Page 69 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
Only yesterday, Papa Harcourt had taken her aside to warn her of the mistake she was making. But she’d trusted in the skills of Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who was renowned for making perfect matches out of unlikely pairings.
“I’ve been a fool,” she said to nobody. “A damned, bloody fool.”
“Is that so?” a deep voice said.
Clara startled and turned toward the voice. “Who’s there?”
She glimpsed a figure between the trees and approached it, finding herself in a clearing with a small wooden hut and a pile of logs to the side.
In the center of the clearing a man stood next to a large section of a tree, an axe in one hand. Shirtless, he wore dark brown breeches and thick boots. Blond hair with a shimmer of red framed his face in shaggy, unkempt locks, and a thick beard covered his chin. His body tensed, and he gripped the axe as if he intended to wage war on the world. Anger flared in his eyes, and Clara stepped back. He dropped the axe with a sigh, and the anger softened into resignation.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I was just taking the air.”
“There’s plenty of air hereabouts, lass.”
She pulled the plaid blanket closer around her shoulders. “I’m Clara,” she said. “Clara Marting…” She hesitated. “Clara McTavish.”
“I ken that, lass. I’m Duncan, the ghillie. Don’t ye remember me? We met some weeks ago, when…”
His voice trailed off and he picked up the axe. He swung it in an arc over his shoulder, then embedded it in the tree trunk at his feet with a thud that reverberated through the ground. The trunk split in two, each half falling to the side at his feet.
“I-I remember you,” she said. “The ghillie. You were kind to me when…”
Her throat constricted as she recalled the pain and humiliation as her mother had steered her out of the building, vowing never to return.
“Why did ye come back here, lass?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Ye don’tknow?” He shook his head. “Ye married the laird’s son. Don’t ye realize what…”
Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and he broke off and approached her, hand outstretched.
“Ye saw what it’s like here, lass,” he said, gently. “Why are ye here?”
“I-I don’t know,” she said. “But h-he—Murdo—made me feel so…” She shook her head. “I can’t describe it. I’ve never been a lady. I was different, and people talked about me. They didn’t think I noticed, but I saw the contempt in their eyes. ‘Who’s she?’ they said. ‘Not one of us.’ Thenhecame, as if from nowhere.”
“Master Murdo?”
She nodded. “In the middle of a ballroom filled with people who looked down on me, he was the only one who didn’t turn away in disgust.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “At least, notthen.”
“He didn’t turn away from ye in disgust when you came here before, lass.”
She might have taken comfort from his kindness had he spoken the truth.
He drew near and placed a hand on her shoulder. The small act of consideration unlocked her heart, and she surrendered to the tears while he pulled her into an embrace.
“Hush, lass. There’s naught to gain from surrendering to despair. I ken that more than most.”
She shook her head. “Perhaps I hoped for too much.”
“Foolish lass,” he chided her, his voice gentle.
“I only w-want to bathe today,” she said. “After last night…”
“Of course ye do,” he said. “Master Murdo should’ve sent for Elspeth to tend to ye. Are ye well?”
She shook her head. “It hurts.”
