Page 50 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“Da!” Murdo said.
The laird chuckled and released his grip.
“I’m only jesting,” he said. “Ye’re welcome in our family. Daughter of a duchess, I hear, with a fine dowry. And a ripe body I can see—ready for birthing McTavishes, for all that ye’re a Sassenach.”
“Forgive my father,” Murdo said. “He’s in his cups.”
“And why shouldn’t I be, eh?” the laird said. “I’ve cause to celebrate.” He glanced around the table. “I’ve found a bride for my heir, and my younger son has found himself a…”
He froze, his eyes widening.
“Devil’s cock!” he said. “It’syou!”
“Who?” Murdo asked.
“Thatslut!” the laird snarled. “Get her out of my home at once!”
Clara’s gut twisted with horror. The laird was pointing at her mother.
Murdo stood. “Da, that’s the Duchess of Pittchester,” he said. “She’s not one of yer whores.”
“Ye know me, don’t ye, whore,” the laird said.
Clara’s mother set her napkin aside and rose, her face ashen.
“I recognize you,” she said quietly. “But I don’tknowyou. I never knew any of your names.”
“Who are ye?” Murdo whispered, staring at Clara’s mother.
“Elizabeth Martingale, Duchess of Pittchester.”
“Ye’re awhore,” the laird said.
“Da, stop it!” Murdo said. “Ye’ve taken too much whisky.”
“Too much whisky, have I? I’ll prove I’m right, lad.”
The laird strode toward Clara’s mother and grasped her sleeve. Then he pulled it up to reveal the scar on her skin—the mark in the shape of the letterD.
“Ye bear his brand,” he said. “Ye can’t deny it now.”
“I deny nothing.” Clara’s mother met the laird’s gaze.
“Aye,Elizabeth, Duchess of Pittchester,” he snarled. “Only I knew ye as Eliza, the filthiest whore in London. Gave me a good ride, ye did.”
“When ye were inLondon?” Murdo said. “Da, that was years ago, when I was a bairn. Are ye saying ye took awhore?”
“I’ve always taken whores, son—it’s part of being a man. Ye’ve taken plenty yerself.”
Clara drew in a sharp breath and turned to her fiancé. “Youwhat?”
“I’ve had women warm my bed, aye,” Murdo said, “but I’d never stoop to taking a whore.”
Clara’s mother swayed to the side, and Clara rushed across the table and took her hand.
“Mama, is it true?” she asked. “Was this man one of”—she swallowed the nausea rising in her gut—“one of…them?”
Her mother nodded. “Oh, darling, I-I’m so sorry!”
