PROLOGUE
“Me Lady,” Poppy started with a concerned look. “Are ye sure ye are well? Ye look pale.”
“I am,” Sorcha answered, not the least bit confident. “Perhaps I am only anxious about the evening ahead.”
“Ye can tell the Laird that ye are unwell,” Poppy suggested. “He may understand and?—”
“Nay,” Sorcha answered. “This must happen for this marriage to be sealed. ‘Tis what me faither wants, and I will obey. I daenae want to upset me new husband.”
“Aye, me Lady,” Poppy relented. “I am glad he didnae ignore ye the whole evening like the others did.”
“Aye.” Sorcha nodded. “He doesnae seem bad, but me only fear is that this marriage will only end as the others did.”
“Daenae speak such words, me Lady,” Poppy urged. “It willnae happen again.”
“I cannae help but feel cursed—as they say—when two of me husbands died before consummating our marriage,” Sorcha sighed. “One could be ignored, but two is more than a coincidence.”
“Ye worry for naught,” Poppy reassured. “This time will be different, and if anyone is to be blamed, it should be yer faither, for marrying ye off to such old men. I daenae ken why they daenae just marry a spinster.”
“Mind yer words, Poppy,” Sorcha scolded. “We daenae need to make enemies so early.”
“I apologize, me Lady,” Poppy said, looking chagrined. “I only meant to voice me opinion.”
Sorcha couldn’t help but agree, though she said nothing out loud. Her new husband was nicer than the previous ones, but his age worried her.
He had smiled throughout the vow exchange, even placing a chaste kiss on her cheek instead of her lips. Though his hands had roamed during the banquet, and his eyes had glinted with a lecherous look that filled her mouth with bile.
She couldn’t ignore the pallor of his skin and how labored his breathing had grown over the evening. He was clearly not ingood health, and she feared he would soon succumb to whatever ailed him.
She had yet to understand her father’s need to marry her off to such elderly men, but she couldn’t argue with him. Even now, her palms turned clammy as she expected someone to run in any minute and inform her that her new husband was dead.
“Who kens? This time, ye may find friends in yer stepdaughters,” Poppy said cheerfully.
“Aye,” Sorcha agreed. “I like them very much.”
The girls, Avery and Rhea, were not much younger than her and had been sweet at the wedding banquet. Both shared fair coloring that they must have inherited from their mother, but their personalities differed like night and day.
Though Avery was more reserved, she was politely inquisitive and asked questions in turn. Rhea was more effusive in conversation, and her curiosity betrayed how sheltered she had grown up.
“I think they’re taken with ye as well,” Poppy added. “Ye have always wanted friends yer age. It seems the heavens have answered.”
“Indeed,” Sorcha said, even though she feared that it would all take a turn for the worse if the girls’ father wound up dead like her previous husbands.
Shaking the grim thought out of her head, she smiled as Poppy resumed brushing her hair in preparation for her wedding night.
The prospect filled her with dread and, in some parts, distaste. But for her clan, she would stomach the ordeal and hope she would be allowed to return to her bed afterward.
There was naught she could do but accept her fate. Her father had been adamant, and she couldn’t deny him much when it took him all his strength to argue with her these days.
She hated how he had taken a deathly pallor in the days past as she had prepared to leave for her new home. She knew he did not have many days left, and it brought tears to her eyes when she thought of it.
“Me Lady, ‘tis time,” Poppy announced, drawing her out of her thoughts.
Sorcha rose stiffly and squared her shoulders, her heart thudding violently in her chest. “Let us go then,” she said, more to herself.
Her legs felt heavier with each step she took. She wiped her palms on her nightgown and knocked on the adjoining door to her husband’s chambers. Hearing no answer, she opened it and stepped inside. She didn’t pause to admire the furnishings or décor. Instead, she turned to the man sprawled on the bed, partly hidden by the drapes.
“Me Laird?” she called.
