“Don’t they believe in cooking?” she asked, taking a small bite of the rare steak.

He shrugged. “They prefer it bloody.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “I wish I had a bowl of cereal.”

What was cereal? A roar echoed somewhere in the dungeon before he could ask.

“That must be the hybrid,” she said. “What is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“If they’re calling him a hybrid, he must be a mix of two different species.”

She seemed troubled by the thought, as he was. He found it just as troubling that she wasn’t hysterical at the thought of something as alarming as hybrids. “I’ve heard him, but I haven’t seen him.” He took a bite of his meat, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“I think he saw you. The guards said they didn’t move you from the torture room. They thought he carried you back here. Do you remember anything?”

“Someone carried me, I think.”

“Maybe the hybrid felt sorry for you? They’re probably doing the same thing to him that they’re doing to you—” She broke off.

Were they trying to turn him into a hybrid? He looked at Anna’s legs stretched in front of her. Long, firm, and very bare. What would they do with her?

“Could I have a drink of your water?” she asked.

Her cup was in the other cell near the pot. His face warmed, remembering how she’d used hers. He handed his over. “I’m sorry you had to…” He wasn’t sure how to phrase it, but she knew what he meant. She didn’t look at him but focused instead on his cup.

“It’s OK.” A slight smile touched her lips. “I’ve faced a few embarrassing situations before.”

“Aye?” He kept forgetting what she was, or what he suspected she was. She looked like a whore, but although she acted damned strange, she didn’t have the manner of a whore.

She handed his cup back. “They keep talking about their master. Do you know who he is?”

“I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him. I feel I ought to know him.” He’d dreamed of him, dreams that felt real, like memories trying to surface.

“What does he look like?”

“Black hair, long. Pale, bonny face.” Speaking of bonny…“Is there someone looking for you?” he asked. “Do you have a husband?” He didn’t want to just come out and ask if she was a whore.

“I’m not married.” Her voice was firm, almost as if he’d insulted her.

Aye, a whore then. A woman with her beauty couldn’t have escaped male attention for long. “What about family?” Everyone had family. The thought made his chest tight. He must have a family. Were they searching for him?

“None.” Her voice sounded flat. Bitter.

“They’re dead?”

“My mother is. I don’t have a father.”

Everyone had a father. “What about brothers, sisters?” He saw faces in his mind, but the vision vanished as fast as it had come.

“No. I have cousins and friends,” she said, her voice warming. “They’re all I need.”

What kind of friends allowed a woman to sell her body? “Are they looking for you, do you think?”

“I don’t know if they’ve realized I’m missing.” She sounded worried. “I’ve got to get out of here. I think someone’s going to attack them. I have to warn them.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Something I overheard from the man Lance was talking to.”

This made very little sense. What was her connection to this place and to Lance? It was apparent that he didn’t want her here, and the fat guard, Bart, hadn’t expected her.

After they ate, he waited as long as he could. “They don’t offer much in the way of privacy. I need to use that fancy pot.”

She stared at him until he felt uncomfortable. Perhaps it was an insult to mention it after she’d had to help him piss into a cup, but bodily functions didn’t consider circumstances.

“Fancy pot?” She looked at the pot, her expression puzzled.

“Sorry to mention it, but…”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll…just be over there.” She stood and walked to the front of the cell, turning her back to him.

When he was finished, he turned to her. “If you need to use it, I’ll watch for the guard.”

She shook her head and then uttered a soft thank-you. “What did you call it? A fancy pot?”

“Aye. It’s…strange.”

She looked even more puzzled. “Interesting,” she said quietly.

It was that. He wished he’d had one at home. Another flash…a big house. A castle? But the image quickly faded. He didn’t know if he was remembering this place—it must be some sort of castle—or someplace else. “We’re not going anywhere tonight,” he said. “Might as well clean up a bit. I’m sure I don’t smell too good. They haven’t let me bathe for a while.” He’d been chained most of the time.

She glanced at the sink. “I probably don’t smell like flowers either.”

She smelled like heaven. “I’ll hold the blanket if you want to bathe first,” he said, inspecting the basket. He pulled out cloths and a bar of soap. “Look here. There’s another wee brush so you can clean your teeth.”

She gave him an odd look again. “You go first. You need to clean your wounds.”

It was awkward, but she held the blanket up for him. He tried to remove his shirt, but it was stuck to the cuts on his back. He could rip it off, but they would start bleeding again. He cursed softly as the shirt pulled at the dried blood and raw skin.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Aye. My shirt’s stuck to my back. I don’t want to reopen the wounds. Do you think you could help me?”

She lowered the blanket and put it on the bench. “I’ll have to wet the shirt to loosen it from your cuts.”

She ran the water until it was warm. A delightful thing, he thought, having warm water right out of a pipe. Even more delightful, her hands on his back as she put the wet cloth over the wounds, soaking his shirt. It stung, but her touch took his mind off the pain.

“I think it’s working.” She gently lifted the shirt away from his back in the places where it had been stuck. “You should be able to take it off now.”

He stretched, feeling the shirt freely move. “Aye. That does it.”

“Do you need help?” She glanced at the floor. “The wounds on your back need to be cleaned. I don’t think you can reach them.”

He swallowed and nodded. “That would be helpful.” Among other things. He turned his back and shrugged slowly out of his shirt, tossing it onto the bench next to the blanket.

“My God. What have they done to you?” She gently bathed one of the wounds. “What do they want? Usually a person is tortured to get information. Secrets.”

What would she know about torture? “If they wanted me to tell them secrets, they shouldn’t have stolen my memories. I don’t know anything to tell them.” Not even his name. Apparently it wasn’t Faelan as he’d been told.

It took several minutes. Long, aching, sweet minutes with his body feeling the closest thing to pleasure he’d felt in many a fortnight.

“There. That’s as good as I can do without a first aid kit.”

A what? He didn’t ask. He was busy trying to calm his body enough to turn. It wasn’t working. He reached for the blanket and held it in front of him. “Thank you.”

“You should finish up. You have more wounds to clean.”

He’d like for her to clean them all. Blimey, he’d let her wash every part of him. She took the blanket from him and put it back in place, and he resumed bathing. He removed his kilt and cleaned his face and the cuts on his body. When he’d gotten off most of the blood, he soaped up, washing his chest, belly, arms, and oxters before moving below the waist. He ran the cloth over his groin, thinking what it’d feel like if it was her hand. He didn’t stay there too long for fear that he’d embarrass himself.

* * *

The sound of the washcloth moving over his skin made Anna tingle in places she didn’t want to tingle. She turned her face, and a movement caught her eye. There was a small hole in the blanket. She’d seen lots of naked men. On the battlefield, forest or city, privacy was compromised. But this man…holy cow. He was like a beautiful painting that had been vandalized. Perfectly muscled hips and thighs and a sleek broad back, marred with bruises and cuts.

He turned slightly, and her breath caught. He was rubbing the soapy cloth over his groin. She quickly raised her gaze to the symbols arcing across his chest. Though they were marred by a couple of bruises—his chest seemed to have fared better than the rest of him—she was almost sure they were battle marks.

Battle marks had a kind of a presence about them, as if they were alive. And these made her hands tremble with the urge to touch them. She did look away then, keeping her eyes closed so she wasn’t tempted to find the hole again.

“That’s better,” he said, nudging the blanket down. His clothes were still dirty, but his skin was clean, and the swelling in his face was going down. He healed quickly. “I’ll hold it for you, if you’d like?”

She balked at the thought of undressing so near a strange man, especially one this hot, but after moving stones in the chapel and fighting the guard, she needed to clean up. It would take more than water to erase the feel of the guard straddling her. Watching his blood drain from his body might help.

After the prisoner raised the blanket high enough to block his face, she stripped off her dirty gown and panties and laid them beside her bra. She could hear him breathing on the other side of the blanket. Using the second washcloth and the bar of soap, she washed her face first, the warm water making her long for a bathtub. She washed her body next, hurrying as the man’s breath grew ragged. Holding the blanket at face level must be a strain with his body still weak. Or perhaps he’d also found the hole.

She sped through her routine, pleased to find basic toiletries—toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, and deodorant. What kind of place was this? Beat a man with a whip, then give him toothpaste and deodorant.

“I’m finished,” she said, and he dropped the blanket, his eyes glittering as he stared at her. He draped the blanket over his arm. “Do you want to sit?”

The stone bench was the only place to sit besides the floor, so they both sat on the bench, side by side. Anna shivered, and he handed her the blanket. “You take it. I’m not cold.”

He was lying. When his arm brushed hers, she could feel the chill of his skin. This place was like a freezer. How could it be so much colder here than it had been at Faelan and Bree’s? It felt more like January than early November. Was that part of his torture? Freeze him half to death?

“Thank you.” She wrapped it around her, leaving an edge free for him. “If we sit closer, we can share it.”

He nodded and scooted next to her. She could still smell the blood on his kilt and shirt, but his body smelled clean, male. It gave her the strangest sensation, sitting in near darkness with a man she didn’t know, who she suspected was a warrior, though he didn’t know it. Could he be Austin, the warrior from Canada who’d been attacked by vampires on the way to meet Angus? This place had vampires. Austin could have followed them here after the attack. But he didn’t sound Canadian. He sounded like a Scot. And while tattoos were popular, and it wasn’t uncommon to see a man in a kilt—less so in America—there were too many signs that he was a warrior. His appearance, his manner, the way he moved. And those marks. If they weren’t battle marks, why did she feel like they were whispering to her?

They sat side by side, wrapped in the blanket. His body was warm next to hers, making her sleepy. Unnaturally so. Had the guard put something in her food? She tried to imagine how it would have been for him, here alone, beaten, no memories, no answers, and no one to talk to except his tormentors. He must be strong, mentally as well as physically. “I don’t how you’ve survived being here.”

“I don’t have a choice. I can’t let them kill me. So I sit here night after night waiting to remember something, waiting for them to make a mistake so I can escape.”

“I’m sorry. I promise, we’ll find a way out of here.”

He gave her a puzzled glance. “You must have had a hard life,” he said.

His words surprised her. There was no way he could know about her past. She didn’t talk about it. “Why do you say that?”

“I’ve never seen a woman so…” He seemed to be searching for the word. “Strong,” he finally said, but Anna didn’t think that was his first choice.

“Thank you,” she said, not sure it was a compliment. All warriors were strong, but she didn’t tell him that. She couldn’t tell him who she was until she was sure who he was. Clan secrets had to be kept. “You’re strong too. You would have to be to survive the torture. The tattoos on your chest, you don’t recall getting them?”