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His arms straightened to brace by her sides. “True, but I choose not to do it.”
“It’s not about us, there’s more involved in it, I’m sure you realise that.” Alliances that joined fortunes and reaffirmed networks. His own story made it very clear—an arranged marriage made by his grand-fathers to reinforce the power balance in the Highlands.
Samuel lowered his head as it hung between them with a regretful nod.
“You’ll also need heirs,” she added, but he did not look at her. “In five years of marriage, I did not conceive once, which means I’m probably barren.” The condition caused her sadness for the first time in her life, for him, with him she would have liked all the children he, they, wanted.
He sucked in a heavy breath, his slick hair falling on his brow, hiding his eyes. Suddenly, drops of moisture trickled on her bosom. Tears.
“Oh, Samuel!” she exclaimed, as her hands held his face to turn it to her. Lakes of sorrow covered the green depths, mirroring unrequited love as these Scottish lakes mirrored stormy clouds. Her own tears fell from her onto the pillow.
“I hate this view of women as brooding mares used only to forward clan power!” he hurled in anger.
How would he be wrong? Her thumbs dried the moisture on his face. “I know, I know,” she soothed.
“My mother could not abide by it, that’s why she forsook me,” he justified his opinion.
Her arms wrapped around him as he buried his face on her neck. They held each other for a long time.
He lifted his head to meet her eyes. “At least promise me you’ll not leave me,” he requested.
At that instant, she realised that her refusal equated with the feelings of abandonment he experienced so early in life. Her heart went out to him, wishing she had the chance to heal him, show him that things could be different.
“I’ll not, I promise,” and she meant it, she would be there where she had always been. “You will leave me when the time comes for you to undertake your place as the next Laird McDougal.” Properly married with the right clan heiress, she completed in her mind as a wave of bitterness lodged inside her chest.
A small smile of relief finally drew his lips. “That is decades ahead, my father is young and healthy,” he said. “The Laird just celebrated his forty-third birthday recently.”
She smiled back even as another unpleasant thought occurred. By then, he would have indisputably tired of her. Rich, handsome and powerful like so many of his peers, he would soon realise he must only curl his finger and women would come flocking to him. And why this horrible jealousy speared her heart, she had no idea.
“Sam!” Six-year-old Roy ran to the carriage as it stopped in front to the manor’s entrance.
His mother’s chestnut-brown hair gleamed in the sun and his father’s green-eyes overflowed with happiness.
Aileen, The Lady McDougal, stood on the front steps by her very tall, very attractive—if somewhat overbearing—husband, Taran. Sam wrote he was bringing a friend with him, but gave no more details.
The carriage door opened to produce Sam, who caught his brother in his arms and twirled with him in the air. Putting the boy on the ground, he stretched a hand as a feminine one rested on his. The sun illuminated a beautiful blonde as she alit from the vehicle.
“What the bluidy hell is this boy up to?” a jet-black head turned a scowl to his wife.
A
ileen had no time, or information, to answer to that because the newcomers neared them.
“Father, Aileen,” Sam greeted. Unlike Taran, who wore his usual red and black tartan, Sam looked utterly elegant in breeches, dark coat and cravat over a white shirt. The English style suited him, she must admit. “Let me introduce you to Mrs Harriet Stratham.”
Aileen remembered him talking about her—a lot—since the first time he had visited from Oxford. A widow who held a position as a governess for one of his professor’s children, if memory served.
Mrs Stratham approached and sank in a graceful curtsy before Taran. “My Lord McDougal.” The Laird bowed hardly hiding his conflicting thoughts. “Lady McDougal,” she curtsied again.
Aileen extended her hands to her. She would not mistreat a guest in her house. “Nice to meet you, Mrs Stratham. Please, call me Aileen,” formalities were not her forte.
The other woman smiled prettily. “Thank you, Aileen, I am Harriet.”
“You must be tired from the long travel,” Aileen said. “Come in, I’ve ordered refreshments.”
Now that she sat in this huge drawing room, Harriet questioned the wisdom of having accepted Samuel’s invitation. They entered McDougal’s lands yesterday morning, and the wealth and importance of his family hit her like a projectile hand-slung right at her forehead.
Straight spine, she sat with a cup of tea on the settee, trying not to mind the stares his father flung at her. The man was a good-looking giant, from whom Samuel got those eyes, a trademark of the family, she saw.
