Page 36 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“I-I’m not the daughter of a duke,” she said. “My father—mynaturalfather—was…”
She shook her head, and a tear splashed onto her cheek.
“Do ye miss him?”
She shook her head.
“Was he unkind to ye—to yer mother?”
She closed her eyes, and his heart ached to see her tremble. Then he placed a hand on her cheek and she opened them.
“I-I don’t remember him, but Mama and I each bear the mark…” Her voice trailed away, then she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Did Lord Grey…” he began.
“LordGrey?” she replied. “No, he…” She shuddered and let out a sob.
Guilt stabbed at his heart.
“Och, forgive me, lass,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset ye. I’ve said it matters not what happened in yer past, and I meant it. I want more than anything to see ye happy.” He took her basket. “Why don’t we have a bite to eat?”
She nodded.
“Though I’d beg ye to take me to a sheltered spot. I’d hate to yield my luncheon to the wind.”
“That’s where we’re going,” she said. “There’s a cave in the middle of the wall. You have to climb down to it. I’ll show you.”
“It is dangerous?”
“Only if you lose your footing.”
“Then take my hand, lass.”
She reached for him and he took her hand, catching his breath as he did every time their skin touched. She curled herfingers against his—fingers covered in callouses that spoke of a harsh life—then led him toward a deep fissure in the wall, resembling a staircase.
“Careful, lass.”
She let out a laugh. “I know this part of the wall so well now, I could climb it blindfold. It’s where I come when I want to be by myself.”
She stooped to pick up a stone, then stepped onto the staircase. As they descended, the howling of the wind lessened. About halfway down, the fissure widened out to the side, forming a dark hollow, the entrance resembling the shape of a giant mouth, with a pile of stones at the entrance. Clara placed her stone on top of the pile, then led him inside.
After Murdo’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out rough shapes—a stack of logs in one corner, a crate in another, with a pile of folded blankets on top.
“Are these yers?” he asked, setting the basket down.
She picked up a blanket and laid it on the floor. “Who else’s would they be?”
“I thought yer brothers…”
“Why, because they’re men?” She shook her head. “I don’t even know if they’re aware of this place. I’ve not shown it to anyone—until today.”
“Then ye do me great honor, Miss Martingale.”
She kneeled on the blanket and set out the contents of the basket—two wedges of pie, the remaining cake from yesterday’s tea, and a stone bottle.
“I think Papa Harcourt knows about it,” she said. “And Mr. Grainger also. But they’ve never said as much.”
“What makes ye think they know?”
