“I can’t bear this,” she choked out.

The water was sweet in Jamie’s mouth and it soothed his throat as he swallowed. “You’ve got to get out of’ere before someone sees you,” he muttered.

“At least let me set you free,” Peony pleaded, clutching at Jamie’s arm with one hand. Although she was agitated, her touch was cool, soothing.

“Do you know what Pipher’d do if he caught you?” he countered, in a whisper gruff with fear. “I’ll tell you, Peony: he’d do just what he’s going to do to me now—tie you to a tree and ’ave you whipped.”

Peony squeezed her eyes shut. Her slender alabaster throat worked, but no sound came out of her mouth.

“Go,” Jamie said. “Please.”

The rumble of male voices rolled on the muggy summer air like thunder preceding a storm. They were coming, the wait was over.

Jamie steeled himself for the ordeal he would face, determined to get through it without giving Pipher the satisfaction of breaking him. “Run, Peony,” he rasped, and after a moment’s hesitation, she disappeared into the trees that surrounded the small clearing.

Pipher and his men arrived seconds after the woman had gone. Jamie refused to turn his head to look back at the man who had enslaved him; the old man was forced to come and stand at his side.

Pipher smiled, showing his enormous yellow teeth—horse’s teeth, Peony called them—and the sun glinted in his snow-white hair and muttonchop whiskers. “Hello, lad,” he said, in a voice that could only have been described as cordial.

Jamie glared at his tormenter, knowing that Pipher wanted him to beg, telling him by his expression and his bearing that he’d die first.

The plantation owner threw back his head and laughed, and Jamie felt a fine mist of saliva settle on his skin.

“God, but you’re a stubborn little mick!” the old man marveled.

Increase looked back at his henchmen, who twittered halfheartedly at his subtle cue. Jamie knew some of those men pitied him, but instead of feeling any kinship with them, he hated the lot.

Pipher lifted his cane, with its handle of beautifully molded gold, and tapped Jamie’s shoulder with it. “Where’s that quick tongue of yours now, Mr. McKenna?” he asked, his foul breath fanning over Jamie’s face and causing bile to rise in his throat.

Jamie swallowed and said nothing, and his gaze remained steady, defiant. His message was clear enough, he knew. It said: Go to hell. And Pipher understood.

“The whip,” the planter grated out, infuriated, extending one hand.

Someone came forward with the coil of black leather, and Pipher made a point of unfurling it with a sharp crack. He was skillful with the lash; even when there was no punishment to be meted out, he often practiced for hours at a time.

The rich man stepped back, out of sight, and again Jamie heard the whip crack. His stomach muscles tensed; he forced himself to let them go slack. The others had told him that it would hurt less that way.