Page 2 of When a Scot Gives His Heart
Marsaili tensed. Her mother was wily, too much so, and knew how to state her opinions in a way that usually did not anger Father by the mere fact that she had been so bold as to give an opinion. But presently, her father’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. She had not been quite manipulative enough this time. Marsaili wanted to laugh, then felt a flush of guilt at wishing ill on her mother, in spite of the poor way she treated Marsaili.
Oblivious to their father’s ire, Marsaili’s sister nodded. “I’d like that, Father.” Helena’s eyes gleamed; she was just as hungry for power and wealth as Father. Marsaili had to grind her teeth to keep from speaking.
He chuckled, indulging her sister, whom he favored greatly. “I’m sure ye would, lass, but I have other plans for ye.”
Helena pouted, and Marsaili’s mother frowned. “Might I inquire what they are?”
Marsaili’s father scowled at his wife. “Silence yer questioning tongue, woman. I’ll tell ye my intentions when the time for ye to ken them is at hand. Besides, I just told ye the earl is currently married.”
“Aye,” her mother said, clearly disappointed that he wasn’t sharing more.
“However, my cunning wife,” Father continued, “use yer soft, female mind to recall that his wife is verra ill, and it is said she will nae live much longer.”
“Excellent!” her mother replied, which made Marsaili’s stomach turn. “Except,” she went on, “we’ve nae a daughter to put forth for Ulster if ye have plans for Helena.”
“There’s Marsaili,” her father said. Now Marsaili’s stomach dropped in shock at her father’s words. She had been correct about his look earlier. All eyes swiveled toward her. “Is she nae a lass and our daughter?”
A disgusted look came to her mother’s face. “Aye,” she bit out, “but—”
“But what?” her father snapped, his color rising with his temper.
Marsaili pressed herself harder against the stone wall, disliking being the object of this conversation or her father’s notice.
“She could nae catch the earl’s attention,” Helena snipped, looking down her nose at Marsaili. The bite of shame from her sister’s cruel words heated Marsaili’s cheeks.
“Aye, and she’s a daft lass,” Colin, her eldest brother, said.
Her other brother, Findlay, agreed. “The earl would nae wish to marry a half-wit.”
Marsaili clenched her jaw, bombarded with anger and humiliation at the same time. Her father’s cold gaze settled firmly on her. “Leave us,” he said. His hard words brooked no argument, not that Marsaili cared to argue. It would do no good.
She turned to make her way toward the stairs when her father said, “Nae ye, Marsaili.” Marsaili cringed as she faced her father once more. He looked over at their family.
“Us?” Her mother gasped. “Why do ye wish us to leave?”
Marsaili backed up a step when her father raised his arm as if to strike her mother. “Do ye question me again, woman?” She shook her head as she cast her gaze down. “Away with ye now,” he commanded and motioned to all but Marsaili. “Helena, select a gown—yer best—for Marsaili to wear tonight to meet the earl.”
Helena opened her mouth as if to protest, but when Mother shook her head, Helena pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Findlay, ye will greet the Earl of Ulster with me and then invite him on a hunt, which Marsaili will attend.”
“Ye are plotting, Father,” Colin said, his admiration clear in his tone.
“Always,” her father answered with a boastful smile. “And ye have a part in this, too, Colin. Ye will make certain ye dunnae win the hunt. The earl needs to be in front of ye, so that it will appear ye are taking aim at the wild boar when ye accidentally shoot the earl. His arm is most preferable, I think. And then Marsaili will be the one to tend his wound. She can rip her dress to do so. A nice touch, aye?” he added with a nefarious laugh.
The way her father so easily plotted to purposely hurt another made Marsaili’s stomach roil once more. Her nostrils flared as she tried to subtly suck in more air to calm herself.
Colin nodded and departed quickly behind Findlay, Helena, and Mother. Marsaili’s father caught her gaze but said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Ye have proven ye are a survivor, Marsaili. Cunning, too.”
“I’m nae cunning,” she replied, wishing immediately she had not spoken.
Her father gave her a condescending smile. “Ye are. I ken ye think yerself unlike the rest of us, but ye are verra much like us. Ye have used cunning to contrive a way to mostly escape yer siblings’ and yer mother’s notice. Ye have convinced them ye are a simpleton, but I ken ye are nae.”
Dread trickled down Marsaili’s spine.
“Ye are a clever lass.” He paused and cocked his head, as if considering what else to say. “Ye are plain, though,” he finally said, his eyes narrowing. “Dunnae forget that. Dunnae think to tempt a man to yer bed with yer appearance. Ye will only have a man by my good graces, my negotiations on yer behalf, and my say so.”
That statement almost made her laugh. Her father had no good graces, just plots to make himself wealthier and more powerful.
