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Davy’s words shamed him as a meddling fishwife, as they were meant to. And so John was forced to retreat behind reasons he could defend. “Marriage isn’t a decision to be entered into lightly. Wed in haste, repent in leisure.”
“Aye but a man likes to have something to fight for. And if the worse should happen, I would like to give the woman I love the protection of my name if nothing else.”
Gods blood. Something about those words crashed into the laird, conquering his will and demanding his surrender. “Fine, then. You have my permission,” the laird began, but before Davy could grin, he added, “But the wedding itself won’t happen until you’ve complete the task I’ve set for you. As you said, a man needs something to fight for, Davy of Clan Macrae.”
“A hard bargain,” Davy said, grudgingly. “But I s’pose I’ve never been one to have my affairs be too settled before I do something reckless. Still, if I don’t succeed, laird…”
If he died in the attempt, he meant.
The laird promised, “If there’s still breath in my body, I’ll see to it that your Arabella is cared for. You have my word on that.”
“Not good enough. For I need to know that she’ll be cared for even if we’re both dead.”
The laird nodded, his mind already turning that way. “I’ll do my best to think of a way.”
Then the two men shook hands, then the laird stalked away, cursing himself all the while. Because he couldn’t get Davy’s words out of his head.
And if the worse should happen, I would like to give the woman I love the protection of my name if nothing else…
There was a potential for negotiating a truce with the enemy if the laird was willing to take a Donald or MacDonald bride. This was the way of the Highlands. Marriage alliances brought estates together. But even if he were to defy that great tradition in some grand gesture of devotion to the woman he loved—he still couldn’t marry Heather because he’d flaunted her about the castle as a plaything. He’d even once stripped her down in front of his men.
He’d allowed his kinsman to witness the taking of her virginity.
No, his men would never respect such a marriage.
They’d have his head on a pike faster than the enemy.
So he could not marry Heather; he’d seen to that.
She’d be safer as a harlot in truth.
But he’d kept her to himself. She was his. His alone. His mistress. And that was the crime of it. If the worst should come to pass, the enemy would treat all harlots the same. But a mistress? They would feel free to take out their vengeance upon a the laird’s woman. Knowing they had a woman who belonged to him—and only him—the moment he was dead, they would do unspeakable things to her.
How had it come to this? Heather had promised to be his in exchange for her father’s life. She promised to give herself over to him for his use, until he was sated of her. And the laird accepted her offer both because he was fascinated by the temptation—and more importantly, because it allowed him to show mercy to one of his crofters. For reasons that seemed perfectly reasonable at the time…he decided he would punish the man by ruining his daughter. He’d been relieved. He wouldn’t have to hang a man and he wouldn’t actually touch the girl, he had promised himself.
Just ruin her reputation.
Instead, he’d ruined himself. Not simply because it was monstrous of him to let a lass take on such shame for the deeds of her father. Nor even because he had—in spite of his promises to himself—touched the girl. But also because he shouldn’t have shown mercy to her father in the first place.
Men who would steal from their laird were as like to turn traitor as not. Given that the laird was constable of a castle now under siege, with men bleeding in the infirmary below, he saw where softness and mercy had gotten him. His moments of softness and weakness had endangered his clan.
Worse, they endangered the woman he loved.
He couldn’t afford to be soft or weak. Not even with himself.
Chapter Four
HEATHER
“I’m betrothed!” my little sister cried excitedly. “Again.”
Letting Arabella spin me around in the tiny chambers that I had surrendered to her now that I spent all night every night in the laird’s bed, I was quite bewildered. My sister had been wooed by two of the laird’s warriors and once we collapsed together upon the small straw bed, I said, “Congratulations, Arabella! But which man did you choose?”
“I’m marrying Davy,” she said, emphatically, as if I was daft to think otherwise. “But I didn’t have to choose,” Arabella added, meeting my eyes with mischief. “Neither Davy or Malcolm will insist upon it. I will marry Davy, but we will simply carry on together, all three.”
I had never heard of such a thing. Such a scandalous thing. I didn’t see how it could possibly work. Two men and one woman—such things usually ended up in bloodshed. But as I had very little room to judge anyone else’s personal arrangements, I merely bit my lip. “Our father hasn’t given his permission…”
“Davy says the laird’s permission is the only thing we need.” Arabella sighed a happy sigh. And I sighed with her, because in all the gloom and terror of living in a castle under siege, this was one bright spot.
