Page 19

T he dining room at Murdo’s home was almost as big as the great hall, with an equally large fireplace, in which a fire blazed and crackled. The dog lay in front of the fire, occasionally jumping as a spark flew out, before settling down with a sigh, his dark eyes focused on the diners.

Mama sat across the table, her face glowing in the candlelight. Murdo’s brother sat beside her.

While Murdo and Mama discussed the process of hunting a stag, James ate in silence. His gaze remained fixed on his plate, though it occasionally flicked toward the empty place at the end of the table.

“Do you hunt stag, Mr. McTavish?” Clara asked.

James paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, and met her gaze. His eyes were the same color as Murdo’s, but unlike his brother’s their expression conveyed wariness and apprehension, as if he expected a beating merely for existing.

Murdo’s brother carried a secret sorrow, and her heart ached for him.

His eyes flared, as if he acknowledged her recognition, then they hardened, and he resumed his attention on his supper.

“Answer her, James,” Murdo growled.

“There’s no need,” Clara said. “Why don’t you tell me about the festival—the one Mrs. Grant mentioned. Lunar, was it?”

The man opposite snorted. “It’s Lughnasadh ,” he sneered.

“What type of festival is it?” Mama asked. Her quiet dignity seemed to temper James’s incivility.

“It celebrates the harvest.”

“So it’s in the autumn?” Clara asked.

He rolled his eyes, and muttered something under his breath that sounded very like damned Sassenachs.

“It’s in late summer, to mark the beginning of the harvest,” he said. “Everyone works the land, so I doubt ye’ll enjoy it.”

Before Clara could reply, hoofbeats echoed outside. James stiffened and his fork clattered onto the table.

Heavy footsteps and a booming voice approached. Then the door was flung open to reveal a man, as wide as he was tall, with thinning silver hair and reddened, fleshy cheeks. His bright-green gaze, red rimmed and glistening in the candlelight, focused on Clara, then swept across the room.

“Ha!” he cried, droplets of spittle flying from his mouth.

“So ye’re back, Murdo, and ye’ve brought yer woman!

” He gestured to Murdo’s brother. “Not like this one here, who wouldn’t take a woman unless I kicked him up the arse all the way to the altar!

But ye’re in luck, James. Old McCallum’s willing to give ye his daughter—and a lucky lass she’ll be, to birth a McTavish laird. ”

“Da,” James said, “I don’t—”

“Be quiet, son!” The laird’s voice boomed around the room. “Ye’ll fulfil yer duty or I’ll have yer ballocks. I’ll have no weak-bellied lassie for a son.”

“Da, take some supper,” Murdo said.

“I will as soon as I can get my arse on a seat. Been riding all evening, I have, all for a young man who doesn’t know his good fortune.” The laird glared at James.

“Da, we have guests,” Murdo said, taking Clara’s hand.

The laird chuckled. “That we do. At least one of my sons is a man.” He approached Clara, and her stomach churned at the stench of liquor on his breath. “Stand up, then, lass. Let me take a good look at ye.”

How dare he!

Clara tilted her chin. “I’m not an animal to be inspected, Mr. McTavish.”

Murdo raised his eyebrows, but James drew in a sharp breath.

Mama met her gaze and frowned.

The laird’s eyes darkened and fear rippled through Clara as she recognized the expression she’d seen often enough as a child, one that was usually the precursor to a beating. She flinched as he grasped her chin.

Then he grinned, revealing a row of yellowing teeth.

“A feisty lassie, ye are,” he said, “but ye’ll learn. We McTavishes know how to keep our women obedient. Isn’t that right, son?”

“Da, I think—” Murdo began.

“Ye’d better not have gone soft, lad, like yer fool of a brother.”

Clara winced as the laird dug his fingers into her flesh and forced her face upward.

“That’s better. I can see ye now,” he said. “Aye, ye’re bonny enough. Murdo always took after his da with the lasses. Though if he’s anything like his da, he’d rut them from behind if they weren’t bonny enough.”

“Da!” Murdo said.

The laird chuckled and released his grip.

“I’m only jesting,” he said. “Ye’re welcome in our family. Daughter of a duchess, I hear, with a fine dowry. And a ripe body I can see—ready for birthing McTavishes, for all that ye’re a Sassenach.”

“Forgive my father,” Murdo said. “He’s in his cups.”

“And why shouldn’t I be, eh?” the laird said. “I’ve cause to celebrate.” He glanced around the table. “I’ve found a bride for my heir, and my younger son has found himself a…”

He froze, his eyes widening.

“Devil’s cock!” he said. “It’s you !”

“Who?” Murdo asked.

“That slut !” the laird snarled. “Get her out of my home at once!”

Clara’s gut twisted with horror. The laird was pointing at her mother.

Murdo stood. “Da, that’s the Duchess of Pittchester,” he said. “She’s not one of yer whores.”

“Ye know me, don’t ye, whore,” the laird said.

Clara’s mother set her napkin aside and rose, her face ashen.

“I recognize you,” she said quietly. “But I don’t know you. I never knew any of your names.”

“Who are ye?” Murdo whispered, staring at Clara’s mother.

“Elizabeth Martingale, Duchess of Pittchester.”

“Ye’re a whore ,” the laird said.

“Da, stop it!” Murdo said. “Ye’ve taken too much whisky.”

“Too much whisky, have I? I’ll prove I’m right, lad.”

The laird strode toward Clara’s mother and grasped her sleeve. Then he pulled it up to reveal the scar on her skin—the mark in the shape of the letter D .

“Ye bear his brand,” he said. “Ye can’t deny it now.”

“I deny nothing.” Clara’s mother met the laird’s gaze.

“Aye, Elizabeth, Duchess of Pittchester ,” he snarled. “Only I knew ye as Eliza, the filthiest whore in London. Gave me a good ride, ye did.”

“When ye were in London ?” Murdo said. “Da, that was years ago, when I was a bairn. Are ye saying ye took a whore ?”

“I’ve always taken whores, son—it’s part of being a man. Ye’ve taken plenty yerself.”

Clara drew in a sharp breath and turned to her fiancé. “You what ?”

“I’ve had women warm my bed, aye,” Murdo said, “but I’d never stoop to taking a whore.”

Clara’s mother swayed to the side, and Clara rushed across the table and took her hand.

“Mama, is it true?” she asked. “Was this man one of”—she swallowed the nausea rising in her gut—“one of… them ?”

Her mother nodded. “Oh, darling, I-I’m so sorry!”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Clara said. “Not like him .” She pointed to the laird. “How could you?”

He let out a laugh. “What, take what was on offer for a coin? She was plenty willing, lass—spread her legs for every man in London, or so I was told. I’d recognize her anywhere.”

“Then you’re unique among men,” Clara’s mother said, her voice even. “Most men didn’t bother to look at our faces.”

“I always take a look at their faces,” the laird said. “I remember yer face, looking up at me with those lips wrapped around my—”

“No!” Clara cried. “Stop! Murdo, make him stop!”

“I-I can’t,” Murdo said. “Does he speak the truth?”

“Of course I do!” the laird said. “Would ye listen to this slut over yer da? Would ye…”

He hesitated, his gaze fixed on Clara.

“Devil’s cock! Are ye the brat of a whore ?”

Mama took Clara’s hand. “Clara is my daughter.”

“And her father…her natural father…” Murdo’s voice trailed away. Then he shook his head. “Sweet Lord Almighty—Da, are ye her father?”

His face twisted in horror, and Clara’s heart shattered at the disgust in his eyes.

“No,” Mama said quietly. She touched her scar. “Clara’s natural father is the man who did this to me. I was already with child when your father—”

“No!” Murdo said. “I cannot bear to hear any more of this.”

“Why, Mr. McTavish,” Mama said, her voice hardening, “I didn’t take you for—how did your father put it?—a weak-bellied lassie .”

“So he speaks the truth?”

“Your father visited the brothel where I worked,” Mama said. “If I recall, he came every day for a month, and paid an extra shilling because I was with child.”

“He p-paid…” Murdo shook his head.

“Don’t be too hard on your father, Mr. McTavish,” Mama said.

“He didn’t part with the shilling willingly—it took some persuasion.

I’d hate it if you thought him an extravagant man.

” She glanced about the dining room, then turned to the laird.

“Your son said your finances were in a pitiful state, and I now understand why—an excess of liquor and exploitation of women driven out of necessity, or captivity, to sell their bodies.”

“Say what you want, woman,” the laird said. “I’ll not have a whore’s daughter in my family.”

“I believe we are of one mind, Lord McTavish,” Mama said.

“Don’t ye want to foist yer brat onto my son?”

“Not now I know what kind of creature his father is.”

“Why ye…” He balled his hands into fists, but she stood firm.

“Strike me if you wish,” she said. “It’s what I’d expect.”

“Da, that’s enough !” Murdo said. “Get to yer chamber and sleep off the whisky. I’ll deal with this.”

Clara’s heart stung with pain. “ Deal with this?”

“Aye,” Murdo said, averting his gaze.

A huge, cruel fist punched through Clara’s chest and clawed at her heart.

“Won’t you look at me, Murdo?” she asked.

“Not if he wishes to remain under my roof,” the laird said.

“Da,” James said quietly, “perhaps ye should—”

“Silence!” the laird roared, clipping him over the head. “Don’t be such a milkmaid.”

“Murdo?” Clara whispered, but he still wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“Why didn’t ye tell me, Clara?” he said.

Clara’s mother caught her hand. “Come along, daughter, we’re leaving.”

“No fight in ye, Duchess ?” the laird sneered. “Ye had plenty of fight when I spread yer—”

“Da, that’s enough!” Murdo roared.

“What would be the point?” Mama said. “I could shoot you dead, but death’s too good for you. You deserve to live out the rest of your pathetic life knowing that you’ve deprived your family of the brightest jewel in the world—my daughter.”