Page 46 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“Clever boy,” Clara said. Her eyes gleamed with moisture, then she approached the window. Buck followed, his claws clacking on the stone floor. “The view’s wonderful,” she said.
“It’s glorious at sunset,” Murdo said. “When the sun dips behind the horizon, the trees light up as if they’ve burst intoflame, the tips glowing gold and red. Each day the view is different. I could spend a lifetime enjoying it.”
She climbed onto the window seat, then placed her elbows on the windowsill and rested her chin on her hands, smiling, and the deerhound settled beside her.
“Clara, my love,” the duchess said, “we’re Mr. McTavish’s guests and he’s showing us round. There’s plenty of time to admire the view later.”
“I don’t mind, Yer Grace,” Murdo said. “After all, Clara isn’t a guest—this is her future home.”
Clara turned, and his heart lifted at the love in her eyes.
The duchess crossed the floor to a stag’s head mounted on the wall. “Did you shoot that?”
“Aye,” Murdo said. “He was my first.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. Deer hunting requires patience and an understanding of the deer and the land he occupies. Duncan knows the hills better than anyone—he did the stalking. I merely had the privilege of delivering the final shot.”
“Duncan?”
“Our ghillie.”
“Ah, the man who’s with your brother today.”
“Aye.”
“Clara will want to explore the land hereabouts. I trust you’ll not confine her to the house, magnificent as it is.”
The duchess’s voice had a hard edge. Murdo glanced toward the subject of their conversation, but she was occupied by the view and the dog beside her, who was giving her the wide-eyed, pleading gaze he bestowed on kind souls when he wanted a tidbit.
“You will look after my daughter, won’t you?” the duchess said.
“Of course, Yer Grace.”
She caught his wrist and held it in a surprisingly strong grip. “Imeanit, Mr. McTavish. She may be wild and hardy, but she has a sensitive heart. The dog, for instance…” She shook her head. “My Clara has known suffering. Not only physical suffering, but heartbreak.”
Murdo tempered the spike of jealousy. “Shelovedsomeone?”
“Not in the way you mean.” The duchess nodded toward the deerhound. “When she was a child, Clara befriended a dog. She was forced to watch as the creature was beaten to death. She blamed herself and suffered greatly for it.”
Murdo’s gut twisted with horror. “Were ye there?”
The duchess shook her head. “It happened during the years we were apart—when I didn’t even know Clara was alive.”
“Perhaps that’s why Buck’s taken to her,” Murdo said. “He recognizes a kindred spirit. And ye say she endured physical suffering? Was she beaten?”
The duchess nodded. “I saw you looking at her arm when we dined at the inn last night—perhaps you noticed the scar.”
He could hardly deny it—the ugly red mark on Clara’s upper arm, partially concealed by her sleeve. When Clara caught him staring, she blushed and drew her shawl around her shoulders.
“In the shape of a circle,” he said.
“It’s a brand,” the duchess replied. “I bear the same mark myself.”
“Devil’s ballocks!”
“Hush!” she admonished him.
