To None But Me

Branded

Brigid chewed her stale bread, musing, still shackled in her cell. No one bothered to speak with her again, and she wondered if the offer from the Duke had been a fantastical nightmare, for marriage was part of her deepest fears. She'd decided to eat, not because she'd been given hope for freedom, but because she wanted strength for her journey. Strength in which to fight her way back to Ireland.

As soon as she set foot in the New World, it was her only purpose. To find a way to return home. She would live out her days as a widower working in a tavern or inn. She cared not about money or fine things, and had never desired children. No, she only wanted raw, pure freedom.

She broke off a small piece of bread, holding it out to her little grey mouse. He scurried away at the clang of her shackles, but once all threats had disappeared, he crept back to her, and with a greedy grab plucked the morsel from her fingers. She smiled.

"Yer gettin' fat, wee shite." She said. The mouse stuffed his cheeks before he inched closer, whiskers twitching in search of more.

"What will ye do when I'm gone, eh?"

She gave him another hearty scrap before she leaned back against the frigid wall, staring out the long, thin window. It was nothing more than a slat with a pane slapped over it, not large enough for even a shoulder to escape. She'd have broken the glass and hung herself long ago if that had been the case.

Brigid didn't fear pain, a notion that had begun to frighten her late husband. Her fingers danced over the raised skin of her long scar, reminiscing. It had been a dreadful night, one in which she'd refused his advances, as she always did. His usual backhanded slaps across her face and hair pulling had done nothing to beat her into submission. Enraged, he'd broken his empty whisky bottle, gripped her ankle, and yanked her nude body to him. She'd thought for sure that would be the night she died.

She'd kicked him in the jaw, angering him further, and he'd swung the jagged glass blindly, catching her hip and tearing her skin in a curve past her ribs. It had been a fiery sort of pain, and it had hurt like hell, but she'd sneered at him all the same, obstinate and stubborn as ever.

He'd left her alone for a few weeks, then, as the town doctor had dealt with her injuries. But none had ever sought to help her, not the maid staff, or the stable boys, or the man-servant. The doctor had bought her husband's story with ease, that she'd tripped and fell. On what? She had asked with bitterness to the men. Her question had earned her a slap that rang her ears for hours after the doctor had left.

Brigid sighed, anxiety coursing through her. A steady tremble took root in her core, spreading like a noxious weed throughout her broken body. She knew not what to expect of her new husband. It was just one more hurdle, though, and she could handle that. She hoped.

She coaxed herself into a fitful sleep, her mousy friend keeping watch.

***

The Bastille was a looming fortress, the likes of which the world had never seen before. Its bones were old—almost four-hundred, to be exact, and Erik wondered how many hopeless men it had seen over the centuries. The thought was fleeting, however, as he was shuffled nearer the grinning, gap-toothed man holding a hot branding iron.

Screams pierced the dark corridor, and the smell of burning flesh tickled the back of his throat. Most vomited, but Erik had an iron will, and he'd known the scent well before his time here.

"Move along, scum!"

The prison guard prodded at the man behind Erik, who then bumped into his bare back. He'd been here a fortnight, and the thought of Anna was never far from his mind. Erick shuffled forward, next in line.