Highland Hellion (Highland Weddings #3)(33)

“The laird wishes to see ye.”

Her belly knotted, and at the same time, she was hopeful that perhaps Marcus had arrived to fetch her back. She wasn’t sure how she would repay the MacPhersons, but she would worry about that after she was home.

The great hall was full of McTavish retainers. They filled the long tables as supper was served to them. She heard them before she reached the hall and realized how much she missed being part of conversations. Her debt to the MacPhersons was mounting as she appreciated how welcoming they had been.

And now, there would be the matter of a ransom.

Guilt heated her cheeks as she turned and stood in the large double doorway that opened into the hall. Men grew silent as they spotted her.

“Aye, bring her up.”

It was the laird who spoke, and his people quieted as they waited to hear what he wanted with her. Rolfe looked up from his seat beside his father.

“Katherine Carew,” the laird began with a satisfied tone. “Natural-born daughter and recognized bastard of the Earl of Bedford.”

“I have not seen him in over ten years.”

Eyes narrowed at her, as it was clear many believed she should remain silent.

“Blood is blood,” William McTavish declared. “And yers is blue. The earl recognized ye at yer baptism.”

“A fact that has brought me nothing but grief.”

William frowned and pointed a thick finger at her. “It gains ye men who are interested in taking ye to wife because of the alliances with yer father’s house.” He slapped the table in front of him. “Do nae be ungrateful. A place is a place.”

“I was stolen from mine,” Katherine replied.

“Hold yer tongue,” William warned her. The captain beside her gave her a shove to emphasize his laird’s command.

“I will not,” Katherine declared firmly. “For I will not have it said that I deceived you about what I am worth.”

“Which ye still say is naught?” William asked.

“I have been in Scotland for too many years for any of my blood kin to believe I am unsoiled.”

“Well, as to that matter…” William waved his hand. “It is no’ me concern, for the Earl of Morton has interest in ye. He can see to the matter of having ye inspected by a midwife.”

Katherine paled. She stood strong, but she felt the blood draining from her face.

“Do nae look so stricken,” William continued without a shred of mercy for her. “Ye are nae too tender for marriage now, and ye have thrived in Scotland, so a marriage with a Scot will likely suit ye well enough.” He paused to take a drink, the sound of the mug hitting the tabletop like a pistol exploding. “No’ that I care. What matters is that Rolfe has brought his clan a fine prize that will see me ennobled and the McTavish raised up above others.”

Katherine was numb as she locked gazes with Rolfe. “You promised to ransom me to the MacPhersons.”

“There was no promise made by my son.” William hit the table with his fist and struggled to stand. Once he was on his feet, he pointed at her. “Call him a liar again, and I’ll have ye beaten for it. No English chit will be making up tales about the McTavishes.”

He leaned on his hands once he was done, daring her to voice a complaint. She battled the urge, but it wasn’t his threat that kept her silent. It was the hostility of those watching her. All of that hate, and for what reason?

Her English blood.

It destroyed the foundation of her life, that wonderful existence she had been living with the MacPhersons.

No, what had smashed her life was Rolfe McTavish with his desire to claim her as a prize.

The McTavish started to chuckle at her silent form, enjoying her moment of submission.

The captain behind her grabbed her by the arm and swung her around. She went willingly enough, telling herself there was nothing for her in the hall.

And she repeated that again and again as she climbed to her tower chamber.

Rolfe McTavish was nothing, and she would take that to heart.

Because her private thoughts were the only thing she had left.

*

“Stay where ye are, son.”

Rolfe curled his fingers into fists as his father settled back into his chair.

“She is a prize that will net more than ye thought.”

“Since when do we play into the hands of the bloody Douglas?” Rolfe demanded softly.

“Since the man can bestow a title on me.” William turned his head to lock gazes with his son. “One which ye will inherit and pass on to yer own son one day. A laird always thinks of his clan first. Every McTavish will benefit.”

Rolfe disagreed. He shot his father a hard look but kept his jaw tight.

“Women are meant to wed for purpose,” William offered softly. “Why do ye think the MacPhersons allowed her to turn hellion? They do nae want the burden of providing a dowry for her. The Earl of Morton will find her a husband with a position, and her children will have better lots for it.”

Rolfe couldn’t fault his father’s thinking. It was the way the world was. A solid truth that only a fool argued with.

So label him a fool.

*

“Do nae let me father’s words wound ye.”

She hadn’t thought Rolfe would follow her into the chamber, much less touch her, but she felt him cup her shoulder. It was so tempting to indulge in a moment of bliss. Linger in the sensation that seemed to result when he touched her. It was a mystery—in many ways, an alarming one—but her pride refused to allow her to take shelter in it.