Continuing directly from last week (They’d found her in Gravesend sleeping off a wild night, trussed her good and tight and then slung her over the packhorse like a dead man...)
Twenty miles with her head hanging until it felt like a tick about to burst, hands and feet numb and burning at intervals, ribs crushed and the half-healed bullet wound in her shoulder stabbing with every jolting step. Humiliating, that’s what it was. It was a bitter thing knowing that her own stupidity had put her neck in the noose.
She'd been unconscious when they tossed her onto the bed, had come to with Crenshaw sawing through the ropes binding her ankles. He'd laughed when she cried out from the pain of blood rushing into her fingers and toes. He hadn’t raped her though and she didn’t know why.
She’d expected that, feared it, braced herself as well as she might for the moment one of them came back in to rut on her. Orders.
Poor Molly. I actually feel kind of guilty leaving her here. Does it help to know her situation improves shortly?
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