Page 63 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
Clara shot him a look of venom, but she let the housekeeper lead her away.
Murdo’s father raised his hand, but Murdo caught it, curling his fingers round the old man’s bony wrist.
Devil’s ballocks, his da had grown thin.
A life of lairdship and bitterness took its toll on a man. And James was unwilling to take on the mantle even though he was the heir.
As for Murdo himself…
He couldn’t even defend the woman he loved.
“What the fuck are ye doing, son, bringing that whore’s spawn into my home?”
“She’s my wife, Da,” Murdo said. “Ye sent me to London to sell myself to a wealthy woman, and I’ve returned with one. Forty thousand, if ye recall.”
“I wouldn’t suffer that slut for a hundred thousand! She’ll taint the clan with her filth—yer children would carry the stain of being a whore’s brats.”
“My children will be sons and daughters of the clan,” Murdo said. “Clara is my wife.”
“Clara!” Da scoffed. “Why couldn’t ye wed a good Scottish lass rather than a Sassenach?”
“Because ye sent me to the Lyon’s Den.”
“How do ye know she’s not riddled with the pox, eh?”
“That’s enough!” Murdo roared. “Like it or not, Clara’s my wife! We each uttered our vows, willingly entering into marriage. We’re man and wife.”
“Man!” his da snorted, sending out another cloud of spittle. “Ye’re no man—guided by yer cock, ye are. Yer brother’s nobetter, as he doesn’t know where to stick his. What did I do to be cursed with such piles of deer shit for sons? Mark my words, she’ll mark ye with the pox. Ye’ll wake up one day to find yer cock’s rotted off. And don’t think she’ll keep her thighs closed—she’ll be letting every lad in the clan dip his cock into—”
Murdo grasped his father’s arms and slammed him back against the wall.
“In the name of the devil, will ye desist!” he roared. “Utter one more word against her and I’ll strike ye down!”
He raised his fist, and his father flinched. Then a sly smile crept across his lips.
“So my son has a pair of ballocks after all—which is more than I can say for yer brother. Go on, then, strike me if ye dare.”
“I’ve no need to strike ye, Da,” Murdo said, lowering his voice to a cold, hard tone. “But I promise ye this. If ye fail to respect me and my choice of wife then I’ll grant yer wish and make sure my wife never sets foot here again.”
“Ye will?” The slyness intensified in Da’s eyes.
“Aye, I will,” Murdo said. “I’ll take my wife—and her fortune—to England.”
His da paled. “Y-ye wouldn’t.”
“Ye wouldn’t mind, aye?” Murdo said. “After all, James is the heir.”
“Aye, but James is…”
“James is what?”
His father let out a sigh, and for a moment, Murdo caught the flash of despair in a broken old man—before the contempt returned.
“James isn’t a real man. But marriage to Shona McCallum will make a man of him. Ye must make him marry her, Murdo, or the clan will die.”
A raucous cheer came from the great hall, followed by laughter.
Devil’s ballocks, what were they doing to Clara?
