Page 76 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
But rather than reassure her, his words only seemed to distress her more.
“Do ye not trust me, Clara?”
She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. At length, she shook her head.
Aye, a truthful lass, she was. And, in truth, she neither trusted nor loved him.
Chapter Sixteen
“Och, lass, yeshouldn’t be spending all yer time below stairs. Ye’re not a servant.”
Clara looked up from scrubbing the carrots to see the housekeeper in the doorway, hands on hips. “I’m happier here, Joan, and Morag could do with the help.”
The deerhound at Clara’s feet opened an eye and thumped his tail on the floor at the sound of her voice.
“Morag knows better than to ask the laird’s daughter-in-law to help in the kitchen,” the housekeeper said, glaring at the cook, who stirred a pot over the fire. “That’s what Marsaili’s for. Where is the lazy lass, anyway?”
The cook frowned, then shook her head.
“Taken another fall, has she, Morag?” the housekeeper asked.
“Aye, Mrs. Grant. Poor lass. She needs a husband to take care of her.”
“Is she not permitted to take care of herself?” Clara asked.
The two women stared at her.
“That’s what husbands are for,” the housekeeper said. “Master Murdo looks after ye, doesn’t he?”
“I can look after myself.”
“And when ye become round with his child?”
Clara resumed her attention on the vegetables.
The cook let out a chuckle. “Aye, he takes care of ye, all right. I can tell a woman who’s been well bedded.”
“Morag, that’s enough!” the housekeeper said. Then she grinned. “If only all men were like Master Murdo.”
Clara suppressed a snort.
Oh yes, because he’s the epitome of male perfection.
Silencing the petulant little voice in her mind, she continued scrubbing the carrots.
She couldn’t deny the pleasures her husband gave her body. And he’d sensed her shame when her courses ran, leaving her alone the moment the blood came and promising not to touch her until she was well again. Last night, he’d kissed her forehead, then rolled over and fallen asleep, the bed trembling with the vibrations of his big body as he snored, while she lay on her side, cradling her stomach to ease the monthly pains. The next morning she’d woken cocooned in his embrace, his arms like chains binding her to him while his breath caressed the skin of her neck.
When he’d woken that morning, he released her, dressed himself, then invited her to visit the tenants. But she’d declined. After church last Sunday, the parson’s wife had called her a whore, hissing the insult like an adder in the grass. Many clanswomen looked at her with suspicion, whispering among themselves.
Was it any wonder she preferred the company of the servants? After all, most of her life had been spent scrubbing floors, obeying whatever order was thrown in her direction, and dodging blows. Only the past year had been spent in luxury, with her learning how to be a duke’s daughter.
Only shewasn’ta duke’s daughter. She was the illegitimate child of a pimper.
The dog scrambled to his feet. Clara scratched his head and he nudged her, sniffing the pocket of her apron, his tail swishing from side to side. Smiling, she drew out a piece of bread she’d saved for him.
“That’s all I have for you, Buck,” she said.
“I don’t take to animals in the kitchen,” the cook said. “What next, will Duncan bring the deer down from the hills when it gets cold, or will old Braeden bring his cattle in to feed?”
