Page 27

“Y e should leave that to the steward.”

Murdo glanced up from the ledgers to see his father in the doorway.

“I can manage,” he said, gesturing to the numbers on the page. “It’s how I won…”

My bride.

He suppressed a smile at the memory of that night at the Lyon’s Den.

Clearly the proprietress had expected most of the competitors to lack the wit to add two numbers together when she’d devised the Strength and Honor challenge.

It was by virtue of his being able to complete the calculation that he’d won the right to compete in the final challenge—to don the mask of a mythical beast and climb a rope to claim the prize.

Clara.

The woman who loathed him and saved her smiles for another.

At first he’d thought her courses had darkened her temper. Women were known to turn into harridans each month, and he’d spotted the telltale blood on her night shift the day after their wedding. But even though he’d left her alone the next two nights, she refused to soften toward him.

When he resumed his attentions, she accepted them with indifference, until her body yielded and she cried out her pleasure. But by the time her climax subsided, she’d already reforged the armor around her heart.

She needed to protect herself—aye, he understood that, given what she’d endured in her life. But he couldn’t deny the pain in his soul at knowing that she sought to protect herself from him .

But they’d only been married a fortnight. He couldn’t expect her to forgive him within days of their wedding. This wild lass he’d married, who trusted nothing but her own instincts—he couldn’t force her to come to him. She’d have to come of her own accord. Only then would she be truly his.

He was not like his da. He wasn’t going to force his woman into submission.

Nor am I going to drink and piss away the legacy of my ancestors.

“Is that right, son?”

His father’s angry voice returned him to the present.

Devil’s ballocks —he’d spoken aloud.

“How did ye get to be so lacking in respect for yer da?” his father said, the stench of sour whisky on his breath. “I’ll tell ye—it’s since ye married that slut.”

“My wife is the reason why the estate isn’t ruined,” Murdo growled. “And I told ye not to speak of her in that manner.”

“Ye’re a fool, son. I’m only saying what I see.”

Murdo set his pen aside. “What do you see, Da?”

“Nothing I wouldn’t expect,” his father said. “How many men, I don’t ken.”

“That’s enough .”

“Duncan, for one. I can’t tell how many more.”

“Da, I’ll not listen to yer lies about—”

“I’ve seen them,” Da said. “The morning after yer wedding night I was outside before dawn, and—”

“Visiting a whore, no doubt.”

“A man has needs, son, and I’ve no wife to fulfil those needs.”

“Ye fulfilled yer needs elsewhere even when Ma was alive,” Murdo said. “She wasn’t enough for you.”

“And ye’re not enough for her . I speak the truth—ye know it deep down.” Da placed a hand on his arm. “Son, I won’t see ye humiliated by a faithless wife. I saw them embracing by the wood hut.”

By the wood hut…

Murdo recalled what he’d seen the morning after he woke to an empty bed and peered out of the window: the ghillie with a woman. At first he’d thought it was Marsaili—she was a comely enough lass, and he’d stumbled across Duncan comforting her before over something or other.

A flicker of doubt threaded itself into his mind.

His father might be a faithless man, strict, unkind, rarely fair. But he never spoke an untruth. Even when he’d broken his vows with Ma and taken another woman, he didn’t bother to conceal it. Da always said: he was the laird, and the laird was law.

With that level of arrogance, why bother to lie?

“There’s one way to tell if yer wife’s betraying ye,” Da said, “and that’s if she denies ye in bed.”

Murdo averted his gaze.

“Has she denied yer rights as a husband?”

“Aye,” Murdo said. “But her courses…”

His father wrinkled his nose. “Must ye speak of that ?”

“Da, I—”

“Weak fool! Ye should take yer rights whether her courses run or not. Yer ma was the same, whining and mewling each month. And ye know what I did?”

“No, Da.”

“I took her from behind to spare me her miserable face. Mark my words, son, if ye let yer woman deny ye, the clan will see ye as weak. And a weak man is unfit to rule.” He gestured toward the ledger.

“Ye’re already doing the work of a clerk.

What will she have ye do next, scrub the kitchen pans?

Empty the piss pots? Wash her bloodied sheets? ”

“That’s enough!” Murdo rose to his feet.

“Where are ye going, son?”

“To see my wife.”

His father curled his lip into a sneer. “Ye’ll find her with her lover.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“I saw her with my own eyes, chopping wood like some peasant’s whore, not the wife of the laird’s son.”

Ignoring his father’s jibe, Murdo exited the study. He paused at the main doors, then strode outside, passing young Callum carrying a basket of logs across the yard.

Surely Clara wouldn’t play him false? She’d seemed overly shy about her courses when he spotted the stains on her nightgown yesterday. Almost as if she were an innocent…

Devil’s ballocks! Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Their wedding night had been a fortnight ago, and yet her courses had run again. Which meant…

“Fuck!”

Callum yelped and dropped the logs. “Are ye well, Master Murdo?”

“Aye,” Murdo replied. “I’m also a fool.”

He helped the lad retrieve the logs then made his way to the wood store. But Clara wasn’t there.

Clara, who, he now realized, had been a maiden on their wedding night. And he’d taken her like a rutting boor. He’d had no need to cut himself to give the revelers evidence of a maiden’s blood. The bedsheets had been stained with it the next morning—and not her courses.

In his arrogance he’d thought her cries that night had been cries of pleasure, not pain.

No wonder she hates me.

He caught a ripple of laughter in the wind, coming from the path that wound up the slopes of the mountain and disappeared into a band of trees that concealed the ghillie’s cottage. Beyond the trees, the path climbed higher until it was no longer distinguishable from the rocky summit.

Beyond the summit, two dark dots circled in the heavens, an eagle and his mate.

As Murdo’s gaze followed the path back down, he caught sight of a man and a woman arm in arm.

His wife—and Duncan.

Murdo suppressed the surge of jealousy as she threw back her head in laughter at something the ghillie said. Unlike Society ladies who tittered elegantly behind their fans, Clara laughed with her whole body. She stumbled sideways, and her laughter increased as Duncan caught her in his arms.

Murdo strode to meet them while they chatted animatedly, like the best of friends. Then the ghillie glanced up and met his gaze. He stiffened and withdrew his arm.

“What’s wrong?” Clara said. “Have we been…”

Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Murdo. She glanced at Duncan, then her color, which was delightfully pink from the fresh air, deepened into a blush.

“Master Murdo,” the ghillie said. “We’ve been on the mountain.”

“So I see,” Murdo said.

Clara’s smile disappeared and discomfort filled her eyes.

Or was it guilt?

“Duncan’s been showing me how to chop wood,” she said.

“I see no wood.”

“It was for his cottage. The view up there is wonderful. It looks straight up to the mountain.”

“I know,” Murdo replied. “I’ve lived here all my life. Ye must have made an impression on Duncan to be invited into his cottage. He doesn’t relish guests—especially women.”

“Mrs. McTavish isn’t a guest,” Duncan said. “She’s yer wife.”

“Aye,” Murdo said, lowering his voice to a growl. “ My wife.”

Clara folded her arms. “Why don’t you ask a direct question, husband?”

“Such as?” he said.

Her eyes darkened. “Do you want to know if I’m fucking your gamekeeper?”

Devil’s ballocks! Murdo’s gut twisted at the reminder of how savage she was.

“Sweet heaven, lass!” Duncan said. “Why would ye say such a thing?”

Clara tilted her head to one side. “I’m more concerned about what my husband has to say. Tell me, Murdo, are you accusing me of whoring?”

“Is that not what yer mother—” he began, then he caught a blur of motion before she slapped him across the cheek.

He staggered back, and she raised her arm again, but the ghillie caught it.

“No, lass,” he said. “Ye shouldn’t strike yer husband.”

Her eyes flashed with defiance, but the undercurrent of sorrow in them needled at Murdo’s conscience. How could he have said such a despicable thing?

I’m not my da.

“Forgive me, lass,” he said. “I’ve no wish to hurt ye. I know ye’ve not broken faith with yer vows. Ye’re too honest for that.”

“Oh, am I?” she goaded him.

“Ye’re the most natural creature in the world—unconstrained by the niceties of Society.”

“A savage,” she said. “That’s what you call me, isn’t it?”

“It’s why I…” He hesitated, unwilling to reveal his heart.

Why I fell in love with ye.

“Why you married me?” she said. “I thought it was for my dowry. You came to the Lyon’s Den seeking a rich bride, no matter how much of a harlot she was.”

She flinched as he took her hand.

“I’d never break faith with the vows I uttered,” she said, “no matter what you said—or did.”

“If I recall, ye refused to utter the vow of obedience.”

She snatched her hand free, and he sighed. He met Duncan’s gaze, and the ghillie frowned.

Yes, Duncan, I know I’m a boor.

“I know ye’d not break faith because I trust ye, Clara,” Murdo said.

“Ye wouldn’t be so open with yer friendship with Duncan if the two of ye were lovers.

No, lovers who have no right to be lovers in the eyes of the Almighty are deceitful.

It’s what a man doesn’t see that raises suspicion. Isn’t that right, Duncan?”

“Aye,” the ghillie said. “F-forgive me, I’ve left the fire burning in the cottage. I’ll bring that heather with me when I return, Mrs. McTavish.”

“Heather?” Murdo asked.

“For the Lughnasadh festival,” Clara said. “Duncan said it’s tradition to make garlands of heather for the children.”

Duncan? By what right did she address the ghillie with such familiarity?

“Is that so?”

“Yer wife’s been helping Joan with the preparations,” the ghillie said, “haven’t ye, lass?” He patted her on the arm. “Well, lass, I’ll leave ye in yer husband’s capable hands.”

Then he nodded to Murdo and retreated along the path, toward his cottage.

Murdo reached for his wife. “Forgive me, lass.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said. “At least, you’ve done nothing that I wouldn’t have expected.”

“Perhaps, to atone for being such a boor, I could show ye the loch up in the mountain.”

She raised her eyebrows in question, and he drew her close.

“Do ye remember the meaning of my name, lass?” he whispered. “Murdo, the sea warrior who rises from the loch, made virile by the water on his skin, ready to claim his woman.”

Her eyes flared with desire.

“Ah, ye remember,” he said. “I see it in yer eyes. Then, with yer permission, I’ll take ye there—and claim me for my own.”

Her fingers curled around his as her body’s instinct warred with her hostility.

“I’ll take ye when ye’re ready for me.”

“R-ready?” she said, her voice tight.

“When yer”—he hesitated, his cheeks warming with embarrassment—“yer monthly…”

She looked away. “I-I should be… ready tomorrow, or the day after.”

“I shall await the day after tomorrow with eagerness.”

She gave a quick, tight smile, and he slipped her arm through his and steered her back toward the castle.

“It pleases me to learn that ye’re helping with Lughnasadh,” he said. “The clan comes together to mark the festival, and we invite the clans nearby.”

She stiffened. “You mean there will be guests?”

His heart ached to see the fear in her eyes. He drew her into an embrace, and though she made no move to reciprocate, at least she didn’t resist, remaining passively in his arms.

“Ye’ve nothing to fear,” he said.

But rather than reassure her, his words only seemed to distress her more.

“Do ye not trust me, Clara?”

She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. At length, she shook her head.

Aye, a truthful lass, she was. And, in truth, she neither trusted nor loved him.