Page 81 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“I’m sorry I hurt ye, Clara.”
“I didn’t know any different. And I’ve endured worse.”
Endured.
“Perhaps we should eat,” she said. “I wouldn’t want Morag to have gone to the trouble of making a meal for nothing.”
She waded out of the loch, and Murdo followed. But this time, her boldness had been replaced by self-consciousness. She shielded her body with her hands, then pulled a blanket over her shoulders, making a fuss of Buck as he thumped his tail on the ground.
They ate in silence, and when it was time to dress, Murdo averted his gaze to preserve his wife’s modesty. Da would have called him a fool—a man had every right to look at his wife, given that her body belonged to him. But Murdo didn’t merely want Clara’s body. He wanted her trust, and her love.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon had assured him that anything could be purchased for the right price—a wife, a husband, and a title. But the one thing that couldn’t be purchased was his wife’s heart.
On their returnhome, Murdo spotted a young boy limping across the path, and he recognized Gregor Stewart, the parson’s youngest.
The boy stumbled and fell with a cry, but before Murdo could react, his wife sprinted toward him.
“Are you hurt, little man?” she asked.
“Who are ye?” the boy said.
“I’m…” Clara glanced toward Murdo. “I’m Mrs. McTavish, and I’m pleased to meet you.” She held out her hand, and, after a moment’s hesitation, the boy took it.
“I’m Gregor,” he said.
“Are you alone, Gregor?”
The boy nodded. “Da’s in his study.”
“Foolish lad!” Murdo said. “Ye ken the mountain’s not safe for a lad yer age.”
The boy wrinkled his face into a frown, but Clara placed a hand on his arm.
“You’re a brave young man venturing onto the mountain alone,” she said, “but I’m sure your parents will be worried, and with good cause.”
“My foot hurts,” the boy said, sniffing. “If I’m late home, Da will give me the strap.”
“Well, if ye went out without telling yer ma…” Murdo began, but Clara frowned at him.
“May I see your leg, Gregor?” she asked.
The boy nodded, and she placed her hands on his shin, feeling along the leg until she reached the ankle and the boy yelped in pain.
“Have I broken my leg? Ma will be ever so angry.”
“It’s just a sprain,” Clara said, “but we’ll need to bind your ankle.”
She tore at the hem of her petticoat, then wound the strip of material around the boy’s ankle and secured it with a knot and helped him to his feet.
“Better?”
“A little,” the boy said, clinging to her hand.
“Shall we take you home?”
“What if my da gives me the strap?”
Clara glanced at Murdo. “We can say you were out walking with us.”
