Page 16

T he sun had slipped behind the horizon as Clara’s home came into view, a dark silhouette against the peach-colored sky.

She glanced at the man beside her—the huge Highlander who’d captured her heart.

He squeezed her hand and ran his finger along the knot of grass he’d fashioned into a ring, a symbol of their union.

Despite his huge hands, he possessed the dexterity to plait the blades of grass before securing the ring around her finger while kneeling before her.

He was a dexterous man indeed—her body still pulsed with pleasure at his ministrations.

They entered the building to find Clara’s parents in the hallway.

Her stepfather frowned, his eyes darkening with disapproval.

“Where have you been, Mr. McTavish?” he asked. “You’re two hours late.”

“Papa Harcourt,” Clara began, “we were—”

“I didn’t ask you, daughter. I asked your guest .”

“We’ve been walking on the moors, sir,” Murdo said, his voice wavering. Clara squeezed his hand, and her stepfather’s frown deepened.

“I see.”

“Harcourt,” Mama said, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“I want to marry yer daughter,” Murdo said.

Clara’s stepfather drew in a sharp breath. “Have you taken advantage of my daughter, young man?”

“I love her.”

Papa Harcourt shook his head. “I confess I’m disappointed.”

“Why, because he loves me?” Clara asked.

“Of course not, child, but I suggest you look in the mirror. Any fool can tell that you’ve both been—”

Mama placed a hand on his arm. “Harcourt, darling, perhaps you should grant Mr. McTavish an audience. Let him explain himself.”

“There’s nothing to explain!” Clara said.

“Apart from the fact that a man I’ve invited into my home has taken advantage of my daughter?” her stepfather said.

“Forgive me, sir,” Murdo said. “I didn’t… I mean, we didn’t…”

“Papa, I love him,” Clara said. “He hasn’t done…” She hesitated. “I mean…he said he wouldn’t…dishonor me—or dishonor you.”

“I should think so,” Papa Harcourt said. “Any dishonoring , as you put it, will be dealt with severely. As it is, your actions have already compromised my daughter.”

“I’ve no wish to dishonor her,” Murdo said. “I wish to marry her.”

“And her fortune? Your estate is in need of funds, is it not?”

“How do ye know that?” Murdo asked.

“I make it my business to know that which might impact on my daughter’s happiness.”

“Papa, please,” Clara said. “He doesn’t care about my dowry. He said if I was a pauper’s daughter he’d still marry me.”

Murdo drew her close. “Sir, if Clara had nothing, still I’d want to marry her. I love her.”

“On so short an acquaintance?”

“I fell in love the moment I set eyes on her,” Murdo said. “With the passing of each day, that love has only grown. Can ye not understand how a man could fall utterly, completely in love with an extraordinary, spirited young woman such as yer daughter?”

“A pretty enough speech, coming from the man who wishes to deprive my daughter of a London Season.”

“I don’t want a London Season, Papa,” Clara said.

“Are you certain?”

“Perhaps we might permit Clara to choose her own fate, my love,” Mama said. “What guarantee do we have that a suitor in London would treat our daughter better than this man?”

“The Highlands is a long way to take my daughter,” Papa Harcourt said. “I must be assured she’ll be treated well.”

“I intend to take her home with me to meet my family before we marry,” Murdo said.

“ If I give my consent.”

“Aye, if you give it, sir. I also wish to seek my father’s consent.”

“Do you wish to marry in Scotland?”

“It’s what Clara wishes that matters to me,” Murdo said. “I believe she wants to be married from her own home. But I’d like her to see my home, and my family, before we marry.”

Papa Harcourt’s mouth twitched into a smile. “You want to give her the chance to reject you if she doesn’t like your family?”

Murdo lifted Clara’s hand to his lips. “I want her to be certain she’s making the right choice in leaving her family and entering mine. I don’t want her—or ye , sir—to regret her choice.”

He bowed toward Clara’s mother. “If ye wish, ma’am, I’m sure Clara would wish ye to accompany us to Strathburn as her chaperone. I leave next week but can write ahead so we’re expected.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’ve considered every arrangement, young man,” Papa Harcourt said. “But this is most improper.”

Murdo dipped his head. “Forgive the impetuousness of a man in love.”

Clara’s stepfather waved his hand in a gesture of impatience. “Come along, then.” He turned and strode across the hall, beckoning for Murdo to follow. Murdo released Clara’s hand and trotted after him.

“Will Papa Harcourt give his consent, Mama?” Clara asked, after they’d gone.

“He will if you love Mr. McTavish.”

“He looked angry. I know we shouldn’t have stayed out too long, but…”

“Mr. McTavish said he didn’t dishonor you. Did he speak the truth?”

“Do you think Papa Harcourt believed him?”

Mama laughed. “Of course!” she said. “Just as I know he’ll give his consent.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Had he doubted Mr. McTavish’s honor, he’d have cut his…manly parts off. Didn’t you see the knife in his pocket?” Mama linked her arm with Clara’s. “Come, my darling, we’ll await the men in the parlor, then we can toast your union.”

Shortly after they entered the parlor, the men arrived. Clara’s stomach twisted in apprehension, but the pride in her stepfather’s eyes and joy in Murdo’s told her that Papa Harcourt had given his consent.

She was, without doubt, the happiest creature in the world. Not because she’d beaten rival debutantes to the catch of the Season, but because she had found a man who loved her for herself.