The first lash weakened Jamie’s knees; the pain was like fire raging across his sunburned back. He made himself think of his brother, Reeve, and of the old days in Ireland as he listened to the whip being drawn back with a whoosh and then heard it slicing through the thick air again.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip as the strip of leather lacerated his flesh a second time, but he did not cry out. Not one lash or a thousand could make him do that.

He counted ten more biting slashes before the summer air went dark and his legs refused to support him any longer.

The sun was low on the horizon when Jamie regained consciousness. He was still bound to the tree, though he’d slipped to his knees, and Peony was sawing frantically at his bonds with a kitchen knife.

Jamie’s back was ablaze with pain, and the tree bark had scraped one side of his face raw. His throat was all but swollen shut and the smell and taste of blood made his stomach churn. “Go—away—” he managed to croak.

Tears were streaming down Peony’s cheeks. “Just shut up, Jamie McKenna,” she said, still slicing at the thick rope. “We’ve no time to argue—I don’t know if the blaze caught properly or not.”

When his bonds gave way, Jamie rolled to the ground, unable to hold himself upright. He was disoriented; the earth felt spongy beneath him and the sky seemed to have fallen in, thick and smothering.

“Left you here to die, he did,” Peony prattled to herself. “Boar’s bait, that’s what he called you. The devil’s waiting for that old man in hell’s front parlor, I’ll tell you that.” Jamie heard the knife thump against the ground, felt her efforts to lift him to his feet. “I’ve got a place to hide you,” she said, breathing hard from the struggle, “if you’ll—just—get—up!”

Nausea roiled in Jamie’s stomach, so ferocious was the pain. At great cost, he turned his head away from Peony and vomited.

She stroked the back of his head until the violent spasms of sickness had ceased, then began pulling at him again and yammering, “Jamie, please—you’ve got to get up—you’ve just got to—”

“I—can’t—” he rasped, willing himself to die.

As broken as he was, Jamie felt the fury surge through Peony’s body just as though the two of them were linked somehow, sharing the same emotions. “I thought you had more courage than that!” she cried. “Maybe that old beggar’s right about you—maybe you’re not worth that odd bit of brass you wear round your neck!”

The challenge gave Jamie the strength to thrust himself to his knees. He touched the beggar’s badge, given to him so long ago in Dublin, and thought of Reeve and his poor lost mother. Because he knew they’d ask it of him, he battled the dizziness that swelled around him like a dark mist and then, with Peony’s help, rose to his feet.