Page 64 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
But Murdo knew. They were preparing her for her wedding night, as was the clan custom.
He smoothed down his plaid, then strode toward the cheers, his father following.
The great hall was filled with people dancing reels, lifting glasses into the air with a song, then draining them with raucous laughter and fervent belching, before filling them once more.
In the center of the throng stood Murdo’s bride. She still wore her bridal gown, but her hair now hung loosely round her shoulders. A crown fashioned from heather had been placed on her head, and Elspeth and Marsaili were braiding her hair, weaving yarn into her tresses in the McTavish clan colors—scarlet, sky blue, and peat brown.
Clara stood, transfixed, like a deer surrounded by a pack of hounds, while the revelers toasted the forthcoming loss of her maidenhead.
Their gazes met, and Murdo felt a sharp pull in his heart—the invisible thread that attached their souls. Her eyes widened in a plea, and he uttered a prayer for forgiveness for what must be done.
“The groom is here!” a voice cried out.
“Yer bride is ripe and ready.”
“Go on, then, son,” Da said. “If ye’re as much as a man as ye’d like yer da to believe, then prove it in front of yer clan.”
Murdo strode toward his wife and offered his hand. Relief shone in her eyes as she took it.
“Come, woman,” he said. “It’s time for the bedding.”
Another cheer rose up, men toasting his prowess and making crude remarks while their wives issued sharp admonishments.
Clara glanced about the hall, as if seeking an escape. Then she withdrew her hand, but with a swift gesture, Murdo pulled her to him and tossed her over his shoulder.
“Put me down!” she shrieked.
“A feisty wee lass ye’ve got there!” a voice cried.
“She’ll take some taming!”
“That’s where the pleasure lies. Go claim yer bride, young master!”
“Let me go!” Clara kicked out, and a yelp rose as she caught someone with her foot. Murdo glanced around to see Braeden’s eldest brother toppling to the floor.
“Little savage!” he snarled. “What sort of a man are ye, Murdo, letting yer woman misbehave on her wedding night? It’s time ye broke her in.”
Uttering a silent prayer for forgiveness, Murdo slapped his wife on the rump and carried her out into the hallway and up the stairs, while she writhed in his grip, her angry protests echoing through the house.
When he reached the door to the bedchamber—decorated with sprigs of heather—he kicked it open, strode toward the fur-covered bed that dominated the room, and dropped his wife onto it. She leaped to her feet, but the fury he’d expected was absent from her eyes. Instead, they widened with horror as the company followed them into the bedchamber, headed by Murdo’s father and brother.
“Wh-what’s happening?” she said.
Murdo turned to the party. “Get out,” he said. “All of ye.”
“But clan tradition—”
“Clan tradition be damned!”
“Son,” his father said, “the least ye can do is respect the clan’s tradition, even if ye don’t respect yer da. Ye need to give proof. Besides, it’s time ye showed yer brother what goes where.”
James cringed under his father’s contempt. “Da…”
“Just go!” Murdo roared. “If ye want proof, I’ll give ye proof. But wait outside until the deed is done.”
He slammed the door, slid the top bolt home, then turned to face his wife.
“Wh-what’s happening?” she said, stepping back. “Were they going to w-watch?”
