Black Richard's Heart (The MacCulloughs #1) - Suzan Tisdale Page 0,10

and trusted implicitly. And they were just as furious with David’s edict as he. Restlessly, with their instincts on full alert, they waited by their horses with a few of David’s own men. Black Richard assumed these men were there to observe and to make certain he didn’t do anything foolish, such as begin a fight with all the MacRay warriors standing nearby. He was never one to start a war, but he was damned determine to finish as the victor.

Black Richard’s fingers nearly itched with a need to draw his sword as he hoped one of the blasted MacRays would say or do something that would force him to act. What he would not give for David to witness with his own eyes what the MacRays were capable of. Then he would see the hatred betwixt the two clans was justified.

Married.

To a bloody MacRay!

“With yer luck, she will be just as ugly as her father,” Lachlan said through gritted teeth.

Rory agreed with a nod and a grunt. “And she be blind as well.” ’Twas a travesty of justice if ever there was one.

Blind. That was the only saving grace to this entire ordeal. A blind woman couldn’t see his scars. She wouldn’t be able to look into his eyes and see the contempt he held for her, her father, and the rest of her clan.

He imagined he would have to be good and bloody drunk in order to bed her. David was insistent there be a child born of this marriage. David cared not if it was a girl or boy, just as long as there was a child.

Aye, he’d bed her only until she got with child. Then he’d send her and the babe away from his keep. There was a spot south of their keep, miles away. There, he would have a cottage built for her, on land near the border betwixt their clans. Hell, she could go back home and live amongst her people for all he cared. David said nothing about living with her. As far as Black Richard was concerned, marriage didn’t necessitate the need for cohabitation.

Wed her, bed her, and forget her. That was his plan. And it would take divine intervention to get him to change his mind.

“Ye might get lucky,” Daniel said. “She might be a right pretty lass.”

His laird and cohorts looked at him as though he had lost his mind.

“A pretty MacRay?” Lachlan asked, incredulous with the notion. “There be no such thing.” His insult was said loud enough that everyone, including the MacRays, heard it. Not a one of them stepped forward to defend their laird’s daughter.

Daniel shrugged at the insult. “Better a pretty lass to bed, than one with warts and missin’ limbs, I say.”

“That’s probably what she looks like,” Thomas finally chimed in. “Covered in warts, missin’ limbs, and most likely, as ignorant and rude as her father.”

Lachlan grunted his agreement. Turning to Black Richard, he patted his shoulder. “I dunnae ken what ye did to anger God so, cousin. But it must have been somethin’ terrible.”

Black Richard found no humor in what Lachlan said. But he had been asking the same question since the moment he received the missive from David. For the life of him, he couldn’t find an answer.

For two years, Marisse had been leading Aeschene through the keep. But almost always under the cloak of darkness, when everyone else within was abed. If they were ever caught, ’twould be as swift and as severe a punishment as Garrin could think to mete out. They were ever diligent and cautious.

The only one who was aware of their late-night journeys was Tiberius and he was far too in love with Marisse to say a word to anyone. He claimed once that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for his young sister, but Aeschene knew better. Whenever their father was at home, Tiberius’s loyalty belonged to him. No matter how much he might adore his sister or love Marisse.

At the waist of each of Marisse’s dresses, in the back, they had carefully sewn little finger loops. Just big enough for Aeschene to loop a finger into but not big enough to be noticed by anyone. It made their late-night sojourns much easier and it offered a good deal of comfort to Aeschene.

Today, however, Aeschene found no comfort in anything. Not in finger loops, or Marisse’s words of encouragement.

Marisse had insisted Aeschene wear her prettiest dress — a light blue, soft wool, trimmed with silver threads.