Celtic Mist Ch. 14

His torso wrenched, and rasping breaths were audible from the compression of the band about his neck. He kicked and pushed against the floor with his tethered feet as the pair crouched and grabbed at his lower legs. One ankle was dragged aside and buckled to the sturdy chair leg with a rough jerk of a leather cuff that was fastened to the wood. Then they loosed the rope connecting his legs and drew his other resisting limb to the opposite chair leg, cuffing it fast so that his ankles were fixed some two feet apart.

Michael watched in mounting agitation. She had noted the chair during her initial survey of the room, but apart from thinking that the heavy, carved, uncushioned object looked dismally uncomfortable, she had not appreciated the refinements that were now being employed.

Blaylock observed the proceedings with satisfaction. The victim fully restrained, the soldiers straightened and took up positions on either side of the chair. Blaylock stood before Declan and looked down at him, his dark blue eyes glinting. "Of all the interrogations I have conducted, I anticipate this one being the most gratifying of all...your suffering sweetened by our long personal connection."

One arm was folded on his chest, and a finger of the other hand tapped upon his chin as he considered Declan. "But where to begin the repast, eh? So many delightful targets from which to choose --- eyeballs, ears, teeth, fingernails, ballocks."

Blaylock appeared to arrive at a decision for he curtly barked, "Shirt!"

One of the men bent over Declan and tore open his white linen shirt, yanking it aside under the leather strap. Between the widespread edges of his coat, Declan's torso was bared --- one leather band at his throat, one about his chest, below the nipples.

Blaylock's and Declan's eyes fixed upon each other. A sly smile lifted the corners of Blaylock's mouth. "Notwithstanding the fact that it has been eleven years now, I do in fact remember your mother...fine Brigid Muldowney," he said in a musing tone. "I was fresh in my career then --- with your lovely mother I first experienced the pleasure to be had in choking a woman as you fuck her...of the glorious, helpless spasms of a woman's cunt in her dying throes. Take heart, I daresay your mother was enjoying it as much as I was."

Declan snarled and shook in his bonds, the chair quaking against the floor. Blaylock laughed. Inside the wall, Michael's fist clenched tight upon the pistol handle, and her eyes stung with fury.

Blaylock had returned to the fireplace and now pulled out the poker. No, not a poker --- 'twas a branding iron! At the end of the iron stake was a red, glowing brand in the shape of the king's crown. He crossed the room to stand again before Declan with the iron pointing at his breast. "First, he needs to be reminded who his master is."

By God! She must do something! Think! Think!

The red-hot iron inched closer to Declan's chest, and he heaved back, rocking the chair.

"Usually, I invite my guests to persuade me to desist with the offering up of information, but in your case, we can dispense with that mummery and proceed directly to the entertainment," Blaylock commented, one cheek creasing with his half-smile.

Declan's gaze faltered not as he growled, "Fuck you."

Blaylock leant closer with the iron. The chair legs thumped and rattled. "Hold the chair," he ordered. The two soldiers braced their weight on the oak arms.

Oh God! No! No! Blaylock's back was towards her hiding place, and the soldiers were intent upon their task. Her left hand slid the latch, and her right thumb cocked the pistol. Don't think! Don't think! She pulled the panel open --- her right hand immediately leveled the gun at Blaylock's back, and her finger squeezed the trigger.

Fire shot from the flashpan and muzzle. BLAAAMM!!!

*****

There was a deafening explosion and flash of light --- the wooden chair collapsed sideways under him. What the Devil?! Lying on his side on the floor in the broken chair, Declan saw Blaylock in one motion whirl and fling the branding iron in the direction of the desk behind him. The red glowing iron flew end over end and thunked into something near the wall. There was a short groan and a small figure fell to the floor. Someone else was in the room --- someone unexpected!

Declan seized the distraction to flail against his bonds as he lay yet bound to the chair. "Secure him!" Blaylock snapped, leaping towards the wall. The two soldiers dropped to their knees and reclaimed his upper arms, whilst Declan's legs wrenched up and down. As near as he could tell, a gunshot had smashed the bracing of the chair on the left side, for his left ankle could kick almost freely, although the leather cuff still bound it to the broken chair leg in which the front cross rung was affixed.

The remainder of the chair understructure twisted and creaked as his other leg strained. The soldiers pulled at his arms. With a few sharp jerks of his feet, the other front chair leg snapped off --- his legs were free of the chair but were still cuffed to the broken legs and held apart by the sturdy two-foot-long cross rung.

Over by the wall, Blaylock had hauled up the fallen intruder by the coat collar and was dragging the dazed, staggering figure towards the desk. As the soldiers lifted him by the arms, Declan's torso heaved backwards, momentarily escaping their hands and cracking the chair back from the seat. They collared him again, yanking him to his feet with the chair back still bound to him by the leather straps, and his feet braced apart by the rung and the splintered chair legs.

Declan at once lifted his feet, dropping his full weight on their unprepared hands --- he slammed to the floor and the chair back split lengthwise under him. When they again stood him up, the strap round his chest had torn free from its moorings in the wood, but that about his neck grew tighter under the full weight of the broken chair back hanging from it.

"Loose him!" Blaylock barked as Declan began wheezing. "I want him alive!"

One soldier sawed at the leather band with his dagger and within moments the pieces of the chair back clattered to the floor. Firmly now did the Yeos hold him upright, drawing their pistols with their free hands and pointing them at him.

Catching his breath, Declan saw that Blaylock had brought the intruder into the light of the candelabra at the front of the desk, some ten feet away from where he stood between the soldiers.

Michael!

Shite! Shite! He could see that her breathing was labored --- she had been injured somehow. Even in Blaylock's instantaneous reaction to the gunshot, he had hurled the branding iron with astonishing accuracy at its source.

Declan stared at her in dismay --- the night had become one calamity after the other, starting with the unexpected pair of Yeomen emerging from the carriage house just as he had run from the shadow of the stable to the cluster of barrels. They had shouted for the guards, and the four men had subdued and disarmed him.

And now both he and Aoife were at Blaylock's mercy!

She began to struggle against Blaylock's grip on her arm, wildly yanking her dagger from its sheath with her other hand. But his free hand easily restrained her forearm and smacked her wrist against the edge of the desk till she dropped the weapon.

That large hand now closed round her neck, lifting her off her feet by the chin and holding her fast with the back of her thighs against the edge of the desk. Her limbs flailed as she tried to strike and kick him, then claw at his hand, but when Blaylock drew his pistol and pointed it at her head, she ceased her attack, her breath rasping from his constriction of her neck.

"The dirty little boot black?!" he jeered. He glanced towards a dark, open rectangle in the wainscoting, then snorted. "So, you fancy yourself a spy, do you?" His head swung towards Declan. "One of your rebel comrades? A joint mission?"

Declan had been struggling to control his face, but evidently without complete success, for Blaylock's dark blue eyes narrowed and he pronounced slowly, "No...no mere comrade, 'twould seem." Still marking Declan's face, he cocked the pistol next to Michael's head. Declan tensed in the grasp of the soldiers.

There was a loud rapping at the hall door, and when Blaylock called, "Enter," Declan heard behind him what sounded like three different voices inquiring about the gunshot and asking if all was well with the Colonel. "An interrogation is in progress; all is under control," Blaylock replied and dismissed them.

Blaylock resumed his scrutiny of Michael, roughly rotating her face towards the candlelight. "Who is this lad to you to warrant such concern in your countenance?"

"He's my boot black," Declan said. The soldier on his right started laughing, but quickly smothered it.

Michael's breathing grew ragged under Blaylock's compressing hand. "A brother? No. A cousin? I think not." He flipped the cap from her head.

The pale blue of her irises was nigh replaced by her expanded pupils as her eyes defiantly met Blaylock's. He released her neck. As her feet hit the floor, he jerked free the ribbon holding her hair back. His fingers twined in her loosed hair, twisting at the crown of her head and drawing up till she winced in pain --- then he let go. Her brown hair was a disheveled mop about her pale face.

The next moment he cupped the front of her breeches and vigorously delved between her legs --- she writhing and leaning away. She yelped. A grin overspread his face and he dropped his hand. Deep in Blaylock's chest, a low chuckle rose as she glared at him.

The chuckle rumbled louder and erupted in a harsh laugh. "Aoife O'Farrell," he said at last. "The girl with a face as lovely as her cunt and arsehole...as if I would forget. And the skittish little seamstress Kitty McDonnell at the dressmaker's shop!" He shook his head. "I tip my hat to you. Several times now have we crossed paths and I was none the wiser."

With the muzzle of his pistol, he flicked back a lock of her hair. "'Tis truly remarkable, what you've done to that scarlet mane. I do hope you haven't done the same to that fiery little snatch of yours...'tis one of your most tempting charms."

Her pale eyes blazed at him.

"Ah, yes, those strange witch eyes! Let me guess: you want revenge as well?"

Blaylock now turned to Declan. "One's first supposition would be that you two are in alliance, but you truly were unhappily surprised to see her, weren't you? Which leads to the inescapable conclusion that you are each here on your own --- independently seeking vengeance. What a diverting coincidence! Indeed, I am honored by your attentions."

His mocking eyes traveled between them. "Perhaps you should have coordinated your efforts, and you would have enjoyed more success."

All calmness, Blaylock crossed to a table near the fireplace and poured a measure of liquor from a crystal decanter into a goblet. With the pistol in one hand and the glass in the other he returned to his position half-way between them: Aoife standing, gripping the edge of the desk behind her, and Declan standing between the soldiers with his hands bound against his back and the chair rung yet strapped to his ankles. He and she both stared at Blaylock.

"Well lads, you're in for a treat tonight," Blaylock said to his soldiers. "An evening which had originally promised nothing save the penning of tedious letters has now taken a most rewarding turn." He drank, then gestured towards Aoife with the glass. "My frustrated plan to add this girl to the catalogue of my conquests has long rankled me."

Behind his back, Declan again tested the binding of his hands. After they had first bound them, he had ascertained that it was a sturdy hemp rope, a half inch thick, and secured with multiple turns round and between his wrists. The knot was out of reach of his fingers. During the scuffle with the broken chair, there had been a shift in the binding, and he was now able to wriggle his hands a little.

Blaylock addressed Aoife. "Your sister was a fine fuck, with her big paps bouncing about...although, when put to it, I must say the pleasure was primarily to be found in her exquisite torment, for the actual fucking was a bit on the tame side. But you ---" He cocked a taunting eyebrow. "You offer a rare challenge: a spirit --- the conquering of which will bring a supreme thrill. 'Twas evident from the first and was confirmed when you stood stripped naked, and I perceived the fight in your nimble body."

He stepped before her, looking down into her eyes. "Oh yes, Aoife O'Farrell...my recall is so detailed that I yet see you before me as you were at our last meeting: naked and spread on the table with your cunt and arsehole open for all to see." He grinned at her.

Declan saw the color rise in Aoife's cheeks, even as his own grew hot with rage. He twisted his hands within the subtly loosening ropes as he fidgeted side to side to distract the soldiers from the flexing of his arm muscles.

With a flick of his wrist, Blaylock downed his drink. "I am all eagerness to begin the battle, little vixen --- to feel you fighting inch after inch as I plough your little cunt open." He stroked her flaming cheek with the gun muzzle. "What is this? The blush of innocence? Are you virgin still?"

He faced Declan. "Quickfist! Did you not even claim your reward after all you endured to rescue her?"

Declan gazed at him steadily but said nothing.

Blaylock shook his head at him in exaggerated disappointment. "There's the face of a mawkish chub if ever I saw one. Well, your cravenness only means more is the gratification for me, for the brutal triumph over a reluctant maidenhead is one of my particular joys." He winked. "You lads can mount her next."

The two soldiers grinned and said in unison, "Yes, sir!"

"To force poor Declan to watch will be the most sublime torture we can inflict upon him, I warrant." Blaylock picked up the candelabra and crossed to the fireplace to set it upon the table next to the decanter. Declan urgently worked his hands behind his back.

Aoife's eyes were darting round the room as well as about her feet. She was searching for her dropped dagger, Declan realized, and he tried to signal her with his eyes that it was behind her on the rug under the desk. But she did not seem to comprehend him --- instead he made a subtle but pointed motion of his chin towards the opening in the wainscoting from whence she had entered the room. Her eyes fixed upon his with an anguished expression and she shook her head with a tiny motion. He gave a tight nod and more forcefully cast his gaze towards the wall.

"Keep watch over her," Blaylock commanded. He holstered his gun and unbuckled his weapons belt, tossing it upon one of the chairs by the fireplace. "I'll even disarm to make it a fair fight," he chuckled.

Aoife flung herself round the desk and dashed for the hole in the wainscoting. Before the two Yeos could react, Blaylock leapt across the room after her, catching her coat collar just as she ducked through the dark opening. He yanked her back, sending her sprawling across the floor towards the desk.

She scrambled under it, spying and seizing her dagger from the floor as he approached, then she sprang to her feet on the far side, putting the desk between them. Crouching and poised lightly on her feet, she held the dagger at the ready, her gaze locked to his.

Blaylock's blue eyes gleamed at her opening ploy. Grasping the desk chair, he cast it behind him so that it slid and fell against the wainscoting, the chair back partially inside the wall, blocking ready access to the escape route. With deliberate, unhurried steps, he made his way round the desk towards her --- she shifted side to side upon her toes. Abruptly she lunged at him, dagger first.

Blaylock was startled, but not so much so that he failed to jump aside. He launched himself at her in answer, but she was quick as well, scampering back out of his reach. Again, she thrust the knife at him --- again he dodged the blade. They circled each other in the space between the desk and the watching men.

Twice more did she attack without success --- Blaylock observing her with a humorous expression.

Declan's agitated heart thumped, and he shouted encouragement and warnings as he watched the wee lass battle Blaylock. She had good instincts and was applying the techniques he had demonstrated in drills --- nonetheless, Declan recognized that Blaylock was restraining himself. He was sparring with her in evident unalarmed admiration, but Declan knew all too well that Blaylock could disarm her with relative ease if he wanted.

The soldiers holding his arms were engrossed in the spectacle, and Declan used their inattention to tug more with more force against the rope about his wrists...there had been another sensation of give, and he had widened the bindings enough to allow the base of his thumb to squeeze into them. "The Cassidy clip!" Declan yelled. "Use the Cassidy clip!"

With her next lunge, Aoife's dagger connected with Blaylock, slashing his coat. He was momentarily taken aback, but when she quickly renewed her attack, he rushed at her, catching her wrist and spinning her back against his body with her knife hand before her.

Declan winced.

Plucking the dagger from her hand and wrapping his other arm round her, Blaylock pressed her back against his torso and groped her breasts through her garments. With a twist of his shoulders, he threw the knife at the wall where it lodged tip first in the plaster, quivering and shining in the dark blue wallpaper above Aoife's reach.

"His gut! Go for his gut!" Declan cried.

Jabbing an elbow back into Blaylock's belly, Aoife tore free from his arm and rushed for the hall door that was behind Declan and the Yeos. The men rotated to follow the action, each with one hand on Declan's upper arm and their other hand pointing a cocked pistol at him.

She yanked the door open, but Blaylock was too fast: his broad hand caught the door above her head and slammed it shut. As she backed away, he locked the door and pocketed the key. He arched an eyebrow at her.

Aoife swiftly sidestepped and jerked from its sheath the dagger of the Yeo holding Declan's left arm; with a growl she again faced Blaylock. Both of his hands otherwise engaged, the soldier's eyes dropped dumfounded to his empty weapons belt.

Blaylock gave her a brief nod of acknowledgment. "Clever girl."

In a flash, Aoife flipped the dagger in her hand from reverse to forward grip and bolted at him --- he dodged to the right, but not far enough. The blade sliced through his coat over his left flank. Blood sprouted over the slashed white shirt underneath and darkened the blue of his coat. The soldiers exchanged looks; Declan exulted.

Blaylock looked down in surprise. "A veritable hit...but not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door," he muttered. He advanced on Aoife, the amused expression now vanished from his face. From Blaylock's movements, Declan guessed the wound was not mortal.

He redoubled the back-and-forth wrenching of his bound wrists.

Aoife charged again, but before the dagger point reached his chest, Blaylock seized her wrist --- his other hand prized the weapon from her fingers. She spun round attempting to flee, but he brought her up short with his hand on her arm, jerking her back against his chest as before, but now he twisted her arm behind her back and drew it sharply between her shoulder blades, making her cry out.

He stretched up his other hand and planted the knife in the plaster above the door frame, again far out of her reach. With a low chuckle he lowered his hand and grabbed her between her legs, bending his head to speak in her ear. Between his claim on her crotch and her arm pinned behind her, he gave her a rough shake.