Page 93 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
The soft, tender voice filled his mind as he relished the warmth of his wife’s willing body beneath him—the body that still rippled with an echo of their climaxes.
How he’d yearned to hear those sweet words fall from her lips!
Murdo rolled onto his side and reached for her, but there was nothing but a cold, empty space in the bed. He sat up and drew the furs back, but the bed bore no imprint of her body.
He was alone, with nothing but the memory of a dream to taunt him.
Clara hadn’t come to bed last night, having preferred to sleep in the kitchen.
As she’d declared, unashamedly, last night.
Devil’s ballocks, what would they all think if they knew he was unable to control his wife—the wife who despised him?
She’s nothing but a savage, son—she’ll destroy the clan.
His da’s words still echoed in his mind.
Aye, Clara was a savage, untamed and headstrong, and he’d been drawn to her spirit as a moth to a flame. But she’d made her loathing of him all too evident last night, preferring to run intothe arms of other men than seek comfort from her husband. And he…
And I—foolish moth that I am—have been scorched.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have married her.
A scream ripped through the air, and Murdo’s gut twisted with fear.
Clara…
He leaped out of bed, ran toward the door, and yanked it open.
“Clara!”
Another scream came, followed by sobbing. But it came from his da’s bedchamber, not the kitchen.
“Clara?”
The sobbing continued, then a door opened and a woman rushed out. But it wasn’t Clara.
“Marsaili!” Murdo said. “What the devil’s wrong?”
“I-it’s the laird!” she sobbed. “H-he’s been taken ill. He was—” She broke off, her cheeks reddening.
He reached toward her, and she flinched and stepped back. Only then did he notice her appearance—the dark mark on her cheek, the swollen lips, her tangled hair…
…and her thin shift with a tear along the front.
“What are ye…” he began, then the skin on the back of his neck tightened as a deep wail came from inside.
Pushing the sobbing girl aside, Murdo rushed through the doorway.
His father’s chamber seemed to be devoid of color, the cold blue light of dawn having smothered the reds and browns of the plaid furnishings. The empty fireplace resembled a huge, toothless mouth—a black chasm in the center of the wall. And in the bed…
Murdo’s blood froze at the ghoul-like figure, its face deathly white, with dark gray rings beneath red-rimmed eyes.
The figure let out a groan. “Son…”
Murdo approached the bed and took his father’s hand. Clawlike fingers curled around his wrists with a strength that belied the older man’s frailty.
“Da, what’s happened?”
