Page 5 of Beyond Dreams

Chapter Two

“Iwant you to heedmy words carefully, woman,” Duncan MacQuillan ground out to Doirin, the second wife of his father. “’Tis nae for you to question either my plans or my motives.”

Unperturbed by the coldness in both his gaze and his harsh voice, Doirin unclamped her lips and continued to plead with him. “But she’s naught but ten and seven, Duncan. You’ve already sent away Evir and Flora. Will ye nae—”

“I did nae send them away,” he countered curtly. “I arranged marriages for them, saw them wed to men of honor, same as my father would have done had he lived. As it was, and as a boon to you,” he reminded her, “I delayed too long and staggered their weddings so that you were not deprived of all of them at once.”

Doirin would not give so easily. “But surely, you can see that Moire is...different, that she is not so worldly as were her sisters at this age.”

Duncan rolled his eyes. “Nae any of them is worldly, Doirin,” he charged without remorse, “and dinna deceive yourself in that regard. They are the products of their upbringing.” And a trio of more selfish, useless, and unsophisticated lasses he was certain he’d never known. Ornaments, they’d been raised as, not unlike their mother, who had served as no more than that to his father.

There was no denying that Doirin was beautiful, or had been in her youth, when his father had taken up with her, elevating her from dairy maid to mistress of the MacQuillan stronghold, Thallane—that relationship beginning well before Duncan’s mother had been laid into the ground. But she was little more than that, was often lazy, had no interest in the actual running of the household, had more care for her wardrobe and what booty she’d amassed over the years. Booty, Duncan had always thought of it, jewels and silks and costly furnishings—the spoils of war, his own father had termed it, the old laird having very quickly regretted marrying the wench two decades ago and not simply keeping her as his mistress.

Not unlike his father, Duncan had about as much use for Doirin and her three daughters—his half-sisters, he was regularly forced to recall—as he had for any three-legged steed.

He thought to remind Doirin of his other proposal to her, and because she’d appeared starkly horrified by the idea when first he’d broached the subject, he phrased it as a statement now and not only a suggestion worth her consideration and ultimately her consent. “Recall, also, that either Evir’s husband or Moire’s intended has offered you solace in their home so that you have at least the company of one of your daughters. You need to decide where you will go.”

“You...you would send me away? Strike me clear of the only home I have ever known? Where all my memories are so fondly attached to every stone of this house, to your father?”

Over the years, Doirin had perfected the quivering lip act that had worked wonders on his father for a while. Duncan was pleased to always have been immune to such blatant manipulation.

“The only home you’ve ever kent?” He repeated dryly. “You dinna recall the hovel in which you were born and lived for eight and ten years before becoming father’s mistress?”

“His wife I am,” she snarled at him, the show of woebegone innocence forgotten.

“Were,” Duncan reminded her and then returned to business, wanting the matter settled and removed from his plate of duties. “Ronan of Haddo will arrive with his retinue at the end of the month. Arrange for their visit and stay and for the nuptials to be exchanged here. And then,” he said, more pointedly, meeting her stricken blue-eyed gaze, “arrange for their departure and your own travel. Ronan will likely have a vehicle in which his bride will travel. You may make use of the MacQuillan carriage if you decide to relocate away from Moire.”

Demonstrating a wee bit of that ill-tempered woman who made regular appearances when she didn’t get her way, Doirin asserted, “How self-serving of you. You are so quick to rid yourself of your sweet sisters, bartering them away for benefits to you and Thallane but not to them. And somehow you—old enough that you should have daughters nearly Moire’s age—manage to escape the bonds of matrimony yourself. How is that, Duncan? Will nae one have the laird of Thallane? Do you ken yourself above everyone else that no maid would—”

Duncan stood at the high table in the hall, where he conducted much of the day’s business. He hadn’t jumped to his feet, hadn’t upended the chair in his haste, and didn’t pound his fist on the wooden board to shut her up. But she quieted all the same and he was just enough of a miserable gobshite that he rather enjoyed seeing the blood drain from her porcelain cheeks for the menace of his pose.

“We all have responsibilities, Doirin, and I am nae excluded from duty,” he said, slowly and dangerously. “As it is, before Moire weds, it seems I shall—because it is mydutyto do so,” he enunciated through gritted teeth.

“Ye are to wed?” Doirin asked, brows raised high into her forehead. “From under what rock did ye scrape your bride?”

Ah, he so loved when she feigned at nothing, but allowed her true self to be seen and heard. It allowed Duncan to do the same. “Nae so far from where my father found you,” he shot back without remorse.

Doirin pursed her lips with an antagonist’s appreciative regard for the counterattack, looking less attractive the meaner she became.

“I might bring you with me, you and Moire,” he said, “if the timing agrees. Mayhap you can find among the MacHeths your next husband.”

“Ye align yourself with the MacHeths?” Her shock was real.

“I seek peace with my neighbors by way of the union,” he clarified. “And be grateful, Doirin, that I took on this disagreeable necessity myself and did not sacrifice either you or one of your precious daughters to the MacHeth brothers and sons to see the peace negotiated.”

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