Chapter Two
Meg
Meg Beaton hid behind the door in her bedchamber, her ear to the rough wood surface. Ever since her sister Tamsin had been sent off to marry someone on the Isle of Ulva, Meg had hated her life. She worked all day, her nails sometimes bleeding from washing clothes and pulling garden weeds. Then her father would come home at night and check her work, decide if she deserved to be punished or not. Too often, he felt she deserved a slap or a paddle from the board, whatever struck him at the moment.
A small knife stuck in her belly whenever a vision of her sister Tamsin popped into her head. At this point, Meg should be used to her being gone, but she was not. Without her sister to hold her hand when she cried or to listen to her fears in the dead of night, she had become a shell of her former self.
Alone and unloved.
Ever since their mother died when Meg was seven, life had become miserable simply because their father was miserable. If she had any idea how to find her dear sister, she’d run away, but her father had threatened her, saying he’d call the sheriff to lock her up if she ever tried to escape. She didn’t think her life could be any worse.
She had the oddest feeling that it was about to turn worse because her father had a visitor, something she hadn’t seen since Tamsin left.
The worst part? It was a man. An older man.
Her heart pounded so in her chest that it interfered with her ability to hear the conversation in the main room.
“How long will it take you to have her ready, Henry?”
“My lord, I can have her ready to travel with you on the morrow. She’s young, so I must prepare her for this event.” Meg’s father cleared his throat twice.
What event? Meg thought hard but couldn’t recall any mention of a change in their usual daily chores.
“I’ve been searching for a suitable young bride for a while, so do not disappoint me. I need her with child within two moons. I want at least three heirs. I’ll allow her one female, so perhaps four. It would behoove me to think of her duties, and a daughter could assist her. I would prefer my wife to only spend her time taking care of my needs. You understand, of course.”
Wife?
The pounding of her heart became a thunderstorm in an instant.
Wife?
Meg flopped onto her bed before her knees buckled. Had she heard him right? A baron wished to take her as a bride?
She hurried back to the door, opening it a bit to peek out at the man. If he was handsome and kind and loving, perhaps her life was about to improve immensely.
He was none of those things.
The baron stood half a head taller than her father, his hair gray and balding, with a thick neck. As she was unable to see his eyes directly, she had to pray they would be kind. His nose resembled a bird’s beak, and his belly protruded enough that his hands could rest there comfortably, though he had a habit of swinging them oddly when he spoke, as though the motion gave his words a semblance of importance.
Her father turned toward her bedchamber, and she jumped back from the door just before it sprung open. “Margret, come meet your betrothed. He will come for you on the morrow and take you to the church in England, where you will become his wife.”
Church in England? Where was England? She had no idea since she’d never traveled more than a quarter day from their home.
One, two, three … Her fingers ticked by her side.
“Stop it,” her father hissed quietly, his gaze dropping to her hands. “Do not act foolish.”
How could she explain to her father that counting calmed her? It was something she did whenever she was uncertain of the outcome of a situation. Her father knew this about her. He’d heard her count whenever he hit her with the paddle.
When she stood in front of the man, her father said, “This is Baron Neville de Wilton. You should refer to him as ‘my lord.’ He has chosen you to be his wife. His baroness.”
“Come over here, lass. I’d like to see you up close. See exactly what I’m purchasing.” He took two steps toward her and waited for her to come to him.
She glanced at her father, who propelled her forward then said, “I shall return in a moment.” He stepped out the back door, leaving the two alone.
“Greetings, my lord,” she said, counting under her breath, her fingers kneading her gown to match the count.
“My, but your sire was not lying. You are a comely lass. Your hair is a bit red for my liking, but you have pretty green eyes. Forgive my intrusion, but I wish to learn more about you.” He stepped closer and palmed her breasts through her gown.
Meg pushed his hands away, incensed that he dared to touch her there. He grabbed her wrists and squeezed.
“Do not ever push me away. Once we are married, you will do everything I say, when I want and what I want. Do you understand me?”
She nodded, just so he’d release her arms. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.
He squeezed her breasts again and then walked around her. “Stay there. Do not move.” His hands went to the globes of her bottom, squeezing there as well. “Very nice. You will suit me nicely.”
She wished to put her fist in his face.
He came around to the front again and stood too close, so close that she could smell something rancid. She brushed her finger against the bottom of her nose as if to protect her from the odor, but it did little to help her. He leaned forward, pulled her hand down and kissed her, his tongue pushing against the seam of her lips until she opened them. He tasted of sour ale and rabbit, something that nearly made her heave, but she was afraid to push away.
She was eternally grateful for her father’s entrance again. The baron stepped away at the sound of the door opening.
Her father stared at her, then at the baron. “Well?”
“She’ll suit me fine. I’ll return on the morrow for her,” he said, taking a small bow to her and saying, “Until then, my dear.”
He exited while she froze in her spot, but her sire followed him out. The baron bellowed at his men, ordering them about to assist him onto his horse.
Meg could only think of one truth.
She’d never marry that pig.
Given no other option, she’d have to run away.
Soon.