Page 47 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
Clara glanced over her shoulder. Buck pricked his ears up, then settled once more as Clara continued to caress his pelt.
“What happened?” Murdo whispered.
“It’s not for me to say, Mr. McTavish. Clara will tell you in her own time. But I want your assurance that you’ll treat her with kindness and compassion.”
“Do ye doubt it?”
“Granted, you seem a little better than most young men.”
“Coming fromyou, Duchess, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She smiled. “I’m not known for flattery. I prefer to speak the truth.”
“I ken that,” he said. “It’s where Clara gets her frankness from—and I love her for it. I cannot bear deceit. I’d rather my Clara scratch at me like a wildcat when she’s angry than make a pretense at happiness.”
“Clara will never flatter. But you’ll not find a more loyal soul. And if she does come to trust you, she’ll trust completely. After a lifetime of having her faith broken, my daughter’s trust is the greatest gift she can give.”
“Will she grow to trust me?”
“Perhaps she already does, Mr. McTavish. After all, she took you to her hideout in the Roman wall.”
“How do you know about that?”
“My husband loved going there when he was a boy—pretending to be a savage living off the land until the responsibility of the dukedom required him to cast such things aside. Cornelius and Nathaniel had little interest in it, so Harcourt was delighted when he learned Clara had discovered it. She never spoke about it, and we respected her need for privacy. Of course, she must have known that Harcourt made sure she had everything she needed, firewood and such. But it was her little kingdom. She never let anyone visit. Until you.” She turned her gaze on him. “It was at that moment that I realized that if any man could make my daughter happy, it was you.”
Murdo’s heart swelled with pride.
“Of course,” she added, “that doesn’t give you the right to restrict her freedom.”
“It’s for precisely that reason, Yer Grace, that I admire you, almost as much as I love yer daughter.”
“What’s all this, brother?” a familiar voice said. “I hadn’t expected yer betrothed to be old enough to be yer ma.”
James and Duncan stood in the doorway.
The duchess withdrew her hand and frowned.
Clara turned from the window, her body stiff with apprehension, and Buck let out a low growl.
“Master Murdo, it’s good to see ye home,” the ghillie said.
“Thank ye, Duncan,” Murdo said, frowning at his brother. “At least someone knows how not to insult our guests at first meeting. Miss Martingale, come meet my brother.”
Clara slipped off the seat and approached Murdo. He drew her close, as if to protect her from his brother’s disapproving gaze.
“James, this is the Duchess of Pittchester,” Murdo said, gesturing to Clara’s mother. “And this,” he added, lifting Clara’s hand to his lips, “is my betrothed, Miss Clara Martingale.”
James stared, unmoving. Duncan nudged him and he stepped forward.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Clara said, offering her hand. “Murdo’s said much about you.”
“Really?” A flicker of fear gleamed in James’s eyes as he stared at Clara’s hand, making no move to take it. At length, her arm began to tremble.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said.
“Afraid!” James scoffed. “What the ballocks have I to be afraid of from alass? Murdo, ye should keep yer woman in check.”
“Mr. McTavish, I—” Clara began.
