Page 96 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“I thought as much,” Clara said. Her voice was quieter, but the quietness heightened the impact, for it spoke not of her fiery anger, but of sorrow and despair.
Joan placed a wrinkled hand on Clara’s arm.
“Ye must understand, lass,” she said. “Master Murdo’s remembering the man his da once was. Every wee laddie looks up to his da. And for all that he had his flaws, Master Angus valued the honor of Clan McTavish above all. Honor is the bones around which the flesh of our clan is molded. Master Murdo loved his da. Every father has the love of his child.”
“Not mine,” Clara said. “I hated him.”
“The duke?”
“No. The creature who sired me.”
“Aye,” Murdo said. “Hewas filth—a violator of women who ran a whorehouse.”
“He’s no different to the man who frequented that whorehouse,” Clara snarled, gesturing toward the lifeless form in the bed. “I hatedhimalso—a violator of women.”
“A man who paid a whore to spread her legs is no violator,” Murdo said. “He’s merely the recipient of service provided by—”
He checked himself as her eyes filled with hurt. “Forgive me, Clara,” he said, his conscience tearing at his soul, “I didn’t mean…”
“You didn’t mean my mother?”
Before Murdo could reply, footsteps approached and a silver-haired man appeared in the doorway, holding a black case.
“I came as soon as I could, Mr. McTavish.”
“Ye’re too late, Dr. Munro,” Murdo said.
The doctor approached the bed and lifted the laird’s wrist. After a moment, he nodded. Then he reached for the laird’s face and closed the eyelids with his fingertips. Murdo gave an involuntary sigh of relief to be no longer subject to that demanding, judgmental gaze. Then guilt overcame the relief and his eyes misted over with moisture.
“Forgive me, Da,” he whispered. “What have I done?”
“The end comes to us all, Mr. McTavish,” the doctor said. “Yer father’s end was closer than most.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“He’d been ill for some months,” came the reply. “When I last visited, I told him he had a matter of weeks. He did well to survive this long.”
Murdo glanced at his wife, tempering the relief flooding through him.
“Then it was inevitable?” he asked. “Nobody—”
He broke off as Clara paled.
“Nobodywhat, husband?” she said.
“It matters not,” Murdo said. “I spoke out of grief.”
“Perhaps your grief enables you to speak the truth,” she said, her voice hardening. “You thought I had a hand in his death?”
Murdo shook his head. “No, I meant…” He hesitated, fighting the swell of sorrow. “It’s just… Ye can’t understand, Clara. I remember my da when he was a better man.”
“Spare me your pretty speeches!” she said. “But perhaps you’re right in one aspect. Your fatherwasthe better man. At least he didn’t try to hide his loathing for me and my mother, or his disgust of the women he violated.”
Marsaili burst into tears again.
“I’m sorry, Marsaili,” Clara said. “Let’s get you something to eat. Rest assured, you no longer have to endure anything more in this room. And neither do I.”
She shot Murdo a look of disgust, then exited the bedchamber, taking the maidservant with her.
