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“I now pronounce ye husband and wife.”

As the vicar’s words resonated around the chapel, Clara heard a small intake of breath from where her mother and stepfather sat.

It was nothing compared to the gasp the groom elicited as she’d repeated the vows—or not.

Love, honor, and obey, indeed! Did he think her weak enough to pledge obedience ? She’d vowed to honor and respect him—what more did he want?

When Mama married Papa Harcourt, she’d pledged to “tolerate, honor, and direct.” But the expression in Murdo’s dark-emerald eyes told Clara that she’d have a challenge trying to direct the huge highlander.

The man to whom she now belonged.

The groom lifted her veil for the marital kiss.

For a moment, Clara surrendered to the anticipation.

Then she turned her head aside and his lips brushed her cheek.

Hurt flickered in his eyes, then he turned to face the congregation—Mama, who sat stiffly next to Papa Harcourt, and Clara’s stepbrothers in the pew behind.

Not even Nathaniel, who found amusement in the most dire circumstances—such as the day he’d broken his leg falling out of a tree—could muster a smile.

She’s making a monumental mistake!

Clara recalled Papa Harcourt’s angry exchange with Mama the night they’d returned home from the Lyon’s Den. Only once before had she witnessed him losing his composure so completely—when her mother had gone missing and his fear for the woman he loved had unleashed his fury at the world.

But Mama persuaded him to permit the marriage, though he threatened to slice the groom into bite-sized pieces to feed to the pigs were he to come within ten feet of him.

And now, he sat in the church next to Mama, displaying his usual stillness, save his right hand, which occasionally moved toward his jacket pocket to give it a reassuring pat.

Murdo led Clara down the aisle. He tensed as they passed her stepfather, but Papa Harcourt merely fixed a cold stare on the groom, then rose to follow them outside.

Across the town, the crumbling ruin Clara had noticed from the carriage gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Melrose Abbey—fashioned from rose-colored stone, with huge, sweeping, broken arches, stretching toward a roof that had been stripped away centuries before.

Over the years, the abbey had crumbled away, enduring the ravages of time and the men who valued it not for itself, but for what it could give them.

She glanced at her husband.

Will I crumble away at your hands until I’m nothing but bare bones?

He narrowed his eyes, as if he’d read her mind. Then the rest of the party joined them.

Murdo released her hand. “Permit me a moment to settle things with the vicar.”

“It’s done,” Papa Harcourt said. “There’s no need to remain here a minute longer—at least once I’ve had a word with you , young man.”

The vicar raised his eyebrows. “Your Grace, I think—”

“A vicar is not paid to think . I trust my donation was sufficient?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Then that’s settled,” Papa Harcourt said. “All that remains is for my daughter and her husband to embark on a life of wedded bliss.”

“Very good, Yer Grace,” the vicar said, evidently not recognizing the irony in Papa Harcourt’s tone.

“Shall we take tea?” Mama said. “Reverend, you’re welcome to join us. The woman at the inn—Mrs. McReady, is it?—has offered to accommodate us.”

“It’s a long drive to Strathburn,” Murdo said. “My family’s expecting us tonight.”

“And you wouldn’t wish to disappoint them ,” Clara bit out.

She caught a flash of guilt in his eyes.

“Daughter, what do you want?” Mama asked.

“I want to go,” Clara said. “I’ve made my decision and intend to abide by it, no matter what.”

A smile played on Murdo’s lips, but it disappeared when she glared at him.

“I’ve weathered considerably worse in my life,” she added. “We both have, Mama.”

Her mother pulled her into a tight embrace. “There’s my stout-hearted girl!” she said. “The unicorn will need to earn the respect of my little lioness.”

Mama released her, and before Clara could catch her breath, her stepbrothers pulled her into their arms.

“We’re going to miss you, little wildcat,” Nathaniel said. “I pray you’ll be all right.”

“She will—won’t you, sister?” Cornelius said. “Give him hell, Clarry. Like a true Martingale.”

He lifted his little finger and curled it into a hook. Clara hooked her little finger around it and Nathaniel followed suit.

“Like a true Martingale,” they said, in unison.

Then her stepfather approached. He pulled her into a tight embrace, as if his life depended on it.

Clara clung to him, inhaling the scent of wood, pine, and cigars that had terrified her when she first set eyes on him, the aristocratic stranger who’d wrenched her from the slums. But as she grew to trust him, his scent became an enduring comfort.

“Forgive me, Papa,” she said. “I know you wanted me to be a lady.”

“You’re my daughter,” he whispered, his voice wavering. “I care for nothing else.”

“You mean it?”

“Of course I do, dearest girl. Be happy, and write as often as you can.”

He lifted her hand to his lips. Then he helped her into the waiting carriage.

Murdo moved to follow her.

“Mr. McTavish, if you please,” Papa Harcourt said, catching Murdo’s sleeve.

The apprehension in Murdo’s gaze intensified as Papa Harcourt drew back the front of his jacket until the polished wooden handle of a pistol came into view.

“You’re now a member of my family, young man,” he said.

“Thank ye, sir. I—”

“Do not forget it, because, rest assured, I never shall.”

Then he pulled Murdo close and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“I’ve suffered the misfortune today of witnessing you promise to love, honor, and keep my daughter. Be assured that if you harm a hair on her head, you’ll have me to answer to.”

“Do ye intend to shoot me, sir?”

Papa Harcourt gave a cold smile. “The punishment I have in mind is best carried out while you still live. And I promise I’ll take immense pleasure from it.”

He released Murdo, then wiped his hand on his jacket.

“Sir, I—” Murdo began.

“There’s no need to speak, Mr. McTavish. I form opinions based on actions, not words. And, in contrast to your behavior to date, I keep my promises. Remember that and I might just leave you to live out your life unmolested.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Make sure you do.”

Papa withdrew, and Murdo bowed to Mama.

“Have ye anything to say, Duchess?”

“My husband has said all that needs to be said.”

Murdo bowed again, then climbed into the carriage and closed the door, then Clara leaned out, fear curling inside her stomach.

“Write to me!” she said, as her family raised their hands in farewell.

Then the carriage lurched into motion. Clara memorized the image of her parents—the two people who loved her best in the world—as their figures receded into the distance. Then the carriage turned a corner and they disappeared.

She settled into her seat, rubbing the scar on her arm. Then she glanced up to see her husband staring at her.

“Does yer stepfather always speak for ye, lass—fight yer battles?”

“My father speaks for himself,” she retorted, “and though the blackened heart of a scoundrel may be a tempting target for a caring father with a pistol, his throat is also a tempting prospect for a woman with a knife.”

His cast his gaze over her body.

“Looking for a weapon?” she said. “You’ll never find it. The first time you see it will be when I plunge it into your chest.”

“Yer sharpest weapon’s yer tongue, wife .”

She flinched at his emphasis on that last word.

“I didn’t pledge to obey you,” she said.

“But ye must obey me by law, no matter what ye said in church. Like it or not, ye belong to my family, and ye must show me respect tonight before my family, whether ye like it or not.”

“Or what?” she challenged.

“Or I shall be forced to apply the law as I see fit.”

He settled back into his seat, a cocktail of determination and guilt in his expression. Then he closed his eyes, and they continued in silence, the carriage rocking to and fro.

Show me respect tonight…

What did he mean?

The air grew cold and Clara reached for a blanket, but he was sitting on the corner. When she tugged at it, his eyes flew open, and her heart skittered at the raw desire in them.

“What is it, lass?”

“I’m cold.”

She tugged again. The blanket came free and she placed it over her shoulders.

“What else?”

“There’s nothing else.”

“I can read ye like a ledger, lass,” he said. “What is it?”

“Wh-what’s happening tonight?”

“It’s a clan tradition.”

“What is?”

“The consummation,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning forward. “The moment ye truly become mine .”