Because of him.
In the next moment, a terrible rage had come over him, driving him to kill those men and remove their scum from the face of the earth, but even when they lay dead at his feet, he still did not feel better. It did not change anything.
His wife was dead.
His daughter was now motherless at such a tender age.
Passing a hand over her eyes, he closed her eyelids. He wished he could as easily erase the memory of her lifeless eyes from his mind, but it would remain with him, taunting him with the trust that he had broken.
He laid her down on the bench, then went to find the coachman, a young lad named Alan. He had sustained a serious injury in his leg, but he was still alive, even though a tad delirious, and he was going to live if Ruaridh had anything to say about it. He bound his wound, then helped him into the carriage and started the journey back home.
When he arrived, he was dry-eyed, even when Grannie Ava screamed in sorrow, even when Logan and one of the other clansmen brought Mary’s decomposing body out for burial. He was numb until the moment her coffin was lowered into the grave.
Then the guilt returned with a vengeance, wicked whispers reminding him that he was the one who was supposed to be lying in that coffin, not sweet, beautiful Mary, who had to be buried with none of her family members present because of the haste.
He was on the verge of doing something drastic when he heard a gurgling laugh from beside him. It was Keira in her swaddle, giggling with a finger between her lips, looking up at him with so much innocence that it was almost as if she had cloaked him in it.
In that moment, he was no longer the sinful man who deserved to die. He was simply the guardian who was entrusted with her care to ensure that she held onto that innocence for as long as she could.
So in the next few years, he threw himself into that task, ensuring that Keira was happy and well-fed, protected from all the ugly things the outside world had to offer.
He was almost sure he had succeeded, especially with the men he had entrusted with guarding her and keeping her safe. But even with all those layers of protection, somehow his daughter had found herself in the woods at the borders, vulnerable enough for Lord Westall to kidnap.
Fate was at it again, reminding him that no matter how hard he tried, he could never become worthy of trust.
So he had fought tooth and nail to get her back, and while she returned unscathed physically, he did not want to think about the mental trauma her kidnapping might have caused. The damage was already done, one that he could never know the extent of or could correct. So he tried to live with it.
And now he wanted to marry Violet, aSassenach, even though a few in his clan probably held grudges against her simply because her people had spawned the thieves that had turned him into a widower and his child motherless.
She was right to be scared. He could not tell her to trust him. He did not trust himself. While he pledged to protect her with his life, he was also aware that he might not be able to protect her from everything. It was a risk she had to take, and he could not force her to take such a risk lightly simply because he was unwilling to let her go.
“Ye ken ye daenae have to marry me if ye daenae want to,” he reminded her quietly.
“I want to. I just…” she trailed off, tugging on her braid and twirling the edge around her finger.
“Do ye nae like me?” he asked.
Even before she gave an answer, he already knew the truth.
Of course, she liked him, or at least she lusted after his body, just as he lusted after hers. Right from the first day they met, he had recognized the spark between them, and he had caught her staring at him one too many times when she thought no one was looking.
Their passion had flared out of control when he took her into his arms and kissed her. He had burned with lust, suffering under the almost uncontrollable need to make love to her there beside the loch with no care for who might see them. She had bewitched him with her kiss, binding her to him, until all he could think about was her and what he would finally have the freedom to do to her body when they were married.
That was why it seemed he was rushing the marriage. If he waited any longer, he might die from the need that coursed through his blood whenever she was present. Or he would give in to the dishonorable urge to ruin her and bind her to him by destroying her reputation.
Since his honor was totally against the latter, he had to opt for the former.
He had not wanted to use the passion between them to force her hand, but it seemed that was the only weapon he had left in his arsenal. So he approached her, watching as her pupils dilated with desire, tension rising between them.
“Ye ken ye want me. Ye daenae need to deny it,” he whispered in her ear after cornering her against the wall, relishing the shudder that went through her.
He felt his control slipping as he inhaled the intoxicating scent that urged him to divest her of her clothes and find the source and drink from it until he was sated. It would be so easy to ravish her here in the darkness, where no one would think to find them.
But he wanted to marry her, to touch her in the full light of day, when he could fully appreciate every curve of her body and worship it as it was due. Making love to her should be an art and not cheap copulation in the dark.
“You know I do,” she said in a whisper that did things to his insides. “But it is not enough to make a marriage.”
“We would make it enough,” he purred against her ear, nipping at the shell, enjoying how she trembled in his arms.
