Page 98 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“Och, ye’ll be the despair of me!” she said. “It’s notmyforgiveness ye should be seeking.”
Murdo nodded. His da might have ruled the clan, but Joan had more wisdom in her little finger than he had in his whole body.
“Go to yer wife,” she said. “Yer father has no more need of ye. I’ll see to Dr. Munro here.”
Murdo pulled the gray-haired woman into an embrace. “If women could rule the clan, ye’d make a fine laird, Joan.”
“Don’t speak such nonsense, ye great, lumbering fool!” she said, slapping him on the arm. “Now, be off with ye.”
He kissed her on both cheeks, and she wriggled free.
“None of that, lad—save it for yer wife.”
“I intend to.”
He was a coward—a witless coward—for placing his father’s ideal of honor over his wife’s happiness.
He loved Clara, of that he was in no doubt. Now, at last, he could express it freely and without restraint.
His body tightened at the prospect of loving her as she deserved to be loved—in their bedchamber, on the hearthrug, against the hard stone walls of the great hall…
And out in the open, among the heather, while the birds circled overhead, catching their cries of pleasure as he brought her to exquisite ecstasy.
Tempering the surge in his heart and his manhood, he exited the chamber—without a backward glance at the man who’d held his soul prisoner—and went in search of his wife.
Chapter Twenty
Howdarehe!
Clara strode across the landscape, anger driving her forward. After leaving Marsaili in Elspeth’s care, the urge to remove herself from this godforsaken castle had been too strong.
I’m a fool to have believed I could ever have been happy here—withhim!
The ground sloped more steeply upward, and she paused to catch her breath. She’d long since lost sight of the path.
Damn. I’m lost.
She picked her way over the rocks, then slipped and fell to the ground, turning her ankle and cursing at the spike of pain.
Then she heard a noise from behind.
“Leave me be!” she cried. “Haven’t you done enough?”
A whine came in response, and she turned to see the huge deerhound standing behind her, his ears flattened. He stepped forward and nudged her with his nose.
“Sorry, Buck,” Clara said, struggling to her feet. “I didn’t meanyou.”
She scratched him behind the ears, and he let out a growl of satisfaction.
Then he leaped ahead, his claws scrabbling on the rocks, and trotted ahead before pausing to look back.
Clara followed. But before she caught up, he leaped off again, stopping to wait farther up until, after moving out of reach several times, he lay down, his ears upright. When she reached him at last, she spotted the path.
“Bless you, Buck,” she said. “You’re my best friend, aren’t you?”
The path disappeared into a cluster of firs, and she recognized the route to the ghillie’s cottage. A thin column of smoke rose into the air.
Duncan must be at home.
