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Murdo strode toward his wife and offered his hand. Relief shone in her eyes as she took it.

“Come, woman,” he said. “It’s time for the bedding.”

Another cheer rose up, men toasting his prowess and making crude remarks while their wives issued sharp admonishments.

Clara glanced about the hall, as if seeking an escape. Then she withdrew her hand, but with a swift gesture, Murdo pulled her to him and tossed her over his shoulder.

“Put me down!” she shrieked.

“A feisty wee lass ye’ve got there!” a voice cried.

“She’ll take some taming!”

“That’s where the pleasure lies. Go claim yer bride, young master!”

“Let me go!” Clara kicked out, and a yelp rose as she caught someone with her foot. Murdo glanced around to see Braeden’s eldest brother toppling to the floor.

“Little savage!” he snarled. “What sort of a man are ye, Murdo, letting yer woman misbehave on her wedding night? It’s time ye broke her in.”

Uttering a silent prayer for forgiveness, Murdo slapped his wife on the rump and carried her out into the hallway and up the stairs, while she writhed in his grip, her angry protests echoing through the house.

When he reached the door to the bedchamber—decorated with sprigs of heather—he kicked it open, strode toward the fur-covered bed that dominated the room, and dropped his wife onto it.

She leaped to her feet, but the fury he’d expected was absent from her eyes.

Instead, they widened with horror as the company followed them into the bedchamber, headed by Murdo’s father and brother.

“Wh-what’s happening?” she said.

Murdo turned to the party. “Get out,” he said. “All of ye.”

“But clan tradition—”

“Clan tradition be damned!”

“Son,” his father said, “the least ye can do is respect the clan’s tradition, even if ye don’t respect yer da. Ye need to give proof. Besides, it’s time ye showed yer brother what goes where.”

James cringed under his father’s contempt. “Da…”

“Just go!” Murdo roared. “If ye want proof, I’ll give ye proof. But wait outside until the deed is done.”

He slammed the door, slid the top bolt home, then turned to face his wife.

“Wh-what’s happening?” she said, stepping back. “Were they going to w-watch?”

“It’s clan tradition when a bride is brought back.”

She shook her head. “What sort of a place is this where a man’s desire to watch a”—she gestured between them—“is justified by clan tradition ?”

“That’s why I sent them outside, to spare ye the humiliation.”

“It’s a little late for that,” she said. “You expect me to”—she wrinkled her nose in distaste—“give myself to you while all those people wait outside?”

Murdo caught the whispering and muttering outside the door, and the occasional stifled giggle.

He’d be damned if the party were witness to something his body had been yearning for since he met her.

He tore a scrap of lace from his cuff with his teeth and stuffed it into the keyhole. A chorus of protests followed.

Then he reached for his belt, where he kept his dirk, and pulled it out. Holding the knife aloft, he advanced on Clara.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

He strode to the bed and drew back the furs. Then he pulled up his sleeve and pierced his arm with the blade.

Clara screamed, and a cheer came from outside, followed by applause.

Murdo fisted his hand until a red droplet formed where the tip of the knife had impaled the skin. He twisted the blade sideways, and the droplet swelled then splashed onto the bedsheet, followed by several more. Then he sheathed the knife.

“’Tis done,” he said, fighting his self-loathing.

It had to be done. To protect her. Only in giving a show of strength would he earn the clan’s respect. And if they respected him, they would respect her and, in time, grow to love her.

As he loved her—even though she loathed him.

Murdo removed the bloodstained bedsheet then strode to the door and unbolted it to several leering faces, shiny with eagerness. He held the sheet to a raucous cheer.

“Ye’re a quick worker!” someone cried. “Takes after his da, aye?”

“Yer wife will be walking bow-legged for the rest of the week!”

Murdo forced a laugh. “Go back to yer women now ye know how a real man satisfies his wife!” he said.

The crowd dissipated, clattering down the stairs. The noise lessened to a dull rumble of far-off laughter that Murdo knew would last through the night and end with sore heads and bellies in the morning.

As for the night that lay before him…

The deed itself was still to be accomplished.

He held out his hand, and Clara stared at it.

“Come, lass,” he said gently. “We can now perform the act without an audience.”

“I-I don’t understand,” she said. “Why did you bleed on the sheet?”

“Did yer ma never tell ye about yer wedding night?”

She colored and looked away.

Of course! The brand on her arm—the mark of a pimper’s ownership. Doubtless she’d lost her maidenhead years ago.

“It matters not,” he said. “It was…a clan tradition.”

“So you’re going to lie with me?”

“Not if ye don’t wish to.”

“It’ll happen whether I wish it or not,” she said, sighing. “I’m not a debutante who’ll break at the slightest touch. I’d rather get the deed done.”

“Ye might like it,” he said, smiling. But she didn’t return the smile.

“It matters not whether I do,” she said. “But I’ve weathered worse—far worse—in my life. I’d as sooner do it than not.”

Not the most alluring of requests from a bride.

“Are ye sure?” he asked.

She nodded, her expression showing nothing but raw honesty.

“Then, lass,” he said, tempering the urge to fling her to the ground and rut her into oblivion, “take off yer dress.”