A half hour later or so passed. I was watching the progression of a spider that had decided to scale the shelf nearest me, distressingly close. It was working on a web, disinterested in my growing fear. I was so thirsty. The dusty bottles made my parched mouth even drier, and I had no idea how to open one of these bottles. Was I allowed to open one of these bottles? I was by myself, and I didn’t know what the rules were. Footsteps sounded on the other end of the room.

“Magnus?”

A man’s voice grumbled, “Who’s there?”

I turned to the closest shelves, shielding my face, attempting to pretend to be busy looking over the ancient bottles. There were no labels though, nothing to look at really, just bottles on their sides on wooden shelves under a quarter inch of dust.

Two stumbling steps later a hulking, red-faced man came weaving around a shelf and right up to me. He was big. His nose bulbous and red. His eyes angry. He shifted close and said something loudly to the side of my face in what must have been Gaelic. I went quiet and continued to look down at the closest shelf.

He grabbed my arm, yanked me around to face him, and spoke again loud and angry.

I shook my head, wildly, and tried to draw from his clutch. It was tight on my wrist and clamping tighter.

He spoke again drawing himself up, bearing down on my face, towering over me.

His breath had that toxic-sweet alcoholic smell of a grotesque hangover, and his eyes had that crazed look someone gets when they’ve had way too much to drink. I shook my head again and looked away.

His open hand swung and clapped me on the side of my head, hard.

I shrieked, clutching my face. The shock reverberated through my body. But I didn’t have time to think or react or swing or even scream —

Shit got desperate so fast.

He picked me up by my throat. I couldn’t do anything but swing flailing punches at his chest and kick his shins. He barely noticed my weak-ass pummels as he stared blearily down at my bare legs.

Then he shoved me hard onto the stone floor. The back of my head struck the hard cold ground, and my hand reflexively went to the back of my head. Dazed, I thought, concussion, but also, I couldn’t think about the pain, the dizzy, the dark, because he dove down on me crushing me under his weight. His forearm pressed across my throat. His free hand prying open my kicking, struggling legs.

He spoke again, a bark like an order I didn’t understand.

I screeched out, “I’m with Magnus, Magnus Campbell!”

He paused for a millisecond. “You art a Brit,” then continued groping violently between my legs.

I screamed as his hand ripped my panties away from my body and fumbled up the fabric of his kilt. He shoved his knee up, parting mine, as I begged, “Magnus Campbell.” I kicked, trying to keep him away.

“Magnus Campbell is verra auld.” He shoved my legs aside, pressing further on my throat, breathing hard in my ears, pushing himself up and closer.

“No, stop please, the young Magnus.” I flailed weakly at the side of his arms, but breathing was difficult, and I was trying to clamp down with every internal muscle to keep him out.

“Young Magnus is nae here anymore.” He pushed against me up hard and in and I screamed until the arm crushed my breath from my throat and—

“Nae!” Magnus’s voice was grim and loud and terrible and close. “Cousin, I will cut ye, ear to ear if ye touch her.” Magnus had his knife at the man’s throat, as the man convulsed and lifted off my body. The forearm that had been stealing my breath pulled away from my throat, the hips that had been crushing me pulled away from my pelvis. Then the monster withdrew from between my legs last of all.

I clutched the cloak around my body, as my Magnus stood holding the man by a clutch of hair. Roaring in Gaelic, he brought his knee up hard into the man’s stomach, doubling him over. He slammed a knee up squarely into his nose, probably breaking it, and then Magnus was everywhere fists and knees, punching, swinging, pummeling the man, beating him senseless with his bare hands.

The older woman from the kitchen stood in the doorway wringing her hands. She yelled loudly in Gaelic.

Magnus turned on her, “I asked ye tae watch over the lady.”

She spoke in English, “I dinna hear him approach, but thee canna kill him, Master Magnus. Tis too much trouble for thee.”

Magnus stopped cold, glaring into the pummeled face of the man, bloodied and mangled. He bellowed, “That is my wife.”

He climbed to his feet and grabbing the man by his hair dragged him to his knees. “Beg her forgiveness.” Magnus’s voice was terrible, cold and scary.

The man spoke quietly in words I didn't understand.

Magnus shook him by the hair roots. “Beg for it, in English!”

“My apologies, Madame.”

“Madame Campbell, dost ye want me tae spare his life?”

I nodded quickly and looked away.

Magnus leaned over to look in the man’s face. “Cousin, this lady, that you have injured, Madame Campbell, has spared your life this day. Will ye touch her again?”

“Nae, nocht.”

Magnus dropped the man’s hair allowing him to slump to the ground. He thrust his blade to the man’s throat.“You will nae look upon her again, or I will kill ye. Dost ye understand my words and meanin’?”

“Aye, Magnus.”

“You may leave.”

The man heaved himself up struggling with his footing. Blood smeared his face. He wobbled and weaved as he made it to the door and through to the kitchen. The older woman left too.

I clutched my cloak around myself on the cold hard ground.

My husband remained crouched where he had been staring into the man’s eyes. Immobile. Ragged breaths heaved his shoulders. He dropped down to sitting, his back to me, elbows on his knees. He held his knife in his hands.

His breaths were bullish, through his nose, furiously loud. His anger had flooded so high, I could hear him attempt to squelch it under.

He asked, still turned away, his voice even, measured, and low, “Did he hurt ye?”

I felt the back of my head. It was a mean bump but probably fine. My throat hurt, but — “Not too bad.”

He sat quietly for long terrible angry moments. “I canna get on top of it.” He clutched his chest.

I nodded, staring up at the ceiling. I was having trouble with my breaths too.

“Was he inside ye, Kaitlyn?”

I shook my head, but he couldn’t see me and I couldn’t bring myself to lie. “Not entire—“

“Daena say it.” He shook his head and growled, a sound low and desperate and guttural. “I canna let him have ye.”

Then he turned, yanked my cloak aside, and climbed on me. He shoved his hips up against my body and pushed himself inside me with another growl and another and another. His head was down by my shoulder, growling and grunting, slamming into me over and over. I bit into his shoulder to hold my cries. And held on, meeting his desperate force with my own counter force, until finally, with a final blow and a shuddering groan, he collapsed down, spent, done.

His breath continued ragged but not violent anymore. I focused on the spot on his shoulder where I had been biting and fell away. My arms dropped to the cloak-draped ground. It was freezing cold on this stone floor.

He raised up to his knees and stared down at me spread-eagled before him. Then he took my hand and pulled me to standing before him. He raised my sundress a little and made a small sad adjustment of my tiny, little, now torn-to-rags, panties, trying to set them to rights.

Then he rested his hands on my hips, dropped his forehead to my belly, and with his head down, face pressed into my stomach, he cried. Hugging my hips, quietly, his shoulders shaking.

I held onto the back of his head until he was done.

“I am sorry for it Kaitlyn.”

I was shivering cold through to my core. The kind of cold that might never leave me. Soul cold. Bitter cold. Iced hard through.

“I know.”

“I had tae. I canna let him have ye. I had tae make ye mine again.”

I took a deep breath trying to get any kind of warmth into my body. “I understand why you did it, but you need to get your fucking hands off of me.” I pushed his hands down my hips and away.

He sat for a moment looking down at the ground before him while I stared at the back wall. Then he rose and said, “I’ll take ye tae our room.”