Chapter Six
Several hours of stalking the wet woods around Scarcross did nothing to cool Cullen’s temper.
He climbed to the top of a hill and stared out at the vivid green of the glens, seeking answers.
But the hushed solitude of whispering pine trees and the steady drip of rain from the trees brought him no closer to an escape from his dilemma.
Nor had the prick of cold wind on his face brought any clarity of thought.
The sky burned ochre over distant hills.
Dusk was creeping closer, and so was his choice.
He could go, now, take a ship to Ireland, but the ghost of Lowri Strachan would follow him for a lifetime.
Curse his capacity for pity, which was a wretched emotion, and aided no man.
Why did the lass press on him so? Was it her courage or her ferocious need to protect her friends that made a crack in his hard shell?
Or had he taken her part just to wound his father?
That was a fool’s errand, for nothing could wipe our years of indifference and neglect, and Griffin Macaulay cared nothing for Cullen’s approval.
The bell rang out at Scarcross, summoning him home.
Cullen sighed and walked back in the gathering gloom.
There was a flash of white blonde hair from the woods, and Reeva came running up to him.
His half-sister was usually in the company of her three siblings.
They roamed about Scarcross like a flock of soft, giggling chicks.
‘What are you doing out here all alone?’ he said.
Reeva held out a mangled wooden carving of a squirrel. ‘The tail broke, Cullen. Will you make me another?’
‘What happened?’
‘One of Allard’s lurchers got to chewing on it.’
‘Then maybe I should get to chewing on him.’
‘The lurcher or Allard?’ said Reeva. For a seven-year-old, she was very canny.
Cullen laughed. ‘The lurcher would taste better.’ She giggled, and he said, ‘I suppose I must make you another.’
Reeva held her skirts out sideways and twisted back and forth. She looked up at him from under her lashes – utterly sweet and trusting. ‘Does that mean you are staying awhile?’
‘Not long, but at least long enough to make you another toy.’
Reeva’s smile was beaming as she slipped her tiny hand into his. It was so delicate, like holding a butterfly. ‘Come on, Cullen. It is getting dark, and we should get supper.’
Reeva’s trust in him always broke Cullen’s heart a little. How could something so gentle and vulnerable survive in a harsh, dreary place like Scarcross?
‘I think it is stew again,’ she said, scrunching up her nose as if there was a bad smell under it.
‘Not for me, Reeva. I’m not going to supper. I have something important to attend to,’ he said.
She gave him an unblinking stare. ‘What could be more important than supper?’
***
A short while later, Cullen’s hand turned numb from clutching a flagon of whisky too tightly.
He had downed half of it, yet his temper was still stretched to the point of snapping as he waited in the hall for his father and his bride to be.
Allard was nowhere to be seen, which was a blessing.
The priest fingered his bible impatiently.
‘Laird Macaulay said I would be away by now. The roads are treacherous.’
Cullen just shrugged at that. Footsteps sounded outside the hall, along with a hissed curse, a female one. Then Griffin entered, and Cullen’s mouth fell open. For an instant, Cullen thought his father was dragging a stranger in by her arm.
Lowri Strachan was now bonnie, verging on beautiful.
She still looked wild, but some brave soul had cleaned her and forced her into a dress the red of burgundy wine, or blood, maybe.
She wore a clean plaid of Macaulay green over her shoulders, and her hair had been brushed smooth and shone like jet in the candlelight, tumbling in soft waves over her fulsome breasts.
She stared fearfully at Cullen, and the last rays of daylight turned her wide eyes amber-brown.
It seemed her washing had swept away any last remnants of resistance, for the lass was strangely meek and passive, as if she was in a trance. All her ferocious defiance had gone, and she just seemed bewildered.
‘Proceed,’ said Griffin to the priest. He turned to Cullen and hissed, ‘Could you not have cleaned yourself up?’
‘Why? It makes no difference to her.’
Cullen glanced at Lowri, and she stared at the flagstones.
Then the priest started his nonsense. ‘Do you consent to this union?’ Cullen barked an ‘aye’ and the lass nodded.
Then it was on to duty and a stern lecture on matrimony being about procreation and children, and not fornication.
The lass’s cheeks burned pink at that word being uttered.
It seemed she was not looking forward to her duty this night any more than he.
When the tedious vows ended, with some nonsense about devotion and forsaking others, the priest said, ‘You are now joined in wedlock. You may kiss your bonnie young bride.’
Cullen didn’t even know how old she was or what she liked to drink or eat.
He didn’t know her people, her likes, dislikes.
Did she have hopes, dreams? Was the priest a bloody fool not to see the reluctance of both parties?
Cullen’s new wife wouldn’t even look his way, let alone fall breathlessly into his embrace.
And Cullen had to clench his jaw to contain his anger.
It was all Lowri Strachan’s fault that they were standing here.
He might be the lesser of two evils as far as the lass was concerned, but he still hated her for choosing him.
‘Come on, son. Seal the union. Your bride is waiting,’ barked Griffin.
The cord on his temper strained and snapped.
He couldn’t punish his father for the wedding, so he punished his bride instead.
Cullen took hold of the back of Lowri’s head in one hand and brought his lips to hers.
She did not wriggle away, as he had expected, and her lips were warm and soft.
He had never tasted a mouth as sweet, and so he kissed her properly, long and deep.
Heat spread in his loins. But when he drew away, her mouth fell open in a gasp, and then she reached up the back of her hand and wiped his kiss away in utter contempt.
‘Satisfied, Father?’ he said with venom, feeling the sting of humiliation at the hands of Lowri Strachan.
‘You’ll do more than kiss her,’ cried Griffin. ‘I want this marriage consummated tonight, or it will not stand. You know the consequences if you do not do your duty. Make sure she’s no virgin come dawn, if she even is one now.’
‘Laird Macaulay, I do not think there is any need for that kind of talk,’ said the priest, looking appalled.
‘Isn’t there!’ shouted Griffin into his face. ‘What do you care? You were paid, weren’t you? And remember to keep your mouth shut about this. If I find you telling tales, it will end badly for you.’
The man’s face reddened. ‘I am leaving at once.’ He took Lowri’s hand. ‘Good luck, lass. I think you are going to need it.’
Griffin tore his hand away and thrust Lowri’s hand into Cullen’s. ‘Here, take the lass to your chamber, lift her skirts, and enjoy the privileges of a husband.’
***
Cullen’s grip on her arm was iron hard as he dragged Lowri upstairs to a high chamber - dark and dreary.
A tiny window let in a few rays from the sun dying outside, but no warmth.
There was none to be had from her captor either.
Cullen slammed the door shut so hard that the walls seemed to shake. He drew the bolt across, trapping her.
‘You’ve no need to lock me in,’ said Lowri ‘I’m not going to run. If I do, my friends will die.’
‘Aye, and never doubt that my father will hurt your friends if you do not play the dutiful wife,’ snarled Cullen ‘There’s whisky, so at least we can dull the pain, lass.’ He was still clutching the flagon he’d held onto throughout their vows.
Cullen swigged from it and then turned his back to her.
He carried on drinking as he threw wood and kindling into the fireplace.
Silence fell and dragged on, save for the snap of flint against steel as Cullen lit the fire.
He coaxed it to life, and his face became hellish in its glow, stiff with outrage.
Lowri studied his broad back as he stared into the flames.
His hair was damp and looked darker. Strands stuck to his forehead here and there.
When he’d kissed her, she’d smelled sodden wool and whisky, so the drinking had begun early.
That made him unpredictable. Would it make him cruel, too?
Though he was big, in a sparse, muscular way, his grip had been gentle when he’d kissed her. And he hadn’t hurt her, yet.
Oh, it was folly to hope for kindness. She could not let her guard down, for Cullen Macaulay looked too strong to fight off.
She could kick and scratch, but his weight alone would overpower her.
And the man seethed with quiet menace. She must not be weak or show fear to this bully when he took her virginity.
Would it be awful – a knife to the throat, a hand over her mouth? Would it hurt, and would Cullen care if she screamed and fought? But how could she bear the humiliation of just lying there and being used?
Her brute of a Macaulay husband must have read her thoughts because he turned to her and said, ‘So, we are to be joined this night.’
His words hung in the air, throbbing like an open wound – a threat and a promise.