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“I love you, Murdo.”

The soft, tender voice filled his mind as he relished the warmth of his wife’s willing body beneath him—the body that still rippled with an echo of their climaxes.

How he’d yearned to hear those sweet words fall from her lips!

Murdo rolled onto his side and reached for her, but there was nothing but a cold, empty space in the bed. He sat up and drew the furs back, but the bed bore no imprint of her body.

He was alone, with nothing but the memory of a dream to taunt him.

Clara hadn’t come to bed last night, having preferred to sleep in the kitchen.

As she’d declared, unashamedly, last night.

Devil’s ballocks , what would they all think if they knew he was unable to control his wife—the wife who despised him?

She’s nothing but a savage, son—she’ll destroy the clan.

His da’s words still echoed in his mind.

Aye, Clara was a savage, untamed and headstrong, and he’d been drawn to her spirit as a moth to a flame. But she’d made her loathing of him all too evident last night, preferring to run into the arms of other men than seek comfort from her husband. And he…

And I—foolish moth that I am—have been scorched.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have married her.

A scream ripped through the air, and Murdo’s gut twisted with fear.

Clara…

He leaped out of bed, ran toward the door, and yanked it open.

“Clara!”

Another scream came, followed by sobbing. But it came from his da’s bedchamber, not the kitchen.

“Clara?”

The sobbing continued, then a door opened and a woman rushed out. But it wasn’t Clara.

“Marsaili!” Murdo said. “What the devil’s wrong?”

“I-it’s the laird!” she sobbed. “H-he’s been taken ill. He was—” She broke off, her cheeks reddening.

He reached toward her, and she flinched and stepped back. Only then did he notice her appearance—the dark mark on her cheek, the swollen lips, her tangled hair…

…and her thin shift with a tear along the front.

“What are ye…” he began, then the skin on the back of his neck tightened as a deep wail came from inside.

Pushing the sobbing girl aside, Murdo rushed through the doorway.

His father’s chamber seemed to be devoid of color, the cold blue light of dawn having smothered the reds and browns of the plaid furnishings. The empty fireplace resembled a huge, toothless mouth—a black chasm in the center of the wall. And in the bed…

Murdo’s blood froze at the ghoul-like figure, its face deathly white, with dark gray rings beneath red-rimmed eyes.

The figure let out a groan. “Son…”

Murdo approached the bed and took his father’s hand. Clawlike fingers curled around his wrists with a strength that belied the older man’s frailty.

“Da, what’s happened?”

His father pulled him close and hissed in his ear.

“M-my chest. C-can’t br…” He drew in a shallow breath. “I-I—”

He broke off, coughing, shaking, and Marsaili let out another wail.

“G-get rid of that slut,” Da whispered.

Marsaili’s sobs continued and footsteps approached. Then Murdo’s father lifted his free arm and pointed toward the doorway.

“Witch!” he croaked. “Ye bring nothing but ill to the clan, cursed whore! What have ye done to me?”

Murdo turned to see Clara in the doorway. She stared at his father, her eyes filled with remorse.

Remorse…and guilt .

Elspeth and Joan appeared beside her.

“Elspeth,” Clara said, “send for a doctor—quickly!”

“Aye, ma’am.” The woman bobbed a curtsey and disappeared.

“What have ye done, Clara?” Murdo asked.

“What have I done?”

“Aye, that’s right, ye whore,” his father croaked. “Ye’ve brought about my death. So I curse ye! Ye’ll never know satisfaction. Ye’ve set out to ruin Clan McTavish with yer whoring and yer savagery, but I say to ye that ye’ll be cursed forever !”

Clara’s expression hardened. “It’s you who’s cursed, Lord McTavish. You’ll meet your retribution in hell for what you did to my mother.”

Murdo caught his breath at the fury in her voice.

“Clara,” he said, “ye shouldn’t—”

“Let her spill her poison,” his father said. “Let her show what she truly is.” He grasped Murdo’s nightshirt and pulled him close. “Son, ye must make yer father one final vow before he departs this earth.”

“Ye just need to rest, Da, then ye’ll be well.”

“Promise me, son!” the older man said through gritted teeth, fervor in his eyes.

A swell of sorrow thickened in Murdo’s gut.

Despite how he’d treated Murdo’s ma—despite the beatings he’d given Murdo and his brother—the old man before him now was his father, the man who’d taught him the meaning of clan loyalty.

His father’s harshness had made him strong, and he needed to be strong, for a weakling stood no chance of survival in the rugged Highland landscape.

His da had taught him strength. And he’d taught him honor.

Strength and honor…

The essence of what it meant to be a McTavish.

Murdo blinked, and moisture stung his eyes.

“Aye, Da,” he said. I promise.”

“Rid yerself of that whore, lad. Honor the deathbed wish of yer da and find another wife. For if ye don’t, then the clan will be no more.”

“But James—”

“Yer brother’s no man!” his father snarled. “It’s up to ye , son. Ye’re the future of the clan. But ye’ll have no future if ye remain wedded to that slut.”

“My wife’s…” Murdo began, and his father sat up with a flare of life.

“She’s a whore , son!” he cried. “ All women are whores—deceitful sluts who’ll ride any cock if it serves their purpose, then spin their lies to suit themselves. I curse them all!”

His breath rattled in his chest, then he fell back.

“Da!” Murdo cried.

But the spark of life had gone. His father lay still, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling, mouth twisted into a grimace of loathing.

Marsaili let out another wail.

“For the love of heaven!” Murdo cried. “Will ye desist?”

“Leave her be!” Clara said, pulling Marsaili into an embrace. “You see to your father. You can congratulate each other on your superiority over the female sex.”

“How can ye speak so?” Murdo said.

Clara opened her mouth to respond, then she shook her head and turned to Marsaili. “Are you hurt?”

The maidservant glanced toward the bed, her eyes widening in fear. Then she met Murdo’s gaze and shook her head.

“N-no, but I…” Her lip wobbled. “Leave me be—Sassenach!”

“Marsaili!” Joan said. “That’s no way to speak to yer mistress.”

Hurt rippled across Clara’s expression, but she placed a gentle hand on the girl’s cheek.

“Marsaili, let me at least tend to that bruise.”

The girl burst into tears, and Clara drew her close.

“Wh-what am I going to do?” Marsaili wailed. “Where will I go?”

“What do you mean?” Clara said. “This is your home.”

“B-but…I’m ruined. I’ll be cast out. I-I…”

She shook with sobs while Clara shushed her with gentle words.

Murdo glanced at the lifeless form of his father, biting back the swell of grief.

“I-I’m carrying his child,” Marsaili said, almost in a whisper.

“ Whose child, lass?” Murdo asked.

“The laird’s.”

Joan drew in a sharp breath, but Clara merely nodded.

“My da ?” Murdo shook his head. “No, lass ye can’t be speaking the truth. Whose child is it? Or perhaps ye don’t know?”

“How dare you ask such a thing!” Clara said.

“I’ve every right to ask, if she claims to be carrying my da’s child,” Murdo said. “But no matter whom the father is, the clan has enough money to support her.”

Clara snorted. “Courtesy of my fortune.”

“It’s the clan’s fortune now.”

“And my mis fortune. Tell me, Murdo, do you think as your father did? Do you think me a deceitful whore as well as poor Marsaili here?”

Murdo flinched, recalling his father’s words, and he glanced across at his father’s still form—the man he’d sworn undying loyalty to.

“I thought as much,” Clara said. Her voice was quieter, but the quietness heightened the impact, for it spoke not of her fiery anger, but of sorrow and despair.

Joan placed a wrinkled hand on Clara’s arm.

“Ye must understand, lass,” she said. “Master Murdo’s remembering the man his da once was.

Every wee laddie looks up to his da. And for all that he had his flaws, Master Angus valued the honor of Clan McTavish above all.

Honor is the bones around which the flesh of our clan is molded.

Master Murdo loved his da. Every father has the love of his child. ”

“Not mine,” Clara said. “I hated him.”

“The duke?”

“No. The creature who sired me.”

“Aye,” Murdo said. “ He was filth—a violator of women who ran a whorehouse.”

“He’s no different to the man who frequented that whorehouse,” Clara snarled, gesturing toward the lifeless form in the bed. “I hated him also—a violator of women.”

“A man who paid a whore to spread her legs is no violator,” Murdo said. “He’s merely the recipient of service provided by—”

He checked himself as her eyes filled with hurt. “Forgive me, Clara,” he said, his conscience tearing at his soul, “I didn’t mean…”

“You didn’t mean my mother?”

Before Murdo could reply, footsteps approached and a silver-haired man appeared in the doorway, holding a black case.

“I came as soon as I could, Mr. McTavish.”

“Ye’re too late, Dr. Munro,” Murdo said.

The doctor approached the bed and lifted the laird’s wrist. After a moment, he nodded.

Then he reached for the laird’s face and closed the eyelids with his fingertips.

Murdo gave an involuntary sigh of relief to be no longer subject to that demanding, judgmental gaze.

Then guilt overcame the relief and his eyes misted over with moisture.

“Forgive me, Da,” he whispered. “What have I done?”

“The end comes to us all, Mr. McTavish,” the doctor said. “Yer father’s end was closer than most.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“He’d been ill for some months,” came the reply. “When I last visited, I told him he had a matter of weeks. He did well to survive this long.”

Murdo glanced at his wife, tempering the relief flooding through him.

“Then it was inevitable?” he asked. “Nobody—”

He broke off as Clara paled.

“Nobody what , husband?” she said.

“It matters not,” Murdo said. “I spoke out of grief.”