the door of the room, put his hand on the old brass door handle, and glanced back at her. “I’ll receive ye in the library at promptly half past ten in the morning. I’ll outline yer duties then.”
She could feel the tears welling in her eyes, the acidity of her frustration and helplessness churning in her belly.
“If ye require anything, ye may call on Beckwith,” he said. “Good night.”
She didn’t look at him—she couldn’t, for she felt on the verge of flinging herself at him and clawing his eyes out. She heard him walk through the door and close it, and in a moment of absolute despair and hatred, she snatched up the chipped ewer and hurled it at the door behind him. It shattered in a loud burst as pieces and chips of pottery fell to the floor. “Bloody bastard!” she shrieked.
The door flew open so hard that it banged against the wall as Payton stormed in, striding across the shards of clay, reaching Mared before she could react.
He grabbed her by the arm and pushed her against the wall, then steadied her with his body and a hand to her face.
He was breathing so hard that she could see the flare of his nostrils, feel his hot breath on her skin. His gray eyes glinted with unfathomable wrath. He was a man she’d never known, an angry, fire-breathing man.
“Ye have extended yer debt to a year and a day, aye?” he said hoarsely, his voice trembling with his rage. “And for every outburst such as this, I’ll add another day, and another, and another, until ye have no hope of ever going back to yer bloody Lockharts!”
Mared caught a sob in her throat; her eyes filled so quickly with hot tears that she could barely see him. “Unhand me,” she said, through gritted teeth, trying to twist out of his grasp.
“Unhand ye?” He chuckled wickedly, tipped his head forward, so that his lips were against her temple, his breath warm on her cheek. “I donna think ye understand yet, leannan. I’ll bloody well take ye in hand whenever and however I please. I own ye now, for ye’d no’ have it any other way. Ye have no one to thank but yerself for this folly, and ye’ll receive no’ a wit of sympathy from me. I’ve lost all regard for ye. I care nothing about ye, other than how ye manage my house. And if ye think to destroy my property, I will exact payment from ye as I do now…with yer servitude.”
“I. Will. Never. Be yer servant!” she hissed.
“No?” He moved his head, so that his lips were just a moment from hers, and Mared was instantly and regrettably reminded of another kiss that had almost dropped her to her knees.
“But ye already are, lass. Yer father has kept his bloody cows and given his daughter to me. Aye, ye’ll serve me, Mared,” he said, and licked the salty tears from her lips. “Ye’ll do as I say, when I say it. I’ll take ye in hand when I please,” he said, and brushed his lips against hers, so lightly, so airily, that her skin tingled savagely. “I’ll have ye in my bed if I so desire. Or perhaps,” he said, pausing to flick his tongue against her lips, “I’ll forget ye even exist.” And then he silenced any protest with his mouth.
He kissed her. His tongue swept inside her mouth as if he owned it, his hand found her breast. Mared hated him then, hated him with everything she had. Her heart pounded against her chest and she struggled fiercely beneath his hold on her, finally wrenching her face free. “It will be a cold day in hell before I come near yer bloody bed,” she spat.
Payton abruptly let go and pushed away from her, as if he was disgusted by her.
“I hate ye, Payton Douglas,” she said shakily, her chest heaving. “I will always hate ye.”
His eyes darkened. “Aye. Ye’ve made that perfectly clear,” he said, and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “But I damn well donna care any longer.” He pivoted away from her and strode from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.