Untamed {Mature Reading}

Chapter IV

The water had turned cold by the time Moira returned. Bianca had dutifully cleaned the physical remains of her ordeal from her body, but some taints couldn't be washed away, what she had seen lingered in the back of her mind. Teasing and taunting the frayed edged like a ghost haunting her. It had taken her some time before she managed to will her thoughts into submission, just enough for her to escape the icy cold of the bath.

 With a lone cloth clinging to her otherwise bare form, Bianca had eyed the strange clothes laid out for her with distaste, fingers running over the thick, rough material. 

"Do ye not know how to dress yerself?" The girl had demanded at the other the moment she took in the sight of Bianca.

Her annoyance was palpable, hanging in the air. "I have never worn such clothes," she admitted, lightly fingering the heavy wool. Simple but beautiful silk had been the priestess' choice of cloth - enough for modesty and for her purpose but befitting of her role in her Clan and n the colder month's Bianca had worn furs.

Moira snorted, moving towards the clothes. "I thought most of Ireland had succumbed to the English. Ye speak the language."

Something akin to anger burned in Bianca, her face contouring. "Some of us resist." 

In truth, her people, bought from a small and perhaps simple island, always had the fight go warriors within them. Pride in their roots and their legends. The English had indeed placed their influence upon her people - with cunning and often with brute force. But even the most remote places couldn't be reached or were deemed too small to be a problem.

Moira pursed her lips, eyeing Bianca as if she were to revolt there and then. A flicker of surprise went through the captive priestess – many from her land spoke of the growing rebellion of the Scots. Bianca had in truth been inclined to extend her sympathies to her Celtic brothers and sisters, right up until they plundered her land and took the small treasures as spoils in an unjust raid and slaughtering.

But then, many rebels were now on bended knee to the English king, be they Scottish or Irish. 

As she dressed Bianca, Moira made little to no comment about the bruises that marred the priestess' pale gold skin and Bianca was not in any place to point out where they had come from. Instead, she watched as the girl wrapped her in many heavy layers, of petticoats and skirts, corsets pulled tight and breathless. 

"There," Moira muttered when she had finished with Bianca - hair and all. "Ye may be no lady but ye be no savage either." There was a faint hint of admiration in her voice - the grudging kind, as if she didn't want to wholly admit that the gypsy heathen girl could pass as something remotely respectable. 

Bianca only nodded her thanks, eye trained on the stranger who looked back at her from the looking glass. Her once long and flowing hair was tied back into a strict knot, elaborate braids twining around. The softness of her features had gone and instead, there was a haunted look about her, right down to the muted brown dress. 

Turning away from the sight, Bianca willed the onslaught of tears to reside. 

"What's the matter?" Moira's brows puckered. "Ye no like it?" 

It's not me, Bianca wanted to scream from the top of her lungs. This is not who I am. 

Instead, she managed to force a weak smile. "I just prefer my hair down." She preferred her blessed robes, her people, her land - not this prison of a stone castle where everything felt like a cage - right down to the dress she had to wear. 

The other girl made a noise at the back of her throat. "Please yeself, so." She stared at Bianca and when she noted that the priestess was staring blankly back did she bark. "Will ye fix ye nest of hair then? I've te take ye to the Laird and yer just standing there like a lump."