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“O ch, lass, ye shouldn’t be spending all yer time below stairs. Ye’re not a servant.”

Clara looked up from scrubbing the carrots to see the housekeeper in the doorway, hands on hips. “I’m happier here, Joan, and Morag could do with the help.”

The deerhound at Clara’s feet opened an eye and thumped his tail on the floor at the sound of her voice.

“Morag knows better than to ask the laird’s daughter-in-law to help in the kitchen,” the housekeeper said, glaring at the cook, who stirred a pot over the fire. “That’s what Marsaili’s for. Where is the lazy lass, anyway?”

The cook frowned, then shook her head.

“Taken another fall, has she, Morag?” the housekeeper asked.

“Aye, Mrs. Grant. Poor lass. She needs a husband to take care of her.”

“Is she not permitted to take care of herself?” Clara asked.

The two women stared at her.

“That’s what husbands are for,” the housekeeper said. “Master Murdo looks after ye, doesn’t he?”

“I can look after myself.”

“And when ye become round with his child?”

Clara resumed her attention on the vegetables.

The cook let out a chuckle. “Aye, he takes care of ye, all right. I can tell a woman who’s been well bedded.”

“Morag, that’s enough!” the housekeeper said. Then she grinned. “If only all men were like Master Murdo.”

Clara suppressed a snort.

Oh yes, because he’s the epitome of male perfection.

Silencing the petulant little voice in her mind, she continued scrubbing the carrots.

She couldn’t deny the pleasures her husband gave her body.

And he’d sensed her shame when her courses ran, leaving her alone the moment the blood came and promising not to touch her until she was well again.

Last night, he’d kissed her forehead, then rolled over and fallen asleep, the bed trembling with the vibrations of his big body as he snored, while she lay on her side, cradling her stomach to ease the monthly pains.

The next morning she’d woken cocooned in his embrace, his arms like chains binding her to him while his breath caressed the skin of her neck.

When he’d woken that morning, he released her, dressed himself, then invited her to visit the tenants.

But she’d declined. After church last Sunday, the parson’s wife had called her a whore, hissing the insult like an adder in the grass.

Many clanswomen looked at her with suspicion, whispering among themselves.

Was it any wonder she preferred the company of the servants? After all, most of her life had been spent scrubbing floors, obeying whatever order was thrown in her direction, and dodging blows. Only the past year had been spent in luxury, with her learning how to be a duke’s daughter.

Only she wasn’t a duke’s daughter. She was the illegitimate child of a pimper.

The dog scrambled to his feet. Clara scratched his head and he nudged her, sniffing the pocket of her apron, his tail swishing from side to side. Smiling, she drew out a piece of bread she’d saved for him.

“That’s all I have for you, Buck,” she said.

“I don’t take to animals in the kitchen,” the cook said. “What next, will Duncan bring the deer down from the hills when it gets cold, or will old Braeden bring his cattle in to feed?”

“Buck’s a good dog, Morag,” the housekeeper said. “There’s no harm in it.”

“I want him out of here when we start preparing for Lughnasadh. There’ll be plenty to do without tripping over that great, hairy beast. The laird’s invited the McCallums and the Chisholms this year, and he’ll be furious if there’s anything out of place.”

Clara’s stomach clenched with apprehension. “How many people are coming?”

“At least a hundred souls,” the housekeeper said. “And they’ll not be wanting to come down to the kitchen to see ye, lass. Yer place is above stairs. There’s no finer sight than the Lughnasadh ball, is there, Morag?”

“Aye,” the cook said. “To see the clans come together and dance a reel, with their plaids filling the place with color and music. Master Murdo loves a reel, he does. Nothing makes him happier.”

“Will you show me how to dance a reel?” Clara asked. “Then perhaps…”

Perhaps Murdo might not regret his choice of wife.

“I’d like to learn to dance,” she said, “if it’s a clan tradition— my clan tradition.”

“The festival’s less than a fortnight away,” the cook said. “Master Murdo won’t expect ye to have learned a reel so soon, what with ye being a Sassenach.”

“Och, Morag, that’s no way to speak to the lass,” Joan said. “I’ll get Elspeth to teach ye, Mrs. McTavish. She taught Master Murdo and Master James when they were wee.”

She patted Clara’s hand, then lowered her gaze to her calloused fingers.

“Ye’re a good lass,” she said. “The clan will accept ye in time, especially when ye give us a child or two. We Highlanders don’t always take kindly to strangers—we don’t trust easily.”

“Neither do I,” Clara said.

“Sensible lass. Now, what say ye to a pot of tea? I’ll have Marsaili take some to the west parlor. Ye’ll not be disturbed there. Callum can light a fire, then I can send Elspeth for yer first lesson.”

“I’d like that very much, thank you.”

“Good lass. Ah! There she is.”

Clara glanced up to see the ghillie enter the kitchen, together with Marsaili. The young maidservant seemed to be in a state of perpetual sorrow, though she turned hostile eyes on Clara.

“Marsaili, would ye put some water on to make tea?” the housekeeper said.

The girl frowned. “It’s not time for tea.”

“Less of yer lip, girl!” the cook snapped. “It’s for Mrs. McTavish.”

Marsaili shuffled toward the fireplace. She picked up a pan, then let out a cry and dropped it, cradling her arm.

“Marsaili!” Clara said, approaching her. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m all right! Leave me be!”

Marsaili’s eyes flashed with defiance, but Clara saw a flicker of pain in them, and when she lowered her gaze, she spotted a dark mark on the girl’s skin, peeking out from beneath her sleeve.

A mark in the shape of a handprint.

“That’s no way to speak to yer mistress, Marsaili,” the ghillie said.

“It’s all right, Duncan,” Clara said. “Marsaili, may I see your arm? I recognize a handprint when I see one.”

“What, from when ye were whoring?” the girl sneered.

“Marsaili!” the cook cried, raising her hand to strike the girl. “How dare ye…”

Biting back the pain at the Marsaili’s words, Clara caught the cook’s wrist as the girl dissolved into tears.

“No harm done, Morag,” she said. “I’ve heard far worse since I came here.”

The ghillie pulled Marsaili into his arms, and she clutched his jacket, sobbing.

“I’ll take care of the lass,” he said. “Marsaili, ye shouldn’t say such things when Mrs. McTavish was only being kind.”

“But the laird said…”

Before she could reveal what the laird said, footsteps approached, and Murdo’s brother appeared.

“Ye heavens, Master James!” the cook said. “I don’t know why everyone sees fit to plague my kitchen. At this rate I’ll never get supper ready, and I need to put those bones to boil.”

“Can I help ye, Master James?” the housekeeper said.

He stood in the doorway, his eyes darkening as he stared at the ghillie with Marsaili in his arms.

“No,” he bit out. “Nobody can.”

Then he turned and disappeared, his angry footsteps fading into the distance.

“Poor lad,” the housekeeper said, as the ghillie’s face turned pink. “Duncan, let me see to Marsaili. Get back to yer business. That deer fence won’t mend itself.” She turned to Clara. “Mrs. McTavish, why don’t ye wait in the west parlor and I’ll send Elspeth up?”

Considering herself dismissed, Clara exited the kitchen, the dog trotting after her.

Shortly after, Elspeth arrived, and Clara found herself forgetting her troubles and enjoying her lesson.

The older woman was a patient teacher, and Clara warmed at her gentle praise.

But the distinction of rank prevented their becoming friends.

When Clara invited Elspeth to take tea with her, the woman declined, then returned to her duties.

Clara spent the rest of the afternoon with Buck, who took pleasure from bringing her gifts such as a rag, a wooden toy boat, and what looked like a pair of the cook’s drawers for her to throw across the chamber to fetch.

When the dog tired of the game, he lay on the hearthrug and Clara settled in the window seat.

She looked outside and spotted two men arguing.

One appeared distressed as he shouted at the other, who raised his hands in supplication.

They glanced up and froze as they looked toward her, and she recognized James and Duncan.

She darted behind the curtain, ashamed at being caught.

When she next looked out of the window, they had gone.