Stolen to Fight

by Summer O’Toole
All rights reserved

Synopsis

We were stolen to fight, destined to love, and doomed from the start.

After one night with one man upends her entire life, Tillie finds herself on Gladiator Island at the mercy of a madman demanding deadly games at the cost of her freedom.

Whatever the outcome, Tillie is done sitting on the sidelines. With tricks up her sleeve and a blade in her hand, Tillie transforms from victim to vanquisher.

At her side is the one man sworn to protect her—with scars on his back and heat in his gaze, he’ll do anything, kill anyone to keep her safe.

When the game is won, who will live, who will die, and is her champion all that he seems?

Stolen to Fight is the second book in the Taken Series, dark historical romances with fearless heroines and lethal heroes.

If you liked Spartacus and The Hunger Games but want a sizzling, romantic twist, you’ll love this high-stakes tale of love, sacrifice and healing.

Preorder Stolen to Fight and be the first to get swept away by this red-blooded romance.

Author’s Note: Stolen to Fight is a dark romance, please prioritize your wellbeing if you feel it necessary and check content details at SummerOtoole.com/StolentoFightContent

Chapter 1—Apple Picking

April 1720

New Bern, Colony of North Carolina

I could feel the rough bark scratch my back through the fabric of my dress as his body pressed against me and his kisses sought out mine. I cupped his face drawing him closer as his hands slid up my sides.

“Tillie!” The shout carried across the lawn and to the oak grove we were under. “Tillie!”

Freddie froze and stopped kissing me; he looked like a child caught eating cake.

“That’s your mother,” he hissed in a whisper as if she’d hear us tens of yards away.

“I’ll go back in a minute . . .” I wrapped my arms around his neck to pull him back to me. His lips were soft and his kisses always left me feeling pleasantly dazed.

“No, Tillie,” he groaned reluctantly into my mouth, “I can’t get caught again. Ye’re mother already thinks me an immoral heathen.” He stepped out of my grasp, nervously looking over his shoulder as if my mother was going to come barreling toward us in a fiery chariot to smite him.

“Are you afraid of a woman who barely weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet?” I teased.

“Yes, I am, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. And you should be too.” he laughed. He kissed me on the forehead and then took off at a run into the woods that formed a border between our properties.

I sighed, still amused by Freddie’s absurd, though not completely unwarranted, reaction to my mother.

“Coming, Mother!” I hollered back as I began walking back to the house. Once out of the cover of the trees, I could see my mother standing with her hands on her hips in the back doorway.

She was a petite woman, barely reaching five feet tall, but she sure held a lot of personality in that little body. Her hair, a match to my raven black tresses, was pinned neatly under a bonnet. I knew she’d immediately know what I was up to by the current state of my hair, which was as neat as hers when I left the house an hour ago.

“My daughter, the whore,” she whined as I approached.

“We were only picking apples, Mother.” I tried to slide past her, but she started swatting me with a rolled-up newspaper. “In the oak grove with no basket? Do you have no shame, Matilda?”

“I should be burned at the stake.” She huffed at my flippant comment and trailed me through the kitchen.

“This is not a joking matter, what will people think if you keep running around like this? You can forget about marrying any decent man.” I didn’t even have to turn around to know her face was probably beet red, steam nearly coming out of her ears.

I climbed the steps to my room, leaving my mother to shout at me from the bottom, “Just wait until your father hears about this!”

Closing the door to my room, I found my twin sister, Mabel, already lying on my bed, her hands behind her head

“Why must you test her like that? She’s going to send you to a nunnery one of these days.” She eyed me, only half-joking.

“Get your dirty boots off my bed.” I shoved her feet off the bed, then flopped down beside her. “And I highly doubt that. She wouldn’t want me corrupting the sisters.”

“God forbid.” she laughed. “Freddie, again?” She twirled a loose strand of hair mindlessly. “Why not just marry him, you’ve been friends for years.”

While my twin sister looked just like me, our personalities couldn’t be more different. She’d only ever kissed one man, her childhood crush, who was now her husband.

“That’s exactly why I don’t want to marry him, I know him too well. He’s handsome and I enjoy him, but we both agreed we’d kill each other if we ever became more than just friends.” Mabel side-eyed me. “We’ve only kissed, I swear! Don’t worry, I’m still a virgin because, apparently, that’s my sum worth as an unwed woman.”

“I don’t mean it like that, Tillie. It’s just that I know how great you are and don’t want what you do in your spare time to shade how others see you.”

“So, that’s exactly how you mean it.” I stood up frustrated. “I’m only as valuable as I am pure. Men only want your body, but only if it’s theirs to conquer. I’m not an object to be claimed, I’m a person.”

I remembered when the looks started, probably around thirteen years old. When I entered a room, I was no longer a person with a mind and things to say, I was a pretty face and a body to be desired. I hated being reduced to that. And that is probably why I kiss boys I have no intention of marrying. Partly an attempt to control what I do with my body, but partly to muddy the waters so that when I choose a husband, I’ll know he is choosing me, not just my virginity.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Tillie.”

“It’s okay, May.” I knew my sister only wanted the best for me. We were just so different.

She grew up escaping into books and fairytales, while I escaped into complete imaginary villages in the woods. She’d come to dinner in a clean white dress with a doll tucked under her arm. I, on the other hand, would come to dinner mud-streaked with twigs sticking out of my hair.

My mother thought it was a phase I’d grow out of, that one day I’d become a proper, refined lady whereas my father just preferred to act like I didn’t exist because he already had one perfect daughter.

“You know, I don’t think I would mind growing to be an old maid.”

“Oh, you don’t mean that.”

“No, I’m serious. I could yell at children from the porch, grow my hair long and wild, and if I’m lucky, people might even think me a witch.” I laughed, but my sister crossed herself.

“Mother would rise from her grave to give you a good hiding if that ever happened.”

“Actually, that might not happen after all. You remember Abraham Smith?” I schemed.

“That fellow staying with the Sinclairs?” Mabel sat up, interested.

“Yes, he’s related somehow to Mrs. Sinclair, came here from England to study business with Mr. Sinclair.” John Sinclair owned a prominent trading company which was now actually run predominantly by his daughter, Sloane, and her husband.

“Right, well?”

“Well, I quite liked him when we met the other day.” Abraham was tall but lean and had these gorgeous green eyes. And he wasn’t a total bore either. Thinking about it, I actually found him rather funny.

“That’s great! Will he be at the dinner party, tomorrow?” Mabel could barely contain her excitement at the possibility of me not dying an unwed witch.

“I certainly hope so.” I wasn’t one to get easily smitten, but there was something about him that intrigued me. He had an air about him that was charming but cool—calculated—like he wasn’t just good looks and manners.  There was something deeper to him.

I was excited to find out what that was.

Chapter 2—Dinner Party

“Mama!” A little blonde girl squealed as we approached the Sinclair’s wrap-around porch. She went running inside to announce our presence. I couldn’t help but smile at the way the toddler wobbled as she tried so intently to make her bare feet run in a straight line.

It was a pleasant evening, the sky still a dusky blue, the last sunlight not yet faded. The wind carried mouth-watering scents of roasting pig, and the soft lantern light cast the home in an inviting glow.

My parents, my sister and her husband, and I hobbled our horses by the water trough on the side of the house.

“I heard Evie offered you all a warm welcome.” I turned to see Sloane, a striking golden-haired woman a few years older than me, holding the blonde girl on her hip.

“Sloane, your beautiful daughter could be your twin,” my mother gushed, pinching the little girl’s chubby toes.

“Her papa says she has her mother’s stubbornness too.” Sloane laughed. “Her newest rebellion is when you tell her to finish her food, she’ll look you dead in the eyes and dump the rest on her head.”

“Tillie used to do that.” My mother raised her eyebrows at me.

“Do you still?” I looked up to see Abraham smiling at me from the porch. His green eyes glinted in the lantern light.

“I’ve found other ways to cause trouble now.” I smirked, and he slowly wet his bottom lip, eyes locked on mine. Butterflies crashed in my stomach at the slight movement. Speaking of trouble, this boy was going to be just that.

“George McGillvary, I don’t believe we’ve made acquaintance.” George, Mabel’s husband stepped up to him, hand outstretched.

“Abraham Smith, your humble servant,” my green-eyed man responded.

“And my lovely wife, Mabel, and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. McEvoy,” he introduced the rest of us. Abraham greeted everyone with a swift handshake or polite bow.

“And Matilda,” he said before George could introduce me. He caught my fingertips in his, drawing them to his lips to kiss the back of my hand. “I could never forget such a beautiful face.” I was grateful for the dim light so my blush wouldn’t betray the cool indifference I hoped to portray.

“Aren’t we the romantic, Mr. Smith?” I pulled my hand from his but didn’t miss his eyes travel the length of my body. I could practically feel my mother roll her eyes at yet more male attention.

We all followed Sloane and Evie into the house, the welcoming smells growing stronger with each stride, making my stomach grumble. I realized I had skipped my noon meal while with Freddie, and the resulting hunger clawed at my stomach.

The Sinclair home was tasteful without being overly gaudy, one of the many things I respected about the Sinclairs. They were successful and respected but didn’t feel the need to flaunt it.

Sloane Sinclair, now Sloane Cross, I especially admired. She led the business’s expansion from exclusively colony-produced goods to importing wares from Europe and the West Indies—including the most delicious wine this side of the Mississippi—making the company a household name. But how they got there was an interesting tale.

A few years ago, she’d been kidnapped by pirates while attempting to recoup an important stolen shipment. That’s how she met her now-husband, Elliot Cross. He was the captain of the ship that rescued her. Or at least that was one story.

Rumors of what happened at sea were unclear and varied, to say the least. Everything from Sloane single-handedly commandeering a pirate ship to Sloane jumping overboard and riding to shore on a dolphin’s back. Still, others genuinely believed her to be an impostor, a siren from the sea only posing as the real Sloane.

While many of those stories were completely absurd, there was one legend, however, surrounding Sloane Sinclair that was based in fact. She devised a plan that saved Elliot from the gallows when he was falsely convicted for the theft of the shipment. She rode into the square, the noose already tightened around his neck, swept him off the gallows and galloped away while a fire snaked through the crowd and giant nets flew from the sky.

_____

Once the roasted meat I’d smelled on our way in was ready, the sounds of chitchat and cutlery on porcelain filled the dining room. While waiting, though, I filled up on one—or three—glasses of wine too many on an empty stomach.

It was an interesting mix of dinner guests to be sure. There were our two families, the Sinclairs and the McEvoys, a mousey-looking boy who seemed too shy to talk to anyone other than the toddler, and one absolutely giant man.

I couldn’t remember who the boy was. I knew Sloane was an only child, and Evie didn’t have any siblings yet either. But the way he catered to the girl was endearing. He tore the bread into bite-sized pieces, bounced her on his knee when she grew bored and fidgety, and cleaned up a spill when she knocked over a glass of cider.

After dinner, the guests dispersed into smaller conversation bubbles. I was pleased when Abraham remained in my bubble all night. My sister and I sat on the back porch with Abraham and Jonas, the giant who seemed to be a family friend of the Crosses. I hadn’t quite figured out the relation yet but thought he maybe knew the captain prior to meeting Sloane.

“In my short time in New Bern, I’ve already heard much about you McEvoy women.” Abraham rose an eyebrow our way with a charming smirk.

“Much about Tillie, you mean. I don’t do anything near interesting enough to gossip about.” Mabel teased and I laughed at her uncharacteristic bluntness—she must have enjoyed the wine too.

“Only good things I hope.” I smiled back at Abraham, liking where the conversation was going.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” He rose an eyebrow and a smirk tugged on his lips.

Just then, we heard George, who was inside, roaring with Mr. Sinclair over a game of dice. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t lose all our coin.” Mabel rose to shepherd her husband, who loved Mr. Sinclair’s Scottish whiskey a little too much.

Abraham whispered something to Jonas, who grinned knowingly and laughed as he stood to return inside. I pushed off the ground on the porch swing, returning Abraham’s desire-filled gaze. “What did you say to Jonas?”

“Only my wicked intentions for you.” My stomach dropped in the best way. He sat on the porch swing next to me, making it rock with the new weight.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman more beautiful.” He twirled a loose strand of my hair between his fingers before gently tucking it behind my ear and dragging his fingertips lightly down my neck leaving a trail of heat.

“Do you expect me to believe that? I bet you say that to every woman you set your sights on.”

“You speak as if I’m a hunter and you’re helpless prey . . . ” he drawled, his gaze dropping to my mouth as I bit my lip.

“Helpless? I wouldn’t say that.”

“Does my beautiful doe enjoy the hunt?” His mouth hovered just above mine. I had the undeniable urge to kiss him right then. His green eyes called to me, hungry like a hunter indeed. Warmth pooled in my core as his hand slid up my thigh. Even through the layers of skirt and petticoat, his touch burned.

“Not here,” I said right before our lips touched. My mother would make good on her promise and surely send me to a nunnery if she caught us.

Sweeping up his hand, I dragged him from the porch, and we ran to the stables across the lawn. No sooner were we out of sight did he wrap his arms around me and cover my mouth with his. His body was hard against mine and I pulled him close with a hand behind his head.

The stables smelled like hay, and I could hear a few horses shifting in their stalls from our sudden entrance. A faint strip of light leaked in from the lanterns on the porch. But even as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could barely see anything, only feel his hands roam my body and feet guide me back.

I tripped on something, and we stumbled back clutched together. Luckily, a pile of hay caught our fall and Abraham landed on top of me.

We both laughed at the absurdity of our clumsiness.

“You literally have me falling for you,” he said, lifting himself to hover above me, a hand planted on either side of my head.

If the smell of hay was strong before, it was absolutely pungent now surrounded by the stuff. He bent to kiss me, replacing the smell with his masculine, sweaty scent and I hungrily drank it up. Did all handsome men have that delicious smell about them?

I could feel the bulge in his pants on my leg and smiled inwardly at the effect I had on him, but pride turned to caution when I heard him undo his belt.

“Have you grown tired of kissing already, my hunter?” I reached between us to stop his hands.

“Don’t tease me, girl.” There was still a warm, jokiness to his tone but mingled with something colder. He swatted my hands away to finish his task, his length springing free.

“I’m serious, Abraham. I’m not doing that.” I tried to scoot out from under him, but he pinned me with his body and stifled any further protest by crushing his mouth to mine.

Panic began to grip me as my efforts to get up only resulted in me sinking deeper into the damn pile of hay. I changed tactics and tried pushing him away, his kisses turning to a rough assault of my mouth.

“Stop it, stop!” I screamed frantically as he pushed up my skirts.

“Don’t act all innocent now. Stop fighting me,” he growled.

“I don’t want this! I’m a virgin, please!” Tears choked my words, and my heart was racing so fast, I thought it would pound right out of my chest and into the straw.

“You expect me to believe that,” he scoffed, “I’ve only been here a week and already I know you’re the town whore. Now spread your legs like you’re used to.” I thrashed with all my strength as he tried to pry my legs apart.

I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening. It had devolved so fast.

My lungs burned from screaming and tears soaked my cheeks. Surely, someone would hear me. Surely, someone would notice our absence and come looking. My whole body trembled with fear.

But I couldn’t stop fighting and just wait for help to come. I scratched his face, aiming for his eyes but only catching his cheek.

“Damn you, making this harder than it needs to be.” He wiped the small streak of blood from his cheek before punching me across the face. My head burst with pain and while dazed from the hit, he flipped me over, burying my face into the pile of dried grass.

Any further calls for help were instantly muted by the fodder. The taste of musty earth filled my mouth, along with the metallic taste of blood as I realized my nose was bleeding.

He finally succeeded in hitting his target and I howled at the aggressive violation. With each thrust, I was forced deeper into the hay, spitting out reeds from my mouth. The mixture of snot from crying and blood from my nose had already made it difficult to breathe and now I was going to choke on all this straw.

This is how I’m going to die. Raped in a barn and suffocated in hay like a damn animal.

I was struggling so much to just breathe that I’d stopped fighting Abraham. Without my resistance, he was able to quickly finish. His hot, wet seed felt like a river from hell inside me and I squirmed at the thought of part of him remaining inside me even as he withdrew himself.

I felt him use my skirt to clean himself and winced at yet another thing marred by him. Bile rose in my throat when he leered over my used and splayed body and said, “Thanks for the ride, love. I’ll let everyone know you went home feeling unwell.”

Cold air blew across my exposed buttocks. He kissed the top of my head and I shivered. Once he left, I don’t know whether I laid there like a soiled rag for minutes or hours. I felt hollow and raw.

Eventually, I made my way to my horse and rode home. I don’t remember making any conscious decisions to stand, move my legs, or mount my horse, but I must have because I remember everything hurting, especially while in the saddle.

I crawled into bed, not bothering to undress or wash him off me. Not that I didn’t want to. I desperately wanted to burn the dress and scrub my skin ’til it bled and every last speck of him was gone. But I was even more desperate to be asleep, to have this night end and not have to be awake with my thoughts recalling every detail.

Chapter 3—Herbs and Dirt

Please bleed, please bleed, please bleed. It had become my mantra every time I visited the outhouse. It had been two months since my attack, and I hadn’t bled once. I’d heard that stress from trauma sometimes caused women to skip their monthly courses. I clung desperately to that fact. Because the alternative was so horrible, I felt sick every time I thought about. To carry within me the child of that monster made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I stared at the empty linen I’d used to wipe.

Still white. Not even a speck of blood.

My heart ached as it did every time I came up empty.

_____

I hadn’t told anyone what had happened that night, not even my sister. Even when my mother asked how I’d gotten a black eye, l made up some poor excuse. I don’t even remember what I said, but knew it wasn’t even half believable. When she didn’t push further, I knew she didn’t really care what had happened so that was the end of that conversation.

I didn’t think anyone would believe me anyway. What had Abraham said? I’ve only been here a week and already know you’re the town whore.

If that was what everyone already thought of me, how would they believe I didn’t want it? I was still a virgin before that night, for Christ’s sake! Not that it mattered to Abraham, and I doubted it would to others too.

I considered escalating things with Freddie so I could pretend he was the father. I didn’t want to marry him, but what choice did I have? At least I knew he was a good man. But that just felt wrong. Starting a family on a lie so profound . . . I could never.

Not to mention I could hardly bring myself to bear even my sister’s touch when she laced my stays, let alone be intimate with a man. Every touch felt amplified and painful, like a hot brand singeing my skin and sending me back to that despicable pile all over again.

But when the smell of my favorite meals started making me sick and still I hadn’t bled, I couldn’t deny it any longer.

Mabel was in the vegetable garden when I finally worked up the courage to tell her. Her hair, a slightly lighter brown to my jet black, shone like amber under the sunlight. She was bent over the squash vines, the giant blossoms like stars on the ground.

She looked up at the sound of the gate opening and smiled. “The strawberries are ripening.” Those were my favorite. I smiled weakly. Plucking a berry, I popped it in my mouth and savored the sweet taste knowing the bitter words to come.

“Mabel. . .” As if the wind was stolen from my lungs, I couldn’t form any other words.

“Yes?” Concern and confusion danced on her face.

“I—” Again words failed me. My chest tightened and my jaw clenched painfully as I tried to hold back tears. Without a word, she clasped my hands in hers and just stood with me until I could speak. Through sentences stunted by tears, I told her what had happened.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Guilt racked her features and even though it wasn’t her fault at all, I knew she still felt terribly responsible.

“Listen, May.” I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. “It’s not your fault, you couldn’t have known,” I comforted her reluctantly. On a rational level, I knew my words were true. But that wounded, shattered part of me was angry she left the porch, that she didn’t check on me, or hear my screams.

“I need your help with something, though.”

“Anything.” Her eyes looked so sorrowed, I almost felt bad for burdening her with this, but I couldn’t do it alone.

“I need you to come with me to the medicine woman.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m with child.”

_____

The medicine woman was a Native who was part of the surrounding tribes. Once a month, she came into town to offer services. I’d heard that she was often much more successful than the town’s physician and usually used less painful methods.

Especially when it came to situations like mine. Just last year, a woman bled out after attending care from the physician. What I needed to do was risky business to begin with and I’d rather take my chances with someone who didn’t have any recent casualties.

The medicine woman serviced out of the home of a relative who had married a white man. When Mabel and I arrived, there was already a line of people outside the small cabin.

A few were holding their arms in slings or displacing their weight on a friend’s shoulder. Most didn’t look in too bad of shape and I wondered how many of the women were there for the same reason as me. The medicine woman treated many different ailments but was particularly known for this one. After all, there were only so many things an overall healthy-looking, young woman would be seeking help for.

Beside me, Mabel shifted uneasily. She kept fixing her hat, adjusting the brim to cover different angles of her face. She was probably uncomfortable that passers-by might divine the reason for our visit and mistake her for the patient. If she was here to support me, she was doing a terrible job of it, acting like I’d dragged her to a brothel not a practitioner.

“You know plenty of married, respectable ladies need similar assistance, right?” I tried to hide the annoyance in my voice.

“Oh yes, yes, no doubt,” she said, absent-mindedly scanning the street.

“Then will you please stop acting like it would be the most horrible thing if someone sees you here?” I failed to conceal my annoyance this time. She nodded and looked down at her feet sullenly.

I should have just come alone. I was barely able to manage my own emotions and now I had to cater to hers too.

An older man shivering despite the warm weather and wrapped in blankets shuffled inside as a patient exited the cabin. We were next in line, and I was surprisingly calm.

I’d already been through the worst of it. If anything, the jitters I felt were eagerness to close this terrible chapter. I palmed my still flat belly. I was grateful I hadn’t felt it kick or move yet. As it stood right now, it was just a lingering wound. It was merely the absence of monthly bleeding, not the presence of a bump.

I feared if I waited too long, if I was able to feel it take form inside me, I would lose conviction to do what I must. Even if I could learn to see the babe as a separate being from the man who sired them, would I ever be able to truly love them? Or would they always be stained by the crimes of their father? I couldn’t do that to a child, bring it into this world without knowing for certain I could love it fully as a mother should.

The door to the cabin opened and the bundled man walked out, standing a bit taller than before. A young woman with bronze skin welcomed us inside. The house was filled with herby smoke, and I found myself pleasantly calmed by the scent. Mabel on the other hand tried to be discrete by covering her nose and disguising it as a yawn. She did a poor job of it, and I hoped the medicine woman wouldn’t take offense and kick us out. I really should have come alone.

The younger woman, who was dressed in popular clothing, guided us over to an older woman dressed in traditional Native clothing. I sat down in the chair across from the medicine woman, Mabel standing behind me.

Time had etched lines into the woman’s golden skin, but her dark hazelnut eyes shone with the brightness of youth as she took me in. She wore two silky braids, strands of silver hair woven in. Beadwork adorned her and her leather dress. The colorful designs, however, didn’t clash with the serene air with which she held herself. When she spoke, her voice was smooth and hushed.

“Lenasiolema welcomes you,” the younger woman translated for us, “And she is sorry for your suffering.”

“My suffering?”

“Bay-bay.” The medicine woman circled her stomach, locking eyes with me. I suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable, as if stripped of my clothes. How did she know? It was far too early for me to be showing and we hadn’t said a word since entering. She spoke again in a tongue I couldn’t understand.

“She says a seed planted with evil can poison the soul and the body. But she can help you, don’t worry.” I heard Mabel gasp behind me at the accuracy of the woman’s words. Me? I was frozen, both stunned and relieved.

Lenasiolema reached into a pouch strung on a long cord around her neck and pulled out a handful of dried herbs. She took my hand and placed her fist with the herbs in it. Her other hand wrapped around mine, so I was clutching her fist, and she spoke again.

“She says to make a tea, brew it strong. Once the color is that of red clay, drink all the tea, leaves too.”

“Will it be very painful?” Mabel asked.

“She says it will not cause pain when you drink, but at your next moon, your pains may be worse than usual. The blood will flow heavier too.”

She curled my hand into a fist around the herbs and patted my hand. She didn’t smile, but there was a kindness in her eyes that touched me. I thanked her and gave the younger woman coin in payment.

Stepping outside, I felt light and hopeful for the first time in weeks. Maybe I really can move past this.

A shrill voice called my name and my stomach dropped.

“What are you two doing here?” my mother asked, a basket of vegetables hooked on her arm. How could I forget this was the time she always visited the market? The market that was just around the corner. I kicked myself for being so stupid.

“You remember those headaches, we’re both prone to get—”

“Tillie felt like dinner wasn’t sitting well with her—”

We said our conflicting lies in unison and my mother’s face shifted from delight in bumping into us to suspicious disgust. She of course knew the reputation the medicine woman had for helping women with a certain problem.

“Matilda, please tell me you’re not—" she gasped, “What did that witch give you? Let me see.” She pried my hand open so quickly, I didn’t have time to stop her.

“Oh, no, no, no,” she crowed and swatted my hand, sending the herbs flying into the dirt.

“Mother!” I dropped to my knees, desperately trying to scoop up the herbs, dust and all. A gust of wind came, scattering them everywhere. If I wasn’t so angry, I would have burst into tears.

“Get up,” my mother hissed, “you’re making a scene.” She hauled me up by the arm.

My blood boiled. “You wicked woman, do you know what you’ve just done?” I screamed, not giving a damn about causing a scene. I didn’t give a damn about anything other than ending this terrible chapter. Or more accurately, slamming the book shut and then using it for kindling.

“I know what you’ve done,” she shot back with venom.

_____

“How do you expect me to believe that?” my father’s voice boomed, but I didn’t back down or cower.

“Because it’s the truth. I had a black eye for a week after that night, how do you suppose that happened?”

“Your mother said you got that from a pantry shelf looking for something in the dark,” he huffed.

“A stupid cover-up!”

“So, you admit to lying once already?” my mother chimed in, having collected herself from her pathetic crying fit. If anyone should be crying, it should be me.

“I lied because I didn’t think you’d believe me if I told the truth. And looks like that was an accurate assumption.” How could they not see the hypocrisy? Wanting the truth but not believing me when I gave it.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve already decided.” My father rubbed his temples and sipped his whiskey.

“Decided what?” I demanded.

“You’ll go to your aunt in New Providence, carry out the rest of your pregnancy there and when the babe comes your aunt and uncle can raise it. They’ve struggled to have one of their own for years.”

“I’m not carrying that monster’s child, and I will not be shipped off to an island in the middle of the goddamned ocean!”

“Language, Matilda,” my mother hissed as if this was the time for etiquette lessons.

“This isn’t a discussion, Matilda.” His voice was cold as ice and firm as stone.

Dear Lord, this was really happening.

That night I fell asleep thinking up harebrained escape ideas. I dreamed of running away and finally seeing blood on that annoyingly white linen. I was gutted when I woke up in the same bed, in the same house, with the same seed taking root inside me.

Chapter 4—On the Ship

My trunks had already been loaded onto the Evalina and now my father looked at me expectantly where we stood on the dock. The morning sun was just barely cresting the horizons and pelicans flew lazily above the river’s water. I had the sudden urge to dive in and join them.

Mabel stood sniffling, tucked under George’s arm. The way she was tearing up and him comforting her was almost like she was the one being shipped off to the middle of the bloody ocean.

“We’ll be praying for you, Tils,” she choked out before flinging her tear-streaked face into her husband’s doting chest. If only her prayers could turn back time and I could have never gone to that dinner party.

That damn dinner party.

That damn stable.

Damn Mabel and her good-for-nothing prayers. Damn Jonas, that giant of a man, for leaving me alone with him. Damn this thing growing inside me. Damn the devil who put it there. And damn anyone who sees me alone and with child on some godforsaken island.

I flung myself onto the dock, firmly planting a seat on the damp wood.

“Matilda!” My mother gasped at the horror of her daughter flopped down on the dirty planks. She’d never seen me as a proper lady, so why start trying now?

“I’m not getting on that ship or any other ship for that matter.” I crossed my arms and glared up at my family. “I’m not some farrowing sow to be shipped between farms.” I knew I was being belligerent. I was acting like a child who hadn’t yet learned how to process and express their emotions. Everything was roiling inside me, like a teapot about to scream. I’d been a loose cannon ever since that night. I used to be able to calmly talk my way out of anything and blow off my parent’s criticisms like they were dandelion seeds.

But not anymore. Now, I was in freefall with no bottom in sight.

“Matilda, your things have already been loaded and the Crosses have been most generous to provide free transport,” my father said, looking down at me like a cockroach he wanted to squish.

“They can be unloaded or taken to the Caribbean without me for all I care.”

Captain Cross came striding down the gangplank with Jonas and I directed my next comments to him. “And gratitude for the offer, Captain, but I will not be taking it.”

The captain looked much more amused than either of my parents. “Ye know the last woman to reluctantly board my ship ended up my bride,” he smirked.

“Seeing as that position’s already filled, you won’t be needing me.”

“Come, lass, ye’re own adventure awaits.” Was he seriously implying being raped and with child was an adventure? I had liked him previously, but any fondness was quickly fading.

“No.” If I was standing, I would have stomped my foot, no matter how immature it would look.

“Jonas,” he nodded to the big man. My eyes flitted between the two. Then Jonas dipped down and threw me over his shoulder like a goddamn sack of flour.

“Put me down, you great big oaf!” I swung my legs madly and pounded Jonas’s back with my fists.

Jonas was a pillar of muscle. Two heads taller than the average man and broad as a doorway, my protests seemed to have the same effect as a pesky mosquito.

First, Jonas leaves me with Abraham after hearing his “wicked intentions.” The giant bastard was twice Abraham’s size and could have easily stopped him if he wanted. But he didn’t. And now, he was carting me away like cargo. God, I am not looking forward to being stuck on a ship with this oaf.

I shot daggers at my parents from my dangling position as Jonas carried me up the gangplank, my arms and legs swinging.

_____

On the main deck, Sloane sat rocking her daughter who was sleeping in her arms. We were officially at sea, having left the mouth of the Neuse River an hour ago. Men shouted all around us on the deck, a cacophony of orders and naval terms I didn’t understand.

Now on open water, the big sail filled with air and the resulting speed made salty wind whip my face and howl in my ear.

Evie seemed blissfully unaware of all the noises around her, remaining steadfastly asleep. I thought I could hear her soft snores before they got swept away by the wind.

“I’m sorry for the way my husband dragged you onboard.” Sloane rolled her eyes. “You know, he also threatened to throw me over his shoulder the first time I met him.”

“Threatened? But he didn’t?”

“I eventually chose to walk myself. I don’t know what it is about men wanting to carry women onto ships over their shoulders.” She scoffed, “When I was first taken—by the mutineers—that’s how they got me on board too.”

It was the first time I’d heard Sloane herself talk about her kidnapping.

“I thought pirates took you?” I was eager to get out of my own worried thoughts and a firsthand account of the infamous story. I might as well enjoy this “adventure” as Captain Cross so rudely put it.

“Mutineers turned pirates. The worst days of my life led to my greatest days.” She smiled warmly down on Evie.

“I know you’re angry right now and probably hate every soul on this ship, but I know there are better days ahead for you.” Sloane was only a few years older than me, but she spoke like she had experienced enough for many lifetimes.

“Evie’s too adorable to hate,” I chuckled weakly, feeling itchy with the serious turn of the conversation.

“I don’t agree with the reasons your parents put you on this ship, but I do think the distance and time away from New Bern and the people and memories there will be good for you.”

“I hope you’re right.” Without thinking my hands dropped to my stomach, Sloane caught the movement.

“And I fear words can’t express how sorry I am for bringing that monster into your life.” That made a knot form in my stomach, both pained by the thought of him and overwhelmed that she believed me. “I know it’s little consolation, but before I kicked his arse onto the next ship out of town, I gave him a small parting gift . . . in the form of a broken nose.” That tugged at my lips. I wanted to laugh but thought I might cry if I did.

“I tried to fight him. I tried.” The hollow words were barely above a whisper.

“I have no doubt you did.” She laid a hand comfortingly on my knee. “And even if you didn’t, it still wouldn’t be your fault. You survived.”

“I tried to get rid of it too.” I don’t know why I was confessing all these things to her, but for some reason, I wanted Sloane to know I didn’t want this, that I fought back and tried to fix the situation myself. Maybe it was because she just seemed so strong. I admired that strength, and I wanted her to see it in me, too.

“Again, you survived. That’s all that matters.” Her eyes looked at me solemnly, and I couldn’t tell if it was with pity for my situation, or confidence I would get through it.

An idea popped into my head. Just because I lost the medicine woman’s herbs didn’t mean I lost my only opportunity.

“Sloane, can you help me with something?”

_____

“I’m no’ beatin’ a woman!” Captain Cross exclaimed.

“Elliot,” Sloane looked at him sternly, “We got her into this, we’re gonna get her out of this.”

“It might not even work. This is madness!” He shook his head and ran his fingers through his long hair. In New Bern, he always kept his hair in a low and tight plait. Once we took sail though, he’d let it down, loose and wild. He almost looked like a pirate.

“She’s asking you to, it’s not like you’re jumping her in a dark alley.” The captain’s hesitancy was giving me time to rethink my decision. Maybe I could wait until we landed and find a physician in Nassau.

No, no, this needed to happen as soon as possible.

Guilt was already starting to nibble at me in quiet moments alone, but I knew, I knew, this was the right decision.

I’d already been through hell, what was a little more pain?

“If you won’t do it, I’ll find another man who will. I have plenty of options.” I made eye contact with him. I needed him to know how serious I was. This was happening with or without him.

“Alright, alright.” He threw his hands in the air. “I’ll go fetch two men to hold ye.”

The captain returned a few minutes later with two men. They both scanned the cabin in curiosity. I wondered if this was the first time they’d been in the captain’s quarters. It certainly was a step up from the cramped quarters where the crew hung their hammocks. Candle sconces shaped like shells lined the walls and a large window let in natural light, a rarity below deck.

“Let’s get this over with.” I sighed and stuck my elbows out at my sides with conviction. The two men, both red-faced and sweaty from working on deck, grabbed an arm each.

“How many times you gotta do it, Cap’n?” one asked and the captain looked at me for the answer.

“Until I can’t take it any longer. Avoid my ribs if you can.”

Everyone looked uneasy. The two men eyed me with confused fascination. I braced myself and nodded at the captain.

Pow.

The first punch knocked all the wind out of me, but the men didn’t have to hold me up. I’d stayed upright on my own two feet. The captain looked at me apologetically.

“Again. But harder. If we’re going to do this, you better give it your all.”

He sighed before winding up for another punch to my stomach. This one sent me shooting back and doubling over wheezing. This time, without the men holding me up, I would have been a crumpled ball on the floor.

“Good,” I coughed out, “again.”

And he plowed his fist into me again. And again, and again, and again. With each sucker punch, I lost more of my ability to hold my weight. My breaths felt strained but precious as each blow sucked all air from my lungs.

When I was hanging like a rag doll the captain stopped.

“That’s enough,” he said.

“I can take more, I can.” My head hung limp and I was surprised I could even form words through my ragged breathing.

“Ye canna stand, lass. If this doesna do it, more willna either. Only serve ye more pain. Take her to her bunk,” he said to the men, “And Sloane, if ye’ll go with her too? If she needs anything, ye’ll know where to get it.”

“Of course.” I heard Sloane’s answer followed by the men’s muttered, “Cap’n,” but kept my eyes closed as nausea began to replace the pain.

They remained firmly shut as I felt myself being carried, my feet dragging against the floorboards. Someone who had been waiting outside the cabin held the door open as I was dragged through it. My shoe snagged on a loose board, and I jostled in their arms.

“I gotcha now,” a friendly voice said before scooping me up in their arms like a babe. I knew the voice but couldn’t place it. I was too wrecked to think straight. Whoever it was though, I felt safe in their arms and was grateful for the small comfort.

_____

The cramping started the following morning. It was a terrible splitting pain that tore at my insides. But with the pain came blood and with blood came relief.

Sloane, who’d volunteered to sleep in the bunk across from me in the cramped berth, left to fetch a bucket. She returned with not one bucket, but three, the young boy from the dinner party carting two of them.

I couldn’t recall his name, though I remembered thinking it was strange when I heard it. My attempts to remember his name were cut short as another wave of cramps came crashing through me and I doubled over. Of course, because I wasn’t in enough pain already, I banged my head on the hardwood of the top bunk less than a foot above me.

“Bloody hell,” I hissed.

“This just isn’t your day, huh?” Sloane said, gingerly helping me roll out of the bunk.

“It’s not my year,” I grumbled.

“A bucket for you to squat over and . . . eliminate into.” I winced at the description as Sloane explained her system. “Then cold water to drink and to keep cool if you get feverish, and lastly hot water so we can soak cloth in and wrap it around your abdomen to soothe your muscles.”

“You thought of everything, thank you.” And I meant it, her kindness and support this whole time had been the one shred of light I could hold onto.

_____

The whole process was terrible. It hurt much worse than the blows and lasted much longer. I was certain my intestines had been twisted and forced out of me.

At times in my delirium of pain, I was convinced I was being punished. Punished for kissing boys I had no intention of marrying. Punished for being a lustful fool leading Abraham into that barn. And most of all, punished for what I’d just done.

I never looked into the bucket. I couldn’t look.

A friend once described her miscarriage like an ax murder. I knew this would be a decision I’d carry with me for the rest of my life and didn’t want any mental images haunting my memory.

When the pains finally stopped, I felt like a soiled rag wrung out a hundred times. Once everyone left, buckets in tow, I crawled into bed and cried. I cried for what was and what could have been.

Chapter 5—Escort

By the time we arrived in Nassau’s port a few days later, I felt as if I’d been sent through a grain mill ten times over. My abdomen was bruised with unpleasant shades of aubergine and faded yellow. Along with that, I was still spotting and occasionally would get cramps that racked through me like a bolt of lightning.

Two days from port, we’d hit a rough patch of stomach-churning waves. I couldn’t keep anything down—not that I had much appetite anyway—my stomach a howled with a combination of hunger and nausea.

Finally, back on solid ground, I gathered in a beachside tavern with Sloane and Elliot. And Jonas, who seemed oblivious to my scowls from across the table. I didn’t think things could get any worse. But then Sloane informed me Jonas would be escorting me to my aunt’s estate in the island interior.

Jonas smiled at me dumbly and I erupted.

“Just really rubbing salt into the wound! I’ll go by myself, it can’t be much more than a day’s journey. I don’t need him. I’m probably safer without the great big oaf anyway.” Elliot gave a wide-eyed Jonas a curt nod, dismissing him from the table. Presumably to deal with my outburst sans offending character.

“I know ye’ve had it rough as of late, but Jonas will see no more harm come to ye. I trust him with my life.” Two storm gray eyes narrowed in on me and I felt so small, like a child scared in the dark. How did Sloane bear his intensity all the time?

“I’m not scared of danger on the road. It’s him I can’t stand.” Both Sloane and Elliot jolted their heads back at my admission.

“Aye, he’s a bit dim sometimes, but he’s got the biggest heart of anyone I know,” Elliot said, and all I could do was scoff. His eyes shifted from me to Jonas standing at the bar across the room. “Tell us what’s on yer mind, lass.”

“He didn’t rape me himself, but he might as well have.” My chest tightened with anger and pain. “Abraham told Jonas what he was going to do, and Jonas just laughed. He laughed. And left me with him.”

A rowdy pair of men came busting into the tavern, swaying drunk, and bumped into our table. They reeked of sour drink and stale body odor. I shouted them away, annoyed and appalled, but Sloane and Elliot just stared silently at each other, seemingly lost in thought.

I was exhausted, roiled up and desperate for a minute alone after sharing a ship with a few doezen foul-smelling men. If our new table guests were any indication, I wouldn’t get any peace and quiet down here, so I left to get some fresh air.

I heard Sloane call after me, but I didn’t turn around.

_____

Elliot ran in zigzags barefoot through the sand, chasing a squealing Evie. Their long hair flew in the wind; Evie’s, the color of the sand, was a stark contrast to Elliot’s dark mane.

Elliot caught up to his daughter and scooped her up, spinning her around. She laughed in utter delight. The sound of a child’s giggle never affected me like this before. I was suddenly picturing Evie with black hair and mossy green eyes like me. My heart warmed at the thought of listening to my own child’s joyful squeals and I felt a tugging in my empty womb.

But just as quickly as that flash of a happy future came, it was replaced by ice running through my veins when a sickening voice whispered in my mind: thanks for the ride, love.

Sloane approached her husband, arms outstretched for the girl. Evie turned into her father’s chest and buried her face. Sloane took her from his arms while she called for Papa.

“Yes, yes, I know Mama is no fun,” Sloane cooed, “but would a biscuit with honey make it better?”

“Hub-ee!” Evie instantly lit up, bouncing up and down on Sloane’s hip.

Sloane turned to Elliot, “Go see Tillie off and when you return you can clean all the sticky honey off your daughter. Since you’re the reason the bribe was needed at all.” She smirked smugly.

Pretending to look offended, Elliot said, “Aye, but is bathing the babes no’ a woman’s job?”

“Not this woman.” She grinned back and he, smiling too, bent down to kiss her once on the lips and his daughter on the top of her head. Would I ever experience a love like that? A sinking inkling in my gut told me I wouldn’t.

I was already thought of as the town whore. What half-decent man would want to make me his bride? It seemed all I was good for was a hole to be filled then left in a pile of hay.

“Alright, let’s get to it, aye? Jonas shoulda loaded yer things on the ass by now.”

I followed Elliot from the beach through the bustling city center. Vendors hawked their wares—everything from baskets to seashell artwork, to knife sharpening and fresh fish.

I’d grown fond of the noisy and semi-chaotic beach town after a couple of days in port. I could drift seamlessly into the anonymity of the streets. No one knew me or why I had visited the medicine woman. I would miss that in the interior, but hopefully the quiet of my aunt’s estate would provide another kind of solace.

Coming to the outskirts of the city and the dusty dirt road that ran out of the city, I saw Jonas under a banana tree. He was nearly as tall as the tree. An ass was loaded with my trunks next to the largest horse I’d ever seen.

It stood twenty hands tall with a chest as broad as a small sail ship. An exceptionally large saddle, clearly custom-made to fit Jonas, sat on its back. Long hair draped over the hooves and his thick powerful tail mindlessly swatted at flies, unaware of how extraordinary he was.

Elliot offered his hands as a step for me to mount a normal-sized horse, then handed me a small sack. “Provisions—cheese, bread, and a few of those bananas Jonas is so fond of.”

As if perfectly timed, I looked to Jonas who was plucking three bananas off a cluster in the tree. His one hand easily closed around all three at a time. I pictured those big hands closing around Abraham’s neck instead, a vice grip solid as stone. Jonas could have stopped him with a single flick of his finger. And I would never forgive him for not doing so.

“’Nana, m’lady?” He held one out to me from his seat on the giant horse. His eyes were round and childlike, the same pale blue that babes were born with before the hardness of the world darkens them.

“No, thank you,” I scowled at him. “I’ve seemed to have lost my appetite.” I was actually quite hungry and enjoyed the strange fruit when I tried it for the first time yesterday. Sometimes I really resented my stubborn nature. Jonas shrugged off my comment, not catching the slight, and gleefully peeled the fruit.

“Ye’ll stay this road ‘til ye meet the village at Lake Killarney,” Elliot spoke to Jonas, “From there, just ask someone for directions to the McEvoy estate. She’s been through a lot, Jonas.” He lowered his voice, but I could still hear him. “Keep her safe, aye?”

“Aye, Cap’n. She’ll have the protection of my sword and body and if necessary, m’life,” Jonas responded seriously. His sobering promise sent a chill down my spine. But he was giving his word to his captain, not me. And he’d already failed me once, I reminded myself.

“Off with ye,” Elliot smacked the rump of Jonas’s horse who whinnied and took off at a trot dragging the ass with it.

“Sloane will make a visit to ye,” Elliot promised before I also spurred my horse into motion.

Chapter 6—The Mountain Path

The Caribbean sun was brutal without shade and apparently, most of our route was barren of any protection. I squinted against the glare and shouted to Jonas a few paces ahead of me, “Is there no road with any shade? I’m going to be a shriveled mass of leather by the time we reach my aunt.”

“I dinna think that possible, m’lady,” he said with genuine surprise.

“Well, of course, it’s not. It was a hyperbole.”

“A hype – what?”

“A hyperbole. When you say something exaggerated, but everyone knows it’s not meant to be taken literally.” God, this man’s brain must be a small walnut in his big head.

“I know a path through the mountains, but it’s riddled with brigands. Best not take ye there.”

“I don’t care if it gets us out of this ungodly heat.” I scanned his thick arms and broad shoulders bulging with muscles like the horse. “Plus, you look like you could take on ten normal-sized men.”

“It’s no’ me I’m worried ‘bout, mistress.”

“We are doing it,” I decided. I didn’t like how unfazed I was by the potential danger. I guess I already hated my body enough that the thought of coming to bodily harm felt like rightful punishment.

_____

The mountain path was not only much cooler but much more exciting. Colorful birds and invisible insects filled the air with their chatter. Everything was lush and beautiful.

We stopped to eat at a small clearing with a stream to water the horses. We ate in silence. Jonas didn’t appear to be the chatty type, which suited me just fine. But I did find it fascinating to watch him. I’d stared at his back for hours on the road, but there was so much to observe sitting close to him.

His blond curls hung slack with sweat and he would blow them off his eyes periodically—like the horse swatting flies with its tail. I expected a man of his size to pound the earth with each step like a bison, but he moved with surprising grace. I watched as he squatted down to drink from the stream and removed his shirt to soak it in the cool water.

I nearly gasped at the sight. His back was a patchwork of scars. Some were thin, long stripes, clearly from a lashing. I’d seen similar ones on slaves in New Bern and it always made my stomach churn. Others, though, were thick and varied in size and shape. What hadn’t this man been struck or stabbed with? He looked as if a butcher had tested all his different carving knives on his back.

As if he could feel my gaze burn, he spun around and instantly apologized.

“What are you apologizing for?”

“My scars, it’s nothin’ a lady like yerself should have to see.” He moved to put his shirt back on and I noticed more scars littered his chest, visible through the thin smattering of blond hair.

I stepped toward him, inexplicably compelled to make him at ease as his eyes shifted ashamedly. His body told his story, and he didn’t need to hide that. I pulled his shirt down as he lifted his arms to put it back on.

“I don’t mind. If you’re more comfortable without it on.” He looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Lord knows I’d shed this bulky dress in a heartbeat if it was acceptable.” He blushed and I couldn’t help but laugh at making this clearly battle-tested man flush like a boy.

“Oh, don’t be a prude, it’s not like I’m actually going to do it.”

Turning even redder, he mumbled a short m’um and hesitatingly nodded, but lowered his shirt.

A round, knotted scar, nearly a perfect circle sat in the nook of his collar bone. Unthinking, I pressed the pad of my thumb against it, admiring the symmetry of it among the tangled lines of his other scars.

“How did you—” A high-pitch whizz rushed by me as my cheek suddenly stung with heat. With barely more than a discontented grunt, Jonas wrapped his fist around the arrow now protruding from his shoulder. He didn’t even make a sound as he tore it from his flesh and unsheathed the blade at his hip.

“Hit the ground, m’lady!”

White-hot panic coursed through me as my mind raced to make sense of what was happening. Dropping to the ground, I laid facedown, hands groping for anything I could use to defend myself, a stone or branch.

Blood wetted my cheek from where the flying arrow grazed me. A clash of metal, moans of pain, and the dull thumping of flesh pounding flesh echoed above me. The body of a man I didn’t recognize fell next to me, gurgling and choking through a slit throat.

I screamed and jumped to my feet, my eyes rapidly taking in the scene. Another man lay dead or unconscious by the stream. Jonas was bleeding from his shoulder and sported a fresh cut on his cheekbone but was still fighting three men at the same time.

How the hell did this happen? One moment we were picnicking by the water and the next, Jonas is ripping arrows from his body.

The men were much smaller than Jonas, even a bit too thin, their shoulders just bony mounds. But they fought with lithe speed, like a cornered animal. Their attacks weren’t smooth and coordinated like Jonas’s as he wielded his sword and fist. Instead they looked like a frantic and chaotic swinging mess of spindly limbs.

I was so distracted trying to follow everyone’s movements, looking for a way I could help, that I didn’t notice the man by the river had gotten up until he was right behind Jonas swinging a fat log.

As the log hit his head, Jonas’s eyes flew wide open before drooping shut and he collapsed, knocked out in the dirt.

My mind screamed at me to run, but my body didn’t respond. It was as if the jungle vines wrapped around me, rooting me to the spot. The man sworn to protect me was now out cold on the ground . . . maybe even dead.

“Get the wench!”

I screamed as arms wrapped around me, hoisting me off the ground. Finally, my body started listening to me and I kicked madly, squirming desperately like a fish out of water.

“Tie her legs,” the man holding me shouted. His breath smelled of rotten meat.

Another man began to tie a rope around my calves. Once secured, I was dropped on my face. My hands were forced behind my back and bound too. My cheek smashed into the wet earth; I could still hear the soft babbling stream. The sound gave me a moment’s calm to gather my senses.

I didn’t yell or scream for help—that didn’t save me last time— just fought with everything I had.

But it wasn’t enough. Again.

Chapter 7—Gladiator Island

My head smacked against the wood siding of the cart with each bump in the road. I’ll have a wicked bump tomorrow . . . if I live that long.

I was trussed up like a pig for slaughter in the bed of a cart. They had blindfolded me but there really wasn’t a point, I would have no idea where I was or where they were taking me even if I could see.

I did however know that we were back on a hot and dusty road. My blindfold was soaked with sweat and the salt stung my eyes, and with each gust of wind I found myself choking on a cloud of dust. If I thought I was miserable before, what I assumed was the high noon sun was ten times worse.

I don’t know if it was because I was totally depleted of panic and fear, my body having spent it all, but I was annoyed rather than fearful bouncing around in the back of this damn cart.

I knew it wasn’t rational to be annoyed with Jonas. He didn’t see the log coming, I mean even I didn’t see it and I wasn’t single-handedly fighting off three men. But I was annoyed still.

The men left him on the ground in the jungle. I didn’t even know if he was still alive yet, and I was annoyed that he abandoned me again. All that talk of keeping me safe and seeing no harm come to me . . . well, look at me now.

I should be angry, terrified, a blubbering mess of emotions, but for some bizarre reason all I felt was irritation. The same kind as when Mabel stole my favorite dress and then spilled a glass of wine down the bodice. Ruined dresses didn’t seem comparable to being kidnapped. It was illogical. Was my brain trying to protect me from a flood of emotions that would undoubtedly crush me if I gave into them?

A guttural scream pulled me from my own psychoanalysis. The cart stopped moving. A new weight shook the cart, and I wriggled my nose and forehead like a madwoman trying to move the blindfold. A cool, sharp edge met my throat and finally I felt something other than annoyance. Honest-to-God fear.

The blindfold was ripped off and I winced at the blinding sun. Through blinks and adjusting sight, I saw Jonas standing like a monolith, arms raised. A brigand’s body bleeding out in front of him.

“Alright, alright.” He dropped his blade, and it rang out as the metal landed on rocks.

The knife at my throat dug deeper. “Try to be a hero one more time and yer lassie here gets a wee cut throat.” Wee cut throat? This man was sick in the head, talking about slashing my throat like it was just a wee bobby.

“So, if ye’d like this pretty head,” he stroked my hair and I wanted to gag, “to stay attached to her neck, ye’ll put this over yer head and let Skully here tie ye up without a fuss.” An empty burlap sack was thrown at Jonas’s feet.

Skully reminded me of the rats that come pouring out of rubbish piles when kicked. His eyes were beady, and his hair was scraggly. He seemed to dart with every movement, like he was incapable of doing anything with nonchalance.

The man didn’t remove the knife from my throat until Jonas was fully bound in the bed of the cart with the sack pulled down over his face.

“Glad to see you got the invitation,” I said sardonically as the cart once again began to move.

“What invitation?” Jonas asked and I could perfectly picture his clueless expression under the sack.

“Oh, never mind.”

_____

Twenty more minutes in the cart and one ride in a rowboat later, we were arriving on the rocky shore of an isolated island. From where I stood by the water, it looked totally primitive and uninhabited. If it weren’t for the other rowboats lined up, I would have assumed we were all alone.

A thick forest loomed ahead, imposing and ominous, sending an involuntary shiver through me. This is where people come to die.

There was something so unforgiving about the way the dense vegetation swallowed the sunlight making it look like night under its canopy. I had the distinct impression that if I entered the forest, I wouldn’t ever leave it again.

I heard the rustling first, then an opening in the tree line began shaking. Someone or something was coming.

I looked around for Jonas. He was being led out of the boat, still hooded. He stumbled over an oar and Skully pushed him the rest of the way down to all fours. It looked like Skully was going to drive his point home and drew his foot back for a kick but froze when the rustling broke through the trees.

All three men snapped to attention, arms at their sides, heads lowered, backs straight. It was alarming to see them fall into line after they acted like rabid mutts capturing us. The newcomer rode atop a white stallion clothed in a weird draping fabric, almost like a dress. Two guards in shiny gold chest plates and . . .  loin cloths? stood on either side of him. One carried a large golden staff topped with the likeness of an eagle in flight.

Am I dreaming? Am I dead and this is the entrance to heaven. Or is it hell?

“Dominus.” The apparent leader of the brigands stepped forward.

Dominus . . .

Dominus. I know that word. Latin. It was Latin for Master. Why were they calling him that and why in Latin?

“We got ye a woman prettier than the last one, like ye asked.”

Suddenly the two guards lunged forward, and I spun around to find Jonas taking advantage of the distraction the newcomers arrival provided.

Skully’s eyes bulged, his face turned purple and twisted, his feet dangling, desperately flailing in search of ground. Jonas had hooked his bound hands around the man’s neck and was strangling him, hoisted off the ground by his neck.

The armored guards ran toward him, unsheathing their swords. My breath caught when they swung with powerful precision at him. Jonas used Skully’s dying body as a shield and the guard’s sword gutted the man.

Everything moved so fast, the two dirty men who took us didn’t even have time to join the fight. Jonas struggled with his hands still bound, but still got in a few blows, which I’m sure hurt just as much as if he weren’t tied up. But he was too disadvantaged and ended up on his knees, breathing heavy with a sword to his neck.

Jonas met my eyes and I hated that I couldn’t do anything. He didn’t look scared. More disappointed than anything, and I wanted to run to him despite all my feelings against him. But, when the commotion broke out, the head brigand had grabbed hold of my arms and was doing a great job of keeping me from going to Jonas.

He could have left me with the brigands, but instead, he chased them down and went into a terribly outnumbered fight—again—for me.

The guard swung his sword back, aimed for Jonas’s neck and I’m ashamed to admit I turned my head. I couldn’t even watch, like a damn coward. I couldn’t even give Jonas the smallest bit of peace of looking into my eyes as he died.

“Stop!” All heads turned to the man on the horse. “Gerald, where are the rest of your men?” he demanded of the man holding me.

“Um, err . . .” he bumbled like a fool caught with his pants down.

“Dead. They’re all dead,” I answered for him. I took a gamble, having caught a slight air of admiration when the man asked about the missing men. This man liked strong men and Jonas was certainly that.

“Jonas killed all of them himself, and if he wasn’t tied up, he would have killed your guards too.”

The master dismounted his steed and walked over toward Jonas, who was still on his knees. “Hmm . . . I could use a man like you, Jonas.” He lifted Jonas’s chin to look at him, but Jonas shook out of his grip with a grunt. The wound on his shoulder from the arrow had reopened, a murky red twisted around his bicep, a stream of blood, sweat, and dirt.

“You’re going to make a fine champion,” the man said coolly. “Welcome to Gladiator Island.”

Suddenly everything clicked, the eagle standard, the draping tunic and loincloths, Dominus.

I’d learned about the gladiators of ancient Rome in my tutoring lessons. They were beasts of men who fought until death in creatively gruesome ways for the entertainment and sick enjoyment of the public and nobility. The forest truly did deliver death.

“And you, my beautiful dove—” He drew closer to me, and I studied his face. He was older, but not weathered like the men who work the land—he came from wealth. The white tufts of hair that circled his head and a sharp nose reminded me of a white egret. But the predatory nature of his gaze reminded me of Abraham and my heart pounded instinctively.

He came so close to my face I could feel his breath and hear him inhale my scent. I turned my head trying to escape his hot breath on my cheek. To my utter disgust, he flicked his tongue out and licked a slick trail up my cheek.

“You sick, bastard!” I whipped my head around and headbutted him as hard as I could. He stumbled back, clutching his nose with an unsettling grin on his face.

“Ah, yes, you’ll be a fun one indeed,” he sneered at me. “Take her for breaking in.” He spoke now to Gerald, “And don’t be merciful. I want her ready by the games in two days.”

“If ye lay a hand on her, be prepared to lose it,” Jonas roared, elbowing the guard behind him as he jumped up.

“If she’s not earning coin on her back, how is she ever supposed to buy her freedom?” Dominus asked and I felt sick realizing what breaking in meant. A body to be used and abused. I was to be a whore.

Jonas didn’t answer but clenched his jaw, and I could tell from his puffed-out chest that his breathing had accelerated. He looked on the verge of another outburst and I worried Dominus would not be as forgiving this time.

“As soon as you two stepped on this island, you became a slave of the House of Caligula.” Caligula, the Mad Emperor, I recalled from my lessons, known for his insane cruelty and perversions. If this man was assuming the name, it was no accident. “And thus, you are now property with a price. Should you survive long enough to earn enough, can buy your freedom. And you, big man, I expect you’ll earn lots of coin in the arena.”

“Then I will buy her freedom,” Jonas said. “But ye must promise she’ll be no man’s whore. I’ll fight as many men as ye like, kill ’em too, but ye’ll no’ touch a hair on her head.” I wanted to scream at Jonas to not make a deal with this devil, but words seemed trapped in my throat, my tongue unmoved.

“And what’s to stop me from locking her away and letting every man take his turn while you’re tied up on the other side of this island?” My heart went from pounding to still as death. He was right, nothing could stop him. And seeing he was likely insane—re-enacting ancient Rome on this Caribbean island—and probably had a small army of guards, the idea of him keeping his word seemed slim.

“I’ll kill yer men,” Jonas said stone-faced, the ringlets framing his face were the only softness that remained among his boyish features. “More of ’em than I already have.”

“You will be signing your own death warrant if you do that,” Dominus scoffed.

“Mayhap, but I’ll take as many of ’em with me as I can.”

Dominus howled with crazy laughter, slapping Jonas on the back as if comrades. “Deal! You have a deal, big man.” He started back to his horse and the tree line, signaling his men to do the same.

“How exciting, this will be a grand time,” I heard him mutter to himself like a madman. So, I followed them into the forest, wondering if I was just as mad for not resisting.

Copyright © 2022 Summer O’Toole.

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Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.