Page 29 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“Murdo…”
A secret thrill coursed through her as she uttered his name, and his nostrils flared as he nodded his approval.
“I like that very much,” he said, “hearing my name on yer lips. I hope to hear it again—many times—whispered in my ear, spoken with pleasure, and cried out in ecstasy.”
A fizz of need warmed her blood as she let him lead her outside.
What might it be like to have him cry outhername with pleasure?
The gardens atPittchester Castle had been a source of wonder to Clara from the moment she arrived there. They provided a constant source of vibrant colors—in sharp contrast to the dull, damp grays of London’s slums, where she’d grown up. In the summer, the rose garden was at its finest, with every shade of red and pink, tended to by Mr. Grainger, who scolded Clara mercilessly if she trampled on his borders, but always presented her with a posy for her bedchamber, which filled the air with their sweet scent. In autumn, the colors were replaced by a riot of fiery reds and oranges in the trees. Even in the winter, when the sharp frosts blanketed the land in white, the vibrant berries on the glossy dark-green bushes provided jewels of color. Then, as winter faded, new bright-green shoots pushed through the hard ground.
How she loved the country! It was all she could do to prevent herself from skipping with joy as she wandered through the garden, her hand engulfed in Mr. McTavish’s—Murdo’s—great paw.
Ahead, her brothers walked side by side, casting the occasional glance over their shoulders.
“Yer garden’s very impressive, Clara,” Murdo said. “The roses, particularly.”
“Do you grow roses in your home?”
He shook his head. “No, lass. I believe my ma tried to grow roses, but after she passed…”
His voice trailed away, and she saw a flicker of sorrow in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You must miss her.”
“I barely remember her.”
“Whatdoyou remember?” Clara asked, then she checked herself. “Forgive me, I oughtn’t have asked. My stepfather’s always admonishing me for speaking out of turn. He says people don’t like to speak of their sorrows, of loved ones lost.”
“But if we don’t speak of them, they’ll fade from our hearts,” he replied. “I’ve no wish for my ma to fade from my thoughts. My da speaks little of her. But my aunt…” He let out a sigh.
“She said she took care of you after your mother passed.”
“Aye, she did. She spoke of Ma so often, it was as if she were alive. But when Aunt Fiona married…”
He turned to face her and smiled. “So you see, lass, it can only give me joy if ye speak of my mother. In answer to yer question, I remember a beautiful woman with flame-red hair and eyes the color of whisky, a soft voice singing me to sleep at night and holding me to her breast. When I’m alone, she visits my dreams and tells me all will be well.”
“She’s an angel,” Clara whispered.
“Aye, lass, an angel. She’s the strength of the mountains, the color of the heather, and the cry of the stags in the autumn. She’s…”
He drew in a sharp breath and caught her hand.
“Heavens, lass! Can ye see that?”
Ahead was the figure of an angel—pale in the light of the afternoon sun. Her hands clasped together, she gazed at the ground, an expression of serenity in her eyes. Soft, feathered wings framed her body.
Clara’s brothers veered off the path toward the angel, then Murdo exhaled.
“It’s astatue!” he said. “For a moment, I thought…”
“Come and see,” Clara said, steering him toward the statue. “My stepfather placed her in the best part of the garden, and the view from there is magnificent.”
Murdo placed his hand on the statue and ran his hand along the marble, the carved folds of the angel’s gown. He touched the tip of one wing where a piece had broken off, running his fingers over the jagged edge.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. “Such exquisite craftmanship. The detail on the feathers—a man could be forgiven for expecting them to move with the breeze.”
“Can you see the likeness?” Cornelius asked.
