are my wife by the edict of David, King of the Scots. Do nothing more to annoy me. Do you understand that?’
He felt certain that the fright in her eyes would allow her to think about the precariousness of her situation and to mould her behaviour into an appropriate response.
‘No, I do not q-q-quite.’
Amazement at her effrontery left him speechless.
‘It is my d-d-duty as your w-wife to p-p-protect you, too.’
His bitter laughter was loud as he removed his hand. ‘You are here to provide Belridden with an heir, nothing else. And protection is my domain. I do not require any such thing from you.’
As she turned away, he saw that her hand no longer threaded through the ornate rosary beads.
Chapter Four
Her husband of two days was looking across at a woman standing to one side of the room. A woman with flaxen hair, her blue eyes meeting his in a complicity that even at this distance was unmistakeable. For just a moment Grace felt a quick thud of envy, but she pressed it down. For her to presume love from a man like the Laird of Kerr was foolish and completely unreasonable.
He had a mistress, a beautiful mistress, and when he walked across and kissed her soundly in front of everyone in the Great Hall, Grace knew exactly her position here.
She was a breeding wife, the provider of money and an heir. Not a lover or a friend, but a woman to beget progeny. Lawful progeny. Boys who would some day take on the mantle of this place and make it stronger. War and fighting and reiving were the life-blood of the Borderland keeps after all, and she swallowed back singular disappointment.
Belridden mirrored the sudden coldness she felt inside, showing no glimmer of any redeeming feature in the draughty and ill-kempt hall. The wind whistled in through wooden shutters and the rough sleeping mattresses littering the floor had not been cleared away. Half-eaten food scraps and mangy dogs lay beneath a high table that had neither linen on it nor tapestries behind it. Impoverished and meagre, Belridden stood like a sentinel on the very last edge of civilisation. The rolling green pastures of Grantley, the manor house with its garderobes and its luxury and an ease of both language and weather seemed so far away in this unfamiliar and uneasy landscape.
She shook her head, seeing in that moment how appealing her dowry must have been to a laird struggling with day-to-day expenses. Nothing here looked as if it had been attended to for decades. Even the occupants inside the keep looked ragged, their simple tunics and shifts dotted with repairs. She saw in their covert glances just exactly what they thought of her. Nobody smiled. Nobody welcomed her. Nobody hid the knowledge of her place here or sheltered her from the fondling of the Laird and his mistress, the woman’s arms now full along the rise of Lachlan Kerr’s buttocks.
She had been fooling herself on the journey north that this alliance could be anything more than a simple union of need—his need of legitimate heirs and her need of a husband. Any sort of husband given her advanced years. Even the brother of a man she had loathed.
Taking in a breath, she swallowed back panic. Lachlan Kerr’s ring on her finger denoted ownership in a circle of promise and submission and any ill-timed rebellion now could ruin things completely. In children she might find great happiness, and surely in the sharing and shaping of young lives some common ground could be formed.
His hand at her elbow surprised her.
‘If you follow me, I’ll show ye where you’re to sleep.’ The woman he had fondled watched from the other side of the room, warning in her eyes as their glances met. With dignity Grace smiled, hoping to give the impression of an airy unconcern even as she hid her shaking fingers in the generous train of her woollen dress.
Lachlan Kerr signalled his men to pick up her possessions and turned towards a door she had not noticed before. Lifting her skirts to avoid the hem being stained further, Grace was surprised by the breadth of a tower and by the warmth of a cosy solar off a hallway. A fire burned in a large grate, a coiled rush mat on the ground before it. To one end was a raised cubby with a mattress spread on wooden slats and covered in an intricate green-and-red cloth. A footstool, a table and a sturdy oaken chair completed the furniture.
When the men placed her things on the floor and departed, Lachlan Kerr closed the door behind them.
Alone. A silence widening with possibility. When he reached out and laid his hand across the swell of her bosom, the clench of her teeth worried the soft flesh on the inside of her mouth.
Blood. She tasted it and swallowed, keeping still as his fingers wandered down to the curve of her hips and the line of her bottom. Through the fine cloth of her gown her skin burned and her heartbeat, already quickened, doubled its pace yet again.
When he laughed and moved back, she felt the blaze of embarrassment more forcibly than she ever had before.
‘I will take ye tonight after supper. A woman will be sent to see to your needs.’
His voice was deep and she saw in his eyes the unmistakable flare of sex, and the sharp rush of prescience almost made her faint.
Beat, beat, beat.
Blood in her throat and in her stomach and in a place between her legs where there had only ever been stillness.
I will take you tonight. A duty. An insignificant thing. After supper.
‘I th-th-th-think th-th-that w-w-we sh-should w-w-wait.’
‘Wait for what?’ he returned with impatience even as he opened up the portal to leave.
For love. For softness. For the blossoming of feeling and hope and promise. She shook her head as the words rushed around in her mind and watched the easy way he left her, his thoughts on other obligations that waited outside.
Standing perfectly still she reached one hand across her breast just as he had, the quick thrill of ardour returning, bold with thoughts of something she did not comprehend. Imagining. Skin against skin. Her eyes flew open and all the pleasurable feeling exited in one single rush. Her hand went to her damaged leg, the knots of red-welted scars overlaid with pearl. She was a flawed wife.
Peg-leg. Ugly. Red-head. She scratched at the creases of skin at her elbows as she contemplated options. The children at Grantley had been told to be kind as she was growing up, though many a boy had not heeded the special advice given about how to handle the withdrawn and newly orphaned thirteen-year-old Grace. Their taunts still pierced her equanimity sometimes, a reminder of reality when her mind took her on other journeys of wishful thinking.
Would she be able to stay in her clothes for this ‘taking’? Could the expanse of skin between her ankle and her knee be enough for a man like Lachlan Kerr to dwell on before he laid his seed on her stomach? Grace frowned and wondered where this seed would go next. Without a mother, and as the oldest of the female cousins, she had had no one to ask about the proprieties of marriage and its expectations. Of course she knew children were a product of this thing that a married couple did after marriage, but the mechanics of a swollen belly as a result of ‘the act’ eluded her. She had tried to ask Stephen of it once, but he had not answered, avoiding her company until he left again for London. So she had desisted from further questions, reasoning that, as an ageing and plain woman, she might never need to know the answer anyway.
Until today. Until the hours that led to supper, suspense
