CHAPTER FOUR #2
Bill walked back out during this little speech, and after listening for a moment, approached the drunkard and smacked him hard across the back of the head.
"Take yer nonsense elsewhere," he shouted over the general laughter and jeering from several other patrons.
"Stay and drink or leave, but nae another word out of ye about dead princes. "
"Hear hear!" the traveler said, and a few of the patrons laughed.
The drunkard didn't even react to the hit. He simply fell silent and reached for his tankard, taking a long drink and saying nothing else for now.
Maeve watched as Bill slunk off, and only when he was gone did she approach the drunkard. She leaned over and whispered, "Sir? Are ye all right?"
The drunkard gave her a look from the side of his eye, and Maeve was suddenly struck by how focused his gaze was. She began to wonder just how lost in his cups this man really was. However, a second later, it was gone, and his eyes became unfocused, his voice slurred.
"Just fine, lassie, just fine," he said. "Be a dear and bring me an ale, aye?"
It was the wee hours of the morning by the time the tavern was almost empty.
Gordon had gone home for the night, and most of the patrons had left, apart from a single straggler — the drunkard who had been ranting about lost princes and kings.
Maeve took her time collecting the empty tankards and cleaning down the tables, trying to avoid the moment she'd have to enter the back room, but soon enough, there was no other excuse to linger.
She carried the heavy tray laden with glasses into the kitchen and set about washing them one by one, methodically scrubbing in the lukewarm soapy water, hoping to get the task done well but quickly before Bill caught her alone.
But her hope was not to be. There was a thud as the kitchen door slammed open and a shadow fell across her back. Maeve was exhausted from a long night of work, and she couldn't react quickly enough to slip away when she felt his hands settle on either side of her waist.
His hot breath still scorched with the power of alcohol as he leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "It's time tae finish what we started."
"Get off me, Bill," she demanded, shaking him off as best she could.
Suddenly, he lurched forward and grabbed her upper arms painfully, spinning her around in place and dragging her into a forceful, disgusting kiss.
His tongue pushed her lips apart, and Maeve struggled against him as he pressed her back against the sink.
At last, she was able to aim a kick hard against his shin. He yelped, pushing her away so hard that she staggered to the side and fell to the ground. He growled, a madness in his eyes as he stood over her.
"It's time ye earned yer keep," he told her.
Maeve struggled to her feet, ready to fight. She'd been helpless too much in this life, beaten by her father, sold to her husband, locked in a dungeon to die. She couldn't just let this happen to her, not now. Not when freedom had been so close to her at last.
But he was bigger than her, stronger, and she was small and exhausted and untrained. Though she tried to run, he caught her easily, and when she struggled and fought, though she definitely managed to land a few good hits and heard him swear more than once, he simply held her tighter.
"Enough!" he snarled and pushed hard, forcing her down to the ground again and pinning her there. "Relax, sweetling. It'll be over soon. Now let's see what's under that skirt."
His hand started to move down her thigh and Maeve screamed.
Then, all of a sudden, the weight of the tavern owner was no longer pressing her down, and a loud cry of surprise and pain was left in its wake.
Maeve gasped and pushed herself into a sitting position.
The drunkard from before had entered the room in a blur of fury, his fists swinging, and he'd thrown the man off Maeve as though Bill weighed no more than paper.
The drunkard did not lighten up with his beating, kicking and punching and effortlessly avoiding Bill's retaliations, until at last the tavern owner fell back onto the floor, his eyes closed, unmoving.
Silence fell over the room.
At last, in a hoarse voice, Maeve asked, "Is he dead?"
The so-called drunkard turned to her, though the intensity in his expression made it clear she'd been right earlier; this man was not drunk in the slightest. When he spoke, there was no trace of the slur in his voice anymore. "Would ye mind if he was?" he countered.
Maeve thought about it for a long time, then decided to answer honestly. "I dinnae ken," she admitted, hating herself for it. It was a weak answer, not kind enough to wish him spared, but neither tough enough to revel in his death.
Her savior grunted, then approached and held out a hand. Maeve took it, and he helped her to her feet, then wrapped his cloak around her shoulders.
"Ye're shiverin'," he told her. "This will keep ye warm." He turned to look at Bill's unconscious body and said, "And he's not dead. Scum that he is, it wasnae worth murder on me conscience. Ye should go home tae yer mam, pet, and never come back here."
Maeve felt cold, and she bit her lip to stop herself from crying out in the sudden tumult of emotion that filled her. Here she was again, forced to run, forced to leave a life behind her, because a man had decided she was an easy plaything. Because she was weak.
"I havenae anywhere tae go," she whispered.
He surveyed her for a moment, then sighed. "What's yer name?" he asked her after a moment.
"Mae—Mary," she replied, catching herself before she accidentally revealed her true self. "And ye?"
"Senan," he told her. His brow furrowed. "What's yer story, Mary?"
Maeve glanced at the unconscious tavern owner and her head spun.
She felt dizzy, and pulled Senan's cloak tighter around her shoulders, grateful at least for the comforting warmth it offered.
"I'm a pawn," she told him bitterly. "It's all I've been me whole life; a weak pawn, made tae suit the whims of men. "
Senan didn't react dramatically. He simply seemed to ponder her words. "I see," he said. "And ye're happy with this?"
"No. I want me freedom," she told him. "I need me freedom. But I dinnae ken what tae do now. Where tae go, how tae live. I dinnae ken how tae exist as anythin' but what these men want me tae be."
That intense coal-black gaze focused harder on her now. "And what would ye give up tae have that freedom?" he asked her. "What would ye be willin' tae do in order tae discover yerself, Mary? Tae be truly free, and naebody's pawn anymore? Would ye fight? Die? Kill, if ye had tae?"
Maeve thought of Ann, who had offered her the way of the Sparrows.
She regretted now rejecting that chance when it was offered; she knew that not many people got a second chance.
She did not know who this Senan was, but she knew that he'd saved her, and she knew that he stood against the False King that the Darachs loved so much.
It wasn't enough to trust someone, but he was offering her freedom. And she would not shrink away again.
She met his gaze unflinchingly, determination coursing through her now. "Anythin'," she said. "Anythin'." And she meant it.