Redemption, Chapter 10

[morga...@my-deja.com]

REDEMPTION
by Beck McLaughlin
Methos, Duncan and Cassandra are the property of someone else, alas, and
no copyright infringement is intended. Everything else is mine.
Comments, criticisms and flames can be sent to bec...@umich.edu.

CHAPTER TEN

Cassandra moved restlessly around the library, listening to the wind. A
book lay, open and unread on the sofa beside the lamp. Pushing aside
the heavy draperies, she looked into the night. Rags of cloud raced by
a full moon. She did not need to see the valley to know that the
islanders were snug in their houses. She did not need to see the Dragon
to know that he was riding the wind.

Already Methos had wormed his devious way into her household's
affections. From Dane's reluctant testimony, Tom had been much in
Methos' company lately - and this after Methos had tried to kill him!
Even the villagers talked charitably about him although they, being a
bit cannier than Tom, were less likely to let down their guard. Even so
. . .

If she closed her eyes, she could see him riding into camp with the
others, the moonlight glinting off his armor, the wind at his back, rank
with the smell of burning. Of the four, Methos had always been the most
graceful, the most beautiful. She'd held that image in her mind when he
took her, trying not to see the brute he truly was. How young she'd
been, how naive. Already two thousand years her senior, he'd had little
trouble twisting her innocence, bending her to his will.

Abandoning her attempts at sleep, Cassandra rose and found her robe.
The house was silent as she walked through it. In the library, she
found her forgotten book. Picking it up, she stopped before a large,
framed bit of embroidery. It was very old and the design, Persian, had
always appealed to her. Now, suddenly, she realized why. Methos had
given her a robe from among the Horsemen's booty - a beautiful thing,
heavy with embroidery very similar to this. The innocent girl Cassandra
had been had never seen its like.

Four days later, he had given her to Kronos.

The book fell, unnoticed, to the carpet. Cassandra ran lightly from the
room and down the corridors of the sleeping house. She remembered her
terror with a clarity that hurt. And she remembered the pleasure of his
touch, his voice smoky with passion.

Pulling open the door to the cellar, she silently descended the steps.
The chill of the place bit through her robe and her bare feet quickly
numbed on the damp, dirty stones. Standing ajar, the door to the tiny
room let in the dim light of a single, overhead bulb. Inside was a bare
mattress and Methos dead asleep upon it. The lean form was tightly
curled against the cold. Cassandra was frozen in place, heart pounding.

Go back to bed, she told herself, but instead, she came all the way in.
He did not stir as she gathered up her robe and crouched beside the
mattress. In the half-light from the hall, she could see how gaunt he
was, the dirty, ragged clothing revealing more than it hid.
Deliberately, she bent over him, found his mouth and kissed him. Dark
eyes flew open. He lay utterly still, staring up at her with a wide,
sleep-clouded gaze. She leaned away and he sat up, lifting one hand to
his mouth.

Cassandra got to her feet. "You have twenty minutes to bathe, shave
and present yourself in my room. Do not keep me waiting." She left
without giving him a chance to respond.

Now the memories came thick and fast. Her first night in the Horsemen
camp - a time of pain, terror and, after Methos' brutal assault on her
virginity, deep shame. Later, when his first lust was spent, he had
been kinder, almost gentle. Had he expected an experienced maid that
night? She would never know, and she told herself fiercely she did not
care.

Exactly twenty minutes later, Methos arrived. His hair was still wet.
He took one step into the room and no further. She saw his gaze move
over her to the bed, then back. Taking a deep breath, he said: "I'm
here, Cassandra. What do you want?"

"I thought I told you to clean up?"

The straight jaw clenched. "I did."

"Your clothes are filthy. Take them off."

He nodded, resigned and weary. His tattered shirt came off first.
Working on the tower had given his chest and shoulders a respectable
breadth. She held out her hand for the garment and, after hesitating,
he gave it to her. She threw it into the fire.

"It . . . that's all I have!"

She ignored his distress. "The rest," she ordered.

Now he balked, looking at the fire, then back at her. "Cassandra."
Desperation touched his voice, shook it a bit. She was unmoved.
Stepping out of his jeans, he all but threw them at her, anger showing
in the white lines etched at the corners of his mouth. Pale, breathing
hard, he lifted his chin and pretended indifference to her cool
examination.

Cassandra was not prepared for her own reaction. He was as beautiful as
she remembered, every part of him perfect. Without quite intending it,
she approached him and laid a hand on his bare chest. His heart was
pounding in time with her own. Deliberately, she looked down. It
seemed he was not immune to her, either. When she raised her eyes, he
glanced quickly away. "Get into bed, Methos," she whispered.

He looked like he might speak. Then, mouth thinning, he crossed the
room and sat down on the edge of the mattress. "Is there a particular
position you'd like me to assume, mistress?"

Cassandra ignored him. Joining him on the edge of the bed, she lifted
his bowed head and smoothed damp hair from his eyes. They glittered.
Methos made no attempt to pull back, and when she kissed him, he didn't
resist, opening his mouth to her. Dark eyes closed when at last she
drew away.

Brushing her fingers across his lips, she considered him, his lashes
inky against the high, pale cheekbones. She remembered, suddenly and
without pleasure, how he'd told her she was the most beautiful creature
he'd ever seen.

Methos had learned much over the centuries, it seemed. His touch was
electrifying. Soft kisses traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her
throat. Cassandra lay, trembling, while he caressed her. She seized
his wrists and pulled him onto her. Fiercely, again and again, he
kissed her, until she was breathless and dizzy with wanting him.

It was luck alone - or, more likely, some ingrained survival sense -
that suddenly brought her back from the brink. Those wonderful hands,
so skilled, so sure, slid toward her wrist -- and the chain and the key
that circled it.

"NO!" Cassandra twisted out from under him, kicking hard. Methos swore
and lunged after her. She kicked again, this time catching him in the
jaw. All the terror of her slavery came back in a blinding rush and she
stumbled from the bed, tripping over the rug in her haste to escape.
She fumbled for the drawer where she kept the taser.

"Cassandra . . ." Methos reached for her. Beyond reason, she threw
herself at him, catching him by surprise, knocking them both down. His
hands closed around her wrists, forcing them over her head, holding them
still against the floor.

"*Cassandra!*" he raged at her through clenched teeth. "Listen to me,
damn it . . AAAAGH!"

Abruptly his weight was gone, the long body convulsing helplessly next
to her. Sobbing for breath, she crawled away and only then looked up to
see her room filled with people. Jason, taser in hand -- Charlie, in
trousers and undershirt, Maurice, frantically knotting the sash on his
dressing gown, hurrying to throw a blanket around her nakedness.
Goddess! Had they awakened the whole house?

Maurice saw her tenderly to her bed. Charlie muttered something and
pried the taser from Jason's white-knuckled hands. Together, he and the
steward dragged Methos away.

"Honestly, Miss Cassandra," clucked Maurice. "A pretty lady like you
doesn't need scum like him!"

She choked on a bitter laugh, taking the glass of water he held her.
Where fear had been, rage now thrummed through her veins. The bastard
still didn't take her seriously, still didn't appreciate exactly what it
meant to be a slave.

That would change. Tonight.

***

The whip laid fire across his back. Methos clenched his teeth, biting
back on a scream. Another blow. Another. Still he held silent,
knowing that she watched and refusing her the pleasure. He had lost
track of the number. Another blow knocked the breath from him and, for
a moment, he didn't know where he was.

"Enough!"

Cassandra's voice was as cold as the steel that held him helpless
against the wall. He ran a dry tongue over drier lips. Spasms ran
through rigid muscles. He heard Dane breathing hard from the exertion,
and the whisper of Cassandra's slippers across the stone floor.

"Leave us, Jason, please." A moment later, the door closed.

Dizzy and sick, Methos bowed his head against the rough stone. Pain
flowed in waves from his back. She set a hand on his raw shoulders and,
perversely, after everything they had done to him, it was that gentle
pressure that was too much.

"Gods, Cassandra. . . please. . ." His voice was barely audible, even
speaking unleashed firestorms of agony. Through blurred vision, he saw
a slender, white hand unlock the bolt that held one shackle in place.
The world tilted wildly and in the rush of pain that followed, he lost
consciousness.

When his senses returned, he was face down on his mattress. She was
nearby, he could smell her perfume. His heart thudded wildly.
Cassandra's voice seemed to come from far away.

"In my village, my foster father was greatly revered. No one knew more
about herbs and palliatives than he. No one was more filled with love.
Once, he stayed up three days in a row, fighting for the life of a sick
child. When the child died, he wept. He was a man of compassion and
great wisdom. He died with Kronos' sword in his belly."

Methos closed his eyes, felt hot tears seep out. "I'm sorry."

"I hate you."

The pain ebbed, leaving weakness. His eyes burned. He could not look
at her. After a moment, she spoke again. She talked about her village,
about childhood games, about the people she had loved.

"What would you do," she asked him at last, "if it was I who had done
the things you did?"

"I would kill you," he breathed.

He heard her rise, heard the familiar sigh of steel drawn from leather.
A moment later, her sword rested against the nape of his neck. Methos
didn't move, didn't breathe, pain forgotten in one moment of primal
terror.

"Too easy," she whispered, lifting the blade away. "Too easy for you,
Death."
***
continued

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