Читать книгу Rogue on the Rollaway - Shannon MacLeod - Страница 6

Prologue

In the year of our Lord 1403–Edinburgh, Scotland

Ah, damn me…this is going to hurt.

Faolan MacIntyre lifted his head and closed his eyes, relishing the tang of the early spring North Sea on his face. The wind whipped at his long, coal black hair and tore it free from the leather thong binding it. He longed to braid it away from his eyes and he would have, had his hands not been tied securely behind his back.

The dour magistrate droned on and on, proclaiming Faolan’s multitude of sins and transgressions while the priest and hangman waited behind him on the wooden scaffold. “Sedition, heresy, the practicing of witchcraft and consorting with demons, horse thievery…”

“Borrowed,” Faolan muttered.

The hangman gave him a heavy cuff on the back of the head in warning. Faolan turned and took a threatening step toward the man, who shrank away even though the taller, powerfully built Celt was obviously in no position to return the favor.

“…impersonating a priest, fornication…”

Faolan yawned. “Could ye speed it up a bit? It’s a might drafty up here.”

The gathered crowd erupted in laughter and the official’s face reddened. “Silence!” he bellowed. Relocating his place in the leather bound ledger with a bony finger, he continued his litany. “Public drunkenness, adultery, slanderous language…”

“Christ in heaven above,” Faolan roared. “Could ye just get on with it? I’m going to freeze to death afore ye get around to hanging me.”

“Blasphemer,” the portly priest gasped.

Apparently deciding enough damning evidence had been presented to justify the punishment, the official slammed the book closed and gave a nod to the hangman. With a grim smile, the executioner placed the noose around the condemned’s neck and tightened it. Faolan took a small amount of pleasure that the shorter man had to hop to get the heavy rope over his bowed head. He shook his head at the proffered leather hood.

“I wish for the man of my dreams”

The faint feminine whisper pulled at the edge of Faolan’s consciousness, sounding as if it were coming from a great distance and a slow grin spread across his face.

Witnessing the unseemly smile, the priest made the sign of the cross and clutched his pudgy hands together. “’Tis obvious your imprisonment has driven you mad. Admit your sins and repent now, my son,” he pleaded. “Show regret for your actions before these good people and mayhap your death will be a swift one.”

Faolan managed a contrite nod. With a heavy sigh, he gazed at the magistrate and said, “Yer Honor, ’tis truly sorry I am I dinna bed yer wife when she begged it of me, but to be honest, there wasn’t whisky enough in all of Scotia to make that wench appealing.”

The crowd roared with laughter once again. The magistrate sputtered with outrage, turning a rather apoplectic shade of purple. “Do your duty,” he demanded with an imperious wave. The hangman leaned forward to pull the lever releasing the trap door beneath Faolan’s booted feet. The priest’s voice grew louder, beginning the recitation of the final prayer. “Pater Noster, qui es in coelis…”

Faolan gave a roguish wink to a tearful maid standing near the scaffold steps, and blew kisses to two more just before the weathered boarding beneath him creaked loudly and gave way.