Chapter 18
Morag Cameron was a pleasant girl, and there was no denying it, but she had one major flaw, Iain thought. She was not Claire Tewsbury.
He was aching inside, since he had been unable to tell Claire about Morag’s arrival, and perhaps come to some arrangement between them.
Yet what solution could they reach? Would she agree to become his mistress? He laughed inwardly at the mere idea. Neither of them would have settled for that.
Now Morag’s totally unexpected early arrival had thrown all his plans into complete confusion.
When his manservant had alerted him to the fact that the Cameron party had arrived, he had been utterly confused, unprepared and angry. He had thrown on his best clothes so quickly that his kilt was slightly askew, but he had no time to worry about it.
He had met Morag before, of course, but there had never been quite so many people around.
Now, as he handed her down from the carriage, he could feel dozens of eyes boring into his back.
He hoped none of them were Claire’s, but news spread fast even in a place the size of Glengar Castle because servants’ gossip was by far the most efficient form of communication.
If she did not know by now, he had no doubt that she would find out very soon.
He took Morag’s arm and began to walk towards the entrance, but as he moved past a line of servants, his eyes met Claire’s, and his heart sank. He watched as she turned and hurried away, knowing that there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop her.
A few moments later, he poured Morag a glass of wine as they sat down in the small parlour nearest the entrance. She raised her eyebrows, looking a little shocked, since it was a task that should have been performed by a servant.
Iain was irritated by her reaction, but he said nothing, merely pasted on a smile and raised a glass to her.
“Slàinte mhath!” he said, trying to appear cheerful.
“Slàinte mhath, my Laird!” Morag repeated with a wide smile before taking a delicate sip of the wine.
It seemed very strange to Iain suddenly to hear the Gaelic greeting spoken in an accent that was just the same as his, and he almost laughed, but again he restrained himself.
He thought about the way Claire said it, with her long English vowels that his staff sometimes had to struggle to understand.
He must have shown some reaction to the thought on his face, for Morag raised her eyebrows.
“Is something funny?” Her voice was not unpleasant, but it was slightly higher-pitched than Claire’s, which Iain had always thought sultry and sensual.
He was lost for words for a moment. “No, I was just distracted. I’m sorry, my lady, but your unexpected arrival has thrown us all into a bit of a spin.”
Morag shook her head and sighed, then reached to cover his hand with hers. Iain had been about to snatch it back, but realised at the last moment that this was not a good idea.
Whether he liked it or not, he had to accustom himself to Morag and her ways; hopefully she would improve upon acquaintance.
Her hand was soft and warm, and the thought briefly of the roughness of Claire’s and its effect on him. Somehow, though, he managed to drag himself back to the present moment and listen to his betrothed.
“I am so sorry, my Laird,” she said regretfully. “Blame my father. Dougal McMahon informed my father that there was an urgent council meeting, and he suddenly told me to have my possessions packed up to come here. I only had a few hours’ notice myself.”
Iain looked into Morag’s dark grey eyes and saw not a trace of insincerity or deceit in them.
There had been a council meeting—without him, and no doubt that gathering had decided his fate because if he had been there things would have been very different.
He could hardly believe the amount of sheer underhandedness and deceit that had led to this moment.
He looked up, at the exact moment when Dougal was passing by. He nodded and gave Iain a smug, triumphant smile, which almost made him jump out of his chair and attack the older man.
However, all he could do now was watch impotently as his erstwhile friend disappeared into a crowd of men who were milling around in the corridor outside.
Iain’s feelings for Dougal McMahon rapidly changed from fondness to hatred.
The man whom he had always treated as a favourite uncle was no more.
He was a slave to those in the clan whom he thought could advance his prospects and those of his son.
Iain had no way of dealing with his anger at that moment, and that was likely a good thing; otherwise all hell might have broken loose.
Now, however, he had to do his duty and converse with the woman who would be his wife, no matter how much it pained him.
“Tell me, Iain,” Morag said. “What do you do when you have time to yourself?”
Iain was surprised to see that she was really interested. “I read,” he replied.
Morag’s eyes lit up. “Really?” she asked. “I love reading! What kinds of stories interest you?”
He shrugged. “Everything,” he replied. “And you?”
“Love stories,” Morag replied, just as Iain had known she would.
This was the start of a long monologue about her favourite authors and the plots of all their books, and after ten minutes Iain felt like screaming at her to shut up because he was bored witless. All he could do, however, was say “um” and “ah” in the right places and smile dutifully.
He poured Morag another glass of wine, and she looked at him again, puzzled.
“Why do you not have one of your servants do that?” she asked.
Iain shrugged. “Because they are all busy,” he replied. “And I am perfectly capable of doing it by myself.” He held his hands up and flexed his fingers. “That is what these are for,” he told her, smiling and expecting her to laugh, as he was sure Claire would have done.
Morag still looked a little confused, and sipped her wine without looking at him. Iain sighed inwardly, wondering how he was going to cope with years and years of this. She obviously had no sense of humour, or at least, not one that he could relate to.
“About the wedding,” she said, smiling eagerly.
She put down her wine glass and leaned towards him to catch both his hands in hers.
“My father says it will be in two weeks, but I have to say it leaves me very little time to prepare, and I have to bring all four of my maids and a seamstress to make my dress. Two weeks is not enough time. Will you speak to him for me, my Laird? He will not listen to me.”
“How much time do you need?” he asked.
This was good news, he thought. Perhaps if he had enough time, he could think of a way of getting out of it altogether.
“At least a month,” she replied, looking at him pleadingly.
Iain knew he should have felt sorry for her, not been so eager to help, but he felt nothing—nothing at all.
“I will speak to him,” he answered.
Iain spent the rest of the day in dry, pointless conversation about the weather, the latest fashions, and the kind of books Iain would only read if he were absolutely desperate.
He offered to take Morag around the castle, but after showing her the portrait gallery and the Great Hall, she declared that she was fatigued from the journey and wanted to lie down for a while.
Iain gave a huge inward sigh of relief as he assigned a maidservant to take Morag to the room which had been hastily prepared for her.
Thank God, he thought. He practically sprinted to his room and ordered a cup of willow bark tea for the throbbing headache that was now beginning to attack him.
He sat on his bed and sipped the foul and bitter tea, wondering if it might be better to endure the pain rather than swallow the vile concoction. He forced it down, however, then covered his face with his hands, wondering if he should send for Claire.
Eventually, he decided that he would because he could not bear the thought of her pain at his betrayal. As it happened, however, Claire had decided not to wait for him.
After she had gathered her belongings, she strode to Iain’s chamber, passing several of her fellow servants on the way there. Some giggled and nudged each other and some merely stood back and let her pass, but if anyone got in her way, the momentum of her anger made her push them aside.
When she arrived outside his door, Claire did not pause to knock or collect her thoughts. She pushed the door open so hard that it slammed back against the wall, then shuddered on its hinges.
Iain, who was sitting at his desk, had been about to ring the bell to summon a maidservant to fetch Claire. He jumped in fright as he saw her storming into the room, her honey eyes blazing, beautiful face red and thunderous with rage.
Her back was ramrod-straight, and she almost looked like a soldier as she marched towards him. She stopped at his desk and deposited a little pile of books on it, then took out a small, jingling pouch and slammed it down beside them.
“I am buying my freedom,” she told him, trying and failing to keep her voice calm. “This is not quite enough, but the rest will be paid by Laird Cormac MacTavish. He is an honourable and honest man, and you will be fully recompensed.”
“No.” Iain jumped to his feet and rushed around the desk to grab Claire’s arm. “You are mine! You belong to me, and I am not letting you go!”
“I belong to no one but myself, certainly not you!” Claire cried, unaware that tears of fury were beginning to streak down her cheeks.
“I have paid you half of what I owe you and the rest is on its way. Why do you need me when you have a wife? I’ll tell you why—because you are greedy and dishonourable, and I was just here, vulnerable and innocent.
It must have been so satisfying, so easy for you.
No doubt you have done it many times before.
” She looked him up and down scornfully.
“You are a liar, my Laird. You promised you would never hurt me, but you did.”
She dashed tears furiously out of her eyes, then forced herself to look him straight in the eye. “I wish you and Lady Morag a long and happy life together. Goodbye, my Laird.”
She wrenched her arm free and dashed out of the door, slamming it behind her.
Iain stood staring at the wall for a moment, then, with an almighty roar, he hurled his whisky glass at the wall. It exploded into hundreds of pieces, in just the same way as his heart because Claire had just shattered it.
Iain was not a particularly devout man, but now he was praying for a miracle.
He needed an angel to swoop down from heaven and rescue him.
Morag and her father had been talking to him for well over an hour, and he would occasionally put in a polite word here and there, but in truth his mind was elsewhere—in fact it was miles away.
It was with Claire, of course. He was wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking about. How she must hate him!
Iain tried to imagine how he would feel if he were in her shoes. She had trusted him, and he had betrayed that trust. Had it been him in her place, would he not feel furious and humiliated?
Of course, he would, but now he was also absolutely ashamed of himself.
He had always thought of himself as an honourable man, but clearly he had grossly overestimated himself.
He had to speak to her and make things right between them.
There was nothing he could do about the marriage, but he could not let Claire go without at least apologising, lest she think he was some kind of monster who used women for his own pleasure then cast them aside.
Yet, that was exactly what he had been forced to do to her.
Iain consoled himself with the notion that it was too late for Claire to leave, since darkness was already falling. He made an effort to finish his meal, but he ate mechanically, not really tasting the delicious slices of venison on his plate.
Morag was going on about the horses she had seen at one of the local horse fairs, and mentioned that her mare was old and would soon have to be put out to pasture.
“I think I will have to find a new steed to celebrate my new life,” she said, raising her eyebrows in a not-so-subtle hint. “Perhaps I will be given one as a wedding present.”
Iain forced a laugh. “I see,” he said. “Well, fortunately, I know some people who—”
At that moment, however, he was interrupted by Agnes, who leaned over to speak to him. She looked deeply anxious, and since this was very unlike her, Iain was immediately concerned.
“M’Laird,” she said in a low voice. “Somethin’ serious has happened. Can I speak tae ye in private, please?”
“Of course.” Iain stood up and bowed to his guests, then politely excused himself.
Agnes turned to him as soon as the dining room door closed behind them. She was twisting her hands and her voice was trembling.
“Claire has gone, M’Laird. She didnae come for dinner, so I went tae see her an’ I couldnae find her. I asked one o’ the guards, an’ he told me she had left. He said she seemed very upset. I thought ye would want tae know.”
“Thank you, Agnes,” Iain said, running his hands backwards through his hair. “You did right.”
“I’m worried about her, M’Laird,” Agnes said, a rare show of emotion for her.
Iain looked outside; it was deep twilight, almost dark.
“She has no idea where she is going… I must find her!” He turned back to Agnes. “Tell my guests I have been called away on an urgent errand and I will not be coming back, for some time, please, Agnes.”
His heart was thumping nineteen to the dozen as he dashed to the stables and mounted his stallion, and after a brief conversation with one of the guards, urged him into a gallop and charged out of the gate.
Don’t be hurt, Claire! he thought desperately. Don’t be dead. I love you. There is no other woman on earth for me.