Page 23

B y the time the carriage reached Strathburn, Murdo’s bride had fallen asleep.

She’d spent most of the journey with her eyes closed, but the tension in her body told him that she was awake, and alert—like a rabbit attempting to remain still before a predator in the hope she could escape unobserved and unscathed.

Only Clara wasn’t unscathed. Outwardly she bore the scar of her past, the ugly red mark on her upper arm that elicited in Murdo the desire to rip apart the limbs of those who’d hurt her. And inwardly…

Inwardly she carried the scars of a broken heart. Scars he had inflicted.

But how could he help her to heal when she looked at him with such fury?

When the tension left her body, he knew she’d fallen asleep. Only then did he retrieve the blanket that had slipped to the floor and place it over her sleeping form. Holding his breath, he placed his palm on her cheek, and his heart swelled at the smile curving her lips.

Whom did she dream of? Was it him? Or, perhaps, the man she had thought he was—a man of honor, not the sorry creature who’d betrayed her?

The carriage drew to a halt and a manservant rushed toward it. Murdo leaned out of the window and glanced at the mountain dominating the horizon.

Beinn Urraim —Mountain of Honor.

“Master Murdo, welcome!”

“Hush, Callum. My bride’s asleep.”

“We’ve been wanting to take a look at her. The laird’s in a right fine mood, and Morag’s been cooking all day for the celebration.”

“And my brother?”

“H-he’s well. Been taking too much of yer da’s whisky, if ye don’t mind my saying.”

“Is Duncan with him?”

“They were on the hills today, but Master James sent Duncan to the kitchens as soon as he heard the carriage. Everyone’s gathered in the hallway.”

Murdo turned to Clara and placed his hand on her cheek again, tracing the outline of her mouth with his thumb.

“Mmm…” She caught his hand and curled her fingers around his wrist, a smile of contentment on her lips. Then she opened her eyes. The contentment—and the smile—died.

“We’re home,” Murdo said.

She tensed and sat up.

“Devil’s arse!” Callum cried. Then he blushed. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss—I mean, Mrs. McTavish. W-welcome to Strathburn.”

“Callum, isn’t it?” Clara said.

“Aye. We all…” Callum glanced at Murdo. “We’d best get ye inside. Everyone’s waiting.”

Murdo helped Clara out of the carriage. She glanced about, her eyes bright with fear.

Callum lowered his voice. “Ye’d best tell the laird before comin’ in with yer bride, Master Murdo. It’ll come as a shock, and Dr. Munro said we mustn’t—”

“Hush!” Murdo said, but the damage had already been done. Moisture gleamed in Clara’s eyes as she took in every word.

Murdo took her arm. She had naught to be ashamed of, and he’d be damned if he couldn’t march her into his home with pride as generations of McTavish men had done so in years gone by.

“Lead the way, Callum,” he said. “I wish to take my bride over the threshold.”

Callum muttered something that sounded very like “let the wrath of the devil fall on yer own head,” then retreated through the main doors, through which Murdo could hear excited chatter.

He squeezed his wife’s hand. “All will be well, lass. Ye’ve naught to fear.”

“What do you think I am—a weak-bellied debutante?” she bit out.

Her defiance was tempered by the tremor in her voice. Tightening his grip in a gesture of reassurance, he led her through the doorway.

Da stood at the foot of the stairs with James.

Surrounding them were the tenants of the estate—young Braeden and his five brothers with the eldest brothers’ wives, wee Struan McTavish, and his wife and mother.

Parson and Mrs. Stewart stood halfway up the stairs, as if to affirm their moral superiority over the party by their elevated position.

Joan stood flanked by Elspeth and Marsaili, the redness in her cheeks evidence that even she had taken a nip of whisky in celebration.

There had to be at least fifty people. But a McTavish marriage was a rare occurrence. The last had been Da’s over thirty years before. They’d not need to wait so long for the next one—when James wed the McCallum lass.

Murdo’s father stepped forward, coughing, and Clara shifted toward Murdo in an almost instinctive need for protection.

“Welcome, son—and yer bride. At last, ye’ve honored the name of McTavish by…”

Da paused, then let out a deep hiss.

“Master Angus?” Joan said. “Are ye—”

“Devil’s cursed cock!” Da cried. “What are ye doing with that…that spawn of a whore!”

A collective intake of breath rippled over the company.

“Sweet Lord Almighty!” Joan said. “Master Murdo, do my eyes deceive me?”

“They don’t, Joan,” Murdo said. “Forgive me if—”

“There’s naught to forgive.”

“There is ,” his father growled. “Didn’t I say I’d not have ye bring a whore into my house again?”

“Master Angus, ye can’t speak to yer son like—”

“I’ll speak to him as I see fit!” Murdo’s father said. “I’m head of the clan. I should have known that slut would trick ye into marriage. What did she do, offer her cunny to—”

“Da! This isn’t the place to discuss the matter,” Murdo said. “Everyone, go to the great hall.”

As the company dispersed, Clara addressed Murdo’s father, her eyes flashing with fury. “Do you think I’d willingly return here ?” she said. “The thought of being in the same room as a creature such as you repulses me!”

“Wife, that’s enough!” Murdo said. “Joan, take my bride to the great hall and make sure she’s ready.”

The housekeeper took Clara’s hand. “Come, lass. This is no place for women.”

“What, this hall,” Clara said, “or the whole godforsaken house?”

“Why, you little…” Da began.

“Get her inside, Joan,” Murdo said. “ Now! ”

Clara shot him a look of venom, but she let the housekeeper lead her away.

Murdo’s father raised his hand, but Murdo caught it, curling his fingers round the old man’s bony wrist.

Devil’s ballocks , his da had grown thin.

A life of lairdship and bitterness took its toll on a man. And James was unwilling to take on the mantle even though he was the heir.

As for Murdo himself…

He couldn’t even defend the woman he loved.

“What the fuck are ye doing, son, bringing that whore’s spawn into my home?”

“She’s my wife, Da,” Murdo said. “Ye sent me to London to sell myself to a wealthy woman, and I’ve returned with one. Forty thousand, if ye recall.”

“I wouldn’t suffer that slut for a hundred thousand! She’ll taint the clan with her filth—yer children would carry the stain of being a whore’s brats.”

“My children will be sons and daughters of the clan,” Murdo said. “Clara is my wife.”

“Clara!” Da scoffed. “Why couldn’t ye wed a good Scottish lass rather than a Sassenach?”

“Because ye sent me to the Lyon’s Den.”

“How do ye know she’s not riddled with the pox, eh?”

“That’s enough!” Murdo roared. “Like it or not, Clara’s my wife! We each uttered our vows, willingly entering into marriage. We’re man and wife.”

“Man!” his da snorted, sending out another cloud of spittle.

“Ye’re no man—guided by yer cock, ye are.

Yer brother’s no better, as he doesn’t know where to stick his.

What did I do to be cursed with such piles of deer shit for sons?

Mark my words, she’ll mark ye with the pox.

Ye’ll wake up one day to find yer cock’s rotted off.

And don’t think she’ll keep her thighs closed—she’ll be letting every lad in the clan dip his cock into—”

Murdo grasped his father’s arms and slammed him back against the wall.

“In the name of the devil, will ye desist!” he roared. “Utter one more word against her and I’ll strike ye down!”

He raised his fist, and his father flinched. Then a sly smile crept across his lips.

“So my son has a pair of ballocks after all—which is more than I can say for yer brother. Go on, then, strike me if ye dare.”

“I’ve no need to strike ye, Da,” Murdo said, lowering his voice to a cold, hard tone. “But I promise ye this. If ye fail to respect me and my choice of wife then I’ll grant yer wish and make sure my wife never sets foot here again.”

“Ye will?” The slyness intensified in Da’s eyes.

“Aye, I will,” Murdo said. “I’ll take my wife—and her fortune—to England.”

His da paled. “Y-ye wouldn’t.”

“Ye wouldn’t mind, aye?” Murdo said. “After all, James is the heir.”

“Aye, but James is…”

“James is what?”

His father let out a sigh, and for a moment, Murdo caught the flash of despair in a broken old man—before the contempt returned.

“James isn’t a real man. But marriage to Shona McCallum will make a man of him. Ye must make him marry her, Murdo, or the clan will die.”

A raucous cheer came from the great hall, followed by laughter.

Devil’s ballocks , what were they doing to Clara?

But Murdo knew. They were preparing her for her wedding night, as was the clan custom.

He smoothed down his plaid, then strode toward the cheers, his father following.

The great hall was filled with people dancing reels, lifting glasses into the air with a song, then draining them with raucous laughter and fervent belching, before filling them once more.

In the center of the throng stood Murdo’s bride.

She still wore her bridal gown, but her hair now hung loosely round her shoulders.

A crown fashioned from heather had been placed on her head, and Elspeth and Marsaili were braiding her hair, weaving yarn into her tresses in the McTavish clan colors—scarlet, sky blue, and peat brown.

Clara stood, transfixed, like a deer surrounded by a pack of hounds, while the revelers toasted the forthcoming loss of her maidenhead.

Their gazes met, and Murdo felt a sharp pull in his heart—the invisible thread that attached their souls. Her eyes widened in a plea, and he uttered a prayer for forgiveness for what must be done.

“The groom is here!” a voice cried out.

“Yer bride is ripe and ready.”

“Go on, then, son,” Da said. “If ye’re as much as a man as ye’d like yer da to believe, then prove it in front of yer clan.”