“You honestly think anyone is stupid enough to waste time searching for you? You’re my prisoner now, Leroux, and you will be until you comply.”

The Lady Abigail Leroux met Lord Bagley’s taunts with her usual defiant silence, not a sound escaping past the leather panel gag that had been a near-permanent fixture since she was brought to Castle Bagley and made a prisoner in its tallest tower. That had been three months ago, and every new dawn saw the deranged Lord of Far Reach arrive with a drink in his hand, lust in his eyes and new insults to offer the woman who had spurned him. That he had yet to force himself upon her was the only consolation she could take, for his mere presence was bad enough. “Heard there was some nasty business over in the capital,” Bagley continued, observing the beautiful blonde with eyes rendered bloodshot by rage, drink and an apparent lack of sleep. “Some peasants getting uppity and rising against their betters, apparently. They’ll be picking up the pieces for years, and by then, you’ll have long been forgotten.”

He has to be lying. Something like that could never happen… could it? Abigail considered inwardly, green eyes downcast at the idea of Arkland’s capital city being thrown into chaos. With it came the horrific notion that the Duchess Miranda du Lac, her closest friend and a frequent guest at the King’s court, might have been caught up in such a catastrophe, and Bagley smiled wickedly as she gave a helpless moan, aquiline features visibly paling at the thought. “Mmmpggghhhh…”

“Yes, it is a wicked world out there, woman, and only by submitting to me can you be protected. Aren’t you tired of being a prisoner here? Don’t you wish you could wear your finery again?”

“Mmmppggghh!” Abigail grunted, turning away in anger. The silk gown in which she’d been taken prisoner by the highwaymen, months and a lifetime ago, was long gone, stripped away from her pale, beautiful figure the moment she arrived at the castle. In its place, the elegant noblewoman was forced to wear a shift of cheap, coarse cloth little better than burlap, cut low to expose her cleavage, shoulders and collarbone, and so short that her long, shapely legs were left on full display. Steel manacles held her fast, one set keeping her wrists bound securely behind her back, another around her ankles with a short chain between them so that she could only hobble slowly about her cell, and a steel collar about her neck kept her chained to the tower wall and unable to move more than a few steps from the thin straw cot that served as her bed. A gag of shaped leather, removed only for meals, completed her bondage, and a shudder that had nothing to do with the cold winds that raced through her drafty prison came over her as Bagley’s hand ran along her inner thigh. “MMMPPPGGGHHH!”

“Such pride, Abigail, but pride will not save you, nor will it summon any brave heroes to come searching for you either,” Bagley snarled, his breath hot and rank upon her neck. “Bow to me! Be my bride and come to my bed, the way you should have, and you’ll be a prisoner no longer!”

It was an ultimatum repeated daily, and Abigail gave the same answer she always had. To become his bride would be to remain a prisoner, but only shackled to the marriage bed instead of the tower. Worst still, it would give him exactly what he desired: her debasement, complete and absolute, in a way that he would never achieve by force. He wanted her to submit, to accept his cruel lusts and her helplessness of her own free will, and she searched deep within herself for the strength to hold firm, green eyes bright with defiance, a single shake of the head telling him she would refuse to break. “Nnnggghh!”

“Stupid bitch!” Bagley raged. In a whirl, he was gone from her side and out of her makeshift prison, the door slamming behind him with a thunderous crash, followed shortly by the screech of rusted locks settling back into place. “Fine, be stubborn as you like. Soon though, you’ll be begging me to take you into my bed! You’re mine, Abigail! You’re mine!”

Not on your life, you bastard, the noblewoman promised silently, settling back onto her cot. Someone is searching for me, I just know it. And when they find me here, you’ll be a prisoner in a place far worse than this…