Chapter Thirteen
After spending the morning with Murdoch, touring the estate to oversee some of the repairs—repairs that would have to cease now that Miss Young’s dowry was not forthcoming—Hamish returned to the castle, the stench of peat, hard toil, and sweat in his nostrils.
His deerhound trotting at his heels, he headed straight for the dining hall, where luncheon was already laid out—joints of venison and beef glistening on platters, and a huge game pie decorated with thistles and sprigs of heather.
Devil’s ballocks—as if he needed reminding of the wedding that had been interrupted, the celebratory feast that had not taken place! All that food—and the expense of procuring and preparing it. And for what? For nothing.
His mother sat at the dining table—he could almost have believed that she’d not moved since breakfast. Of his sister there was no sign. And…
He glanced at the place at the opposite end of the table. Since his da’s passing, after Hamish took over the mantle of laird, the lady’s place had been empty, Ma now choosing to sit at the side. But now, a place had been set, with a plate, knife and fork, and wine glass.
Yet it was unoccupied.
Good. He had no desire to set eyes on her again.
Ye’re a fool, Hamish MacLennan. Ye were hoping she’d be here.
Ignoring the voice whispering in his mind, Hamish gestured to the dog at his heels. “Get to yer place beside the fire, Monarch,” he growled.
The deerhound’s tail twitched, then he obediently trotted toward the fireplace, where a fire crackled and spat. The dog circled on the spot three times, then lowered himself on the rug with a grunt of satisfaction.
Hamish settled into his place, nodding to his mother in greeting. Then he gestured to his sister’s place. “Is Iona not joining us for luncheon?”
“I dinnae know,” she replied. “I’ve not seen her all morning.”
“Foolish, wayward lass.”
Hamish reached for the venison joint and carved a slice. He raised his eyebrows and his mother nodded, then he placed the slice on her plate.
“Another? Or some pie, perhaps?”
Ma shook her head and Hamish cut himself a thick slice of the pie, his stomach growling at its savory aroma.
Devil’s balls, he was hungry.
“Perhaps it’s time Iona was married,” Ma said, pouring herself a glass of wine. “The right husband—a man who loves her—and the responsibility of being a wife, and eventually a mother, might do her good.”
“She’s young for marriage, Ma.”
“She’s seventeen—a year older than I was,” Ma replied. Then she took a bite of her venison and smiled. “Glenblath venison is as good as it was the first time I tasted it on my wedding day.”
“And ye want to see Iona married off to a stranger, like ye were?” Hamish said. “Glenblath’s her home.”
“What woman of our station can claim that the place of her birth is her home?” she replied.
“The home she settles in after marriage is rarely the home she was raised in. And even that home she cannae say is truly hers, for she must defer to her husband in all things—and then to her sons. Only a man can truly call a place his home, for he remains there all his life and can lay claim to it.”
Was that why she was so eager to leave the castle? Because she knew it could never be her home?
“I notice ye’ve made no reference to yer wife not being at luncheon,” his mother said.
“Ma, it does no good to refer to her as—”
“But she is, son. Whether or not ye continue with this annulment, that lovely young woman is yer wife at this moment. Because of that, she should be taking her rightful place at our table.”
He glanced at the empty space, picturing his wife there as she had been at breakfast—a shimmer of fear in her eyes that she’d fought to conceal.
Those eyes had shown kindness and compassion when she’d looked upon Iona, despite the girl’s open hostility.
She’d discussed her leaving in such a resigned manner, as if she’d accepted her status as being something unwanted, to be discarded.
A shiver rippled across his skin as he recalled the feel of her little hand in his, the soft fingers that had caressed his skin, the scars on her hand from the disease that she’d survived against the odds. And those lush lips, begging to be tasted.
Had he kissed her, would he have been the first man to do so? Might he have opened her body such that the passion with which she defended herself and spoke of her vocation could be put to much better use—to the furtherment of carnal pleasure?
He would never lose enjoyment of the sight of a woman in a state of need, ready to take his cock. And as his wife, she would have been—nay, she was—his by right to claim in his bed, his by right to be the first to awaken her to pleasure.
It was something he’d fisted himself to pleasure over in anticipation of—the awakening of an innocent.
But that pleasure had been denied him, having only had his bed warmed by the likes of Maisie—earthy creatures of carnal pleasure who knew how to satisfy a man’s body even if they could never touch his soul.
What might she look like, her pale face flushed with desire, those hazel eyes widening in surprise as her body rippled around his cock? Or those plump lips parting to receive him while she kneeled before…
“Hamish!”
He drew in a sharp breath and glanced up to see his mother staring at him. Shifting in his seat, he became aware of his erection beneath his plaid.
“Y-yes, Ma?”
She arched an eyebrow, her mouth turned down in disapproval.
The look transported him to his boyhood, when, his body awakening to unfathomable sensations, he’d first fisted himself to pleasure on the moors after witnessing the stags in rut.
Though he’d feigned innocence, the expression in Ma’s eyes then was the same as it was now.
Mothers knew—and saw—everything.
Then the door opened and hope surged within him, which was doused as Iona entered. Face flushed, his sister slumped into her seat.
“Where have ye been?” he asked.
“None of yer business.”
Hamish carved a slice of the pie and dropped it onto his sister’s plate.
“I dinnae want that,” Iona said.
Hamish shrugged his shoulders. “Eat it, or dinnae eat it. I care not. Ye won’t be my problem forever.”
“What do ye mean?”
“When ye marry, ye’ll be yer husband’s responsibility.”
“And if I dinnae marry?”
“I’ll make sure that ye do,” he growled. “I’ll find a man to keep ye on a tight rein.”
Her eyes flared with fear, then she sneered. “Am I to be thrown out and treated like shit in a chamber pot, like yer wife?”
Hamish gritted his teeth. Since when had she grown so crude? But there was little point in rising to her bait. Instead, he regarded her coolly while she stared back in defiance.
“I thought ye didnae like my wife,” he said quietly.
Iona pulled a face and began eating. But, after swallowing a mouthful, she drew in a sharp breath, covered her mouth, then rose.
“I haven’t excused ye from the—” Hamish began, but, ignoring him, she rushed out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind her, and he heard retching outside.
Devil’s ballocks—women were more trouble then they were worth. Judgmental mothers, wayward sisters, and…
…unwanted wives.
“Leave her be,” Ma said, as Hamish rose. “Ye’ll not do any good. I’ll see to her. She’s suffering from something. Perhaps yer wife would be kind enough to see her. She might know what ails her.”
“Iona’s just overexcited,” Hamish said. “Monarch here used to expel his meals when he got excited—especially when Rory’s bitch was in heat.” He gestured to the deerhound in front of the fire. As if he understood his master, Monarch opened a solitary amber eye, then closed it again.
“Yer sister’s not an animal.”
“No, Ma,” he replied, cutting another slice of venison. “At least animals are easy to tame.”
“Och, ye dinnae know how to tame her, that’s all, son. Ye might think she needs a bit and bridle, but if ye threaten her, she’ll never learn to accept it.”
“Did ye accept the bit and bridle when ye married Da?”
Hamish regretted the words the moment he’d uttered them as a flicker of pain crossed his mother’s expression.
“We must all take the bit and bridle when we grow into adulthood,” she said. “It’s called accepting our duty. Mine as a wife and mother, ye as laird…” She gestured toward the empty space. “Perhaps the only soul who’s truly free is that lass ye married.”
She resumed eating and silence filled the room, save the crackling of the fire, the snoring coming from the shaggy animal at the hearth, and the scraping of cutlery.
As he ate, Hamish’s gaze kept drifting to the place opposite, where he tried to imagine his future bride—saying grace at the start of each meal, sharing pleasantries with his mother, listening with firm kindness to Iona, and casting him a look of longing across the table as if she eagerly anticipated a bedding.
But the only face he could see was a delicately featured face with a rosebud mouth, wide hazel eyes, and fair skin dotted with pockmarks, her expression showing no eagerness, fear, or judgment—just acceptance of her lot.
And it was that acceptance that clawed at his conscience.
She considered herself unworthy, not only due to her sex, but due to the illness she’d endured and conquered.
Such strength of will ought to be revered, but instead, all she would elicit would be the disgust of the unenlightened.
And there’s none more unenlightened than I.
He finished eating and pushed his plate to one side.
The dog let out a low whine, and Hamish tore a piece of meat from the venison joint and tossed it toward the fireplace.
The dog snapped the morsel in its jaws, then sat up, ears erect in anticipation of the next.
When it was not forthcoming, Monarch settled back down and closed his eyes.
“Why dinnae ye go and see her?” Hamish’s mother asked.
He shook his head. “No, Ma, ye’re right. Iona won’t welcome my—”
“I meant yer wife. She’s all alone in that cottage.”