There was a terrible silence, and then Increase touched the tip of the quirt beneath Bliss’s chin and hissed, “For that, little kitten, you will shed many tears of remorse.”

Bliss thought of poor Peony, only now being carried away by a silent Walter, and of all Jamie had suffered. She spat in Increase’s face.

He gave a strangled cry of rage that attracted the attention of the other men in the camp. Their expressions reflected a desultory sort of interest, along with a measure of amusement, but nothing else.

Bliss knew that none of them would come forward to defend her. These, after all, were the same men who had stood by and watched Peony die as a sacrifice to Increase Pipher’s hatred.

She stood her ground as Increase advanced toward her with the quirt unraised.

“Don’t,” Jamie whispered.

Increase halted, turning his devil’s smile on Jamie. “Do my ears deceive me, or did Jamie McKenna just ask for mercy?”

Jamie closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again. “Don’t ’urt ’er,” he said clearly. “Please.”

Increase laughed, slapping the quirt against one scrawny leg. “Not good enough, Irishman. Not nearly good enough.”

As far as Bliss was concerned, the most savage beating could not equal the torment of seeing Jamie, proud, strong Jamie, reduced to hopeless pleas. “Stop it,” she screamed, flying at Increase once more and snatching the quirt from his hand. She went on with her senseless raging as she lashed Pipher, again and again, and it took Walter and another man to subdue her.

Increase was trembling visibly, long red welts rising across his face and neck where Bliss had struck him with the quirt. “Tie her to the wheel of that wagon,” he grated out, gesturing behind him.

“No.” The word left Jamie’s throat with a scraping sound, husky and painful to hear.

Walter and the other man hesitated only an instant before obeying Increase’s orders. They forced Bliss to her knees, wrenching her hands high and wide of her body before binding her wrists tightly to the rim of the wagon wheel. She looked back over one shoulder, her eyes shooting blue fire as she called out to her husband, “Don’t you dare give in and crawl for these jellyfishes, Jamie McKenna! Don’t you dare!”

“My God, Bliss,” Walter whispered desperately near her ear. “Shut up! Can’t you see that you’re making things worse?”

Bliss’s throat was parched, but she would not ask for water—or clemency. The other man had walked away, but Walter lingered, and Bliss knew then that he wanted to help but was far too frightened to try. Despair cooled her fiery temper.

“How could you, Walter?” she asked in a despondent whisper, her eyes closed, her cheek resting against a hard, splintery spoke of the wagon wheel. “How could you just stand there and watch Peony Ryan die, without lifting a finger to help?”

She heard Walter swallow. “Have you looked around you?” he countered after a moment’s hesitation. “There are twenty men here!”