Page 58 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“I prefer whisky, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
She let out a chuckle. “But you’ll not say no to the forty thousand.”
He grimaced, but couldn’t deny that Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke the truth. After all, he was here to secure himself a fortune, even if it came with the inconvenient addition of a wife.
A wife who would, no doubt, devote her life to despising him—no matter how much her body might say otherwise.
Chapter Twelve
“Inow pronounceye husband and wife.”
As the vicar’s words resonated around the chapel, Clara heard a small intake of breath from where her mother and stepfather sat.
It was nothing compared to the gasp the groom elicited as she’d repeated the vows—or not.
Love, honor, and obey, indeed! Did he think her weak enough to pledgeobedience? She’d vowed to honor and respect him—what more did he want?
When Mama married Papa Harcourt, she’d pledged to “tolerate, honor, and direct.” But the expression in Murdo’s dark-emerald eyes told Clara that she’d have a challenge trying todirectthe huge highlander.
The man to whom she now belonged.
The groom lifted her veil for the marital kiss. For a moment, Clara surrendered to the anticipation. Then she turned her head aside and his lips brushed her cheek. Hurt flickered in his eyes, then he turned to face the congregation—Mama, who sat stiffly next to Papa Harcourt, and Clara’s stepbrothers in the pew behind.
Not even Nathaniel, who found amusement in the most dire circumstances—such as the day he’d broken his leg falling out of a tree—could muster a smile.
She’s making a monumental mistake!
Clara recalled Papa Harcourt’s angry exchange with Mama the night they’d returned home from the Lyon’s Den. Only once before had she witnessed him losing his composure so completely—when her mother had gone missing and his fear for the woman he loved had unleashed his fury at the world.
But Mama persuaded him to permit the marriage, though he threatened to slice the groom into bite-sized pieces to feed to the pigs were he to come within ten feet of him.
And now, he sat in the church next to Mama, displaying his usual stillness, save his right hand, which occasionally moved toward his jacket pocket to give it a reassuring pat.
Murdo led Clara down the aisle. He tensed as they passed her stepfather, but Papa Harcourt merely fixed a cold stare on the groom, then rose to follow them outside.
Across the town, the crumbling ruin Clara had noticed from the carriage gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Melrose Abbey—fashioned from rose-colored stone, with huge, sweeping, broken arches, stretching toward a roof that had been stripped away centuries before.
Over the years, the abbey had crumbled away, enduring the ravages of time and the men who valued it not for itself, but for what it could give them.
She glanced at her husband.
Will I crumble away at your hands until I’m nothing but bare bones?
He narrowed his eyes, as if he’d read her mind. Then the rest of the party joined them.
Murdo released her hand. “Permit me a moment to settle things with the vicar.”
“It’s done,” Papa Harcourt said. “There’s no need to remain here a minute longer—at least once I’ve had a word withyou, young man.”
The vicar raised his eyebrows. “Your Grace, I think—”
“A vicar is not paid tothink. I trust my donation was sufficient?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then that’s settled,” Papa Harcourt said. “All that remains is for my daughter and her husband to embark on a life of wedded bliss.”
“Very good, Yer Grace,” the vicar said, evidently not recognizing the irony in Papa Harcourt’s tone.
