Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
But this woman is mine.
The first woman that’s ever been taken to my private quarters. The first I’ve taken prisoner. The first I’ve shielded from my father’s wrath.
Mine.
I observe her without attempting to hide it. As mine, she’ll learn to withstand my scrutiny.
She wears faded, dated clothing, a tattered dress that may have been white once but now is yellowed with age and wear. Is the woman eccentric, or something else? Her long, thick black hair hangs all the way to her waist.
“He’s your father,” she states plainly. It takes me by surprise. I don’t expect it to be the first thing she says.
“Who?” I ask. I’m curious how she’ll describe my dad.
“The older, stern man downstairs.”
Older and stern. Accurate.
“The man who tried to strike me, before you stopped him.”
She noted that. I nod. “Aye.”
“Why did you stop him from hitting me?” she asks, her brow furrowed in confusion.
“I’m the one that’ll ask questions first, lass,” I tell her. She doesn’t control this. I’m also not sure I want to tell her why I stopped him. If she gets it in her head that she isn’t to fear me, or that I’ve got a weakness for her, it could complicate things.
She sits up straighter and holds my gaze. “Alright, then. Let’s have it.”
“Your name.”
“Caitlin.”
“Spell it.”
“C-A-I-T-L-I-N.”
Caitlin. An Irish name, then. Though she’s American, and her father was, too, I wonder. Why is her Christian name Irish, and why does she live here?
“You mentioned Jimmy Anderson, the lighthouse keeper, was your father.”
She nods but doesn’t reply.
“Why does no one in Ballyhock know of your existence, Caitlin?”
Something flashes in her eyes, something I can’t quite decipher. She swallows but doesn’t break eye contact. “My father kept me hidden,” she finally says.
“How so?”
She blinks, just once, swallows hard, then continues. “He said beyond the walls of the lighthouse were men who’d hurt me.” Her voice hardens, along with her eyes. “Apparently, he was right.”
I grip her arm. Threatening.
“Stick to the questions, lass,” I order, my voice sharpening. I’ve brought her up here for a reason. She doesn’t respond. “Now tell me how he kept you hidden.”
“Until today, I’ve never stepped foot outside the lighthouse.”
Is the girl out of her mind? Is she sane?
“Excuse me?”
She clears her throat. “I said, I’ve never stepped foot outside the lighthouse before today.”
How is that possible? She’s no child. Is she lying?
“Tell the truth,” I admonish harshly.
She blinks at me in surprise. This either is the truth, or she’s a very good liar.
“I did,” she insists.
“Never left?”
“How many times are you going to make me repeat myself?” she asks.
I’ll have none of her cheek.
“Listen well, lass,” I say, my voice etched with warning. “You’ll speak to me with respect.”
She swallows hard. “Or you’ll punish me,” she says softly. She’s a bright one.
I don’t deny it. She needs to know where we stand. I came between her and my father’s punishing hand today, but he isn’t the one she needs to fear now.
“You’ll be expected to obey me,” I tell her. “Now answer the question.”
She sighs, and I can tell she’s warring within herself, wondering what I’ll do and what I expect of her.
“No,” she finally says with a sigh. “As I said, I’ve never left the lighthouse. It was the only safe place I had.”
Though it seems nearly impossible that in a modern age she’s been sheltered to such extremes, such a reclusive life isn’t unheard of. And her father was most definitely eccentric and reclusive himself.
“No education?” I ask her.
She lifts her chin, and with a tone that’s adorably haughty, she replies. “I learned to read at the age of four, and my father educated me thoroughly.”
Well, then.
“So you’ve had book learning?”
“Of course I have. My father was a brilliant man, and he taught me himself.”
I nod.
“Tell me the extent of your education,” I demand. I’m not sure why I’m so fixated on this, but I’m filled with a burning need to know everything there is about her. Everything.
She shrugs. “He taught me algebra and trigonometry and calculus. I’m fluent in Latin and French. I’ve read the works of the masters, both British and American literature as well as the works of Shakespeare. I’ve studied the art and music of the greats.”
I blink in surprise. It appears she certainly has had proper schooling.
It’s time to move onto more pressing questions. I’ll get to the records she held at a later date, but one thing’s become clear to me. If her father was as educated as she gives him credit, it’s quite possible the records belonged to him, and not her.
We’ll get to that.
“You’ve stumbled several times since I’ve taken you with me,” I state. “Tell me why.”
Her face pales, and she licks her lips. “I haven’t eaten any food in several days.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
I don’t realize I’m on my feet until I see her shrink back, looking up at me.