Bryce threw his father an acid look, which slid off Jasper Cullan like rain off thatch. He merely smirked in return.
‘What a pleasure to find you at home this day, Clara,’ said Jasper. ‘I am sure you young ladies are always off gallivanting and flirting with the young bucks hereabouts. How tiresome to find yourself sitting in a hall with old men discussing horses.’
‘Oh, no, not at all, Laird Cullan. When father said you were coming, I was very much looking forward to your visit.’ She bit her lip. ‘And I am sure I would not know how to flirt, Laird Cullan.’ Clara furnished Bryce’s father with a bonnie smile and bowed her head, cheeks flaming. She was without doubt, the very picture of modesty and obedience as she glanced up at Bryce and then quickly away. Her hands shook a little, and she grasped them together to hide it.
So, Clara McMullan was the latest sacrificial lamb to be led to slaughter, was she? Like it or not, there was no escaping this charade now for either of them. Bryce settled in for a long afternoon and threw his whisky down his throat in one gulp, holding out his glass for another. Perhaps if she thought him a drunkard, Clara would not want him. Aye, but she probably didn’t want him anyway and was as much forced into this parading as he was. Wanting was not the point of this meeting, was it?
Dull conversation ensued on such stirring topics as the harsh winter still gripping the Highlands, the cost of bread and the usual niceties, for Clara’s ears could not be assaulted with anything too dramatic. She smiled and nodded along, raising no opinions of her own, nor contradicting anyone else’s, merely sucking up the conversation like a sponge.
Bryce smiled at Clara whilst stifling a yawn. His innate kindness prevented him from ignoring the poor lass, though anger pushed him in that direction. His father, the devious old buzzard, had chosen well, for the lass was appealing in a delicate, bony way. She had that child-like, wide-eyed demeanour which made men want to protect and pamper, and she was certainly easy on the eye. True, she might look as though one harsh word would snap her in two, but she had fine blue eyes and skin as pale and unblemished as milk. Yet the lass said scarcely a word to Bryce as he tried to be polite and engage her in conversation, and Clara only inspired his pity, not lust. He got the feeling that she had no more interest in him than he had in her.
For the briefest moment, he considered what it would be like to take her for a wife. For most men, she would do very well, never raising objections to his commands, squeezing out an heir or two while turning a blind eye to his indiscretions with other women. She would run his household well and see to his every comfort. He could wed Clara and be done with it. But at his core, there was kindness which prevented him from wilfully inflicting pain on another. He could never be content to be wed to this cowering little sparrow of a woman. And was Clara not as much a prisoner of her station in life as he? Oh, to be a farmer’s son and wrestle in the hay with a sturdy low-born lass whenever the fancy took him and to love where his heart dictated.
Suddenly his patience ran out. ‘Shall we get to this filly, then?’ he barked at the other two men, getting up and peering out of the window. ‘That sky is threatening snow to me. Best get on, or we will be caught in it.’
Everyone gaped at Bryce as if he had said something shocking.
‘Well, it is why we are here, is it not?’ he continued. ‘Are you not keen to see the mare, Father?’
Jasper narrowed his eyes. ‘All in good time, son.’
‘Well…er, we can head to the stables and leave these two to get acquainted, Jasper,’ sputtered Fergal, earning a glare from Bryce for his trouble. ‘Aye, let us do that.’
Damn the man. He could hardly abandon Clara now. It would be most unchivalrous. Once the other men had rushed away, the two of them sat in silence, apart from the ticking of a grandfather clock which seemed to boom in Bryce’s ears. He groped for something to say.
‘My father is most keen to see this horse. Do you ride, Clara?’
She jumped when he spoke as if someone had kicked her in the shins. ‘Oh. Me. I do ride, yes.’ She smiled and sighed as if forcing out the answer was some great accomplishment. ‘But I do not ride far. I keep close to the house.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Oh, because it is not safe. There are vagabonds up to all sorts of villainy in the woods around here.’
Had she been privy to some of his latest exploits? They would definitely fall into the category of villainy in her eyes.
‘I see,’ said Bryce. ‘What other pursuits do you have to entertain you here at Crag’s End?’
Clara bit her lip again. The habit was starting to annoy him. ‘Oh, let me see. I enjoy embroidery and music, and I play the pianoforte for hours. It is one of life’s great joys.’
‘I can think of other great joys not suited to your ears,’thought Bryce, but he said nothing. No need to be cruel.
‘Would you play something, Clara? I should like to hear a song,’ he said, trying to be generous.
Her hands shook a little more. ‘Oh, I cannot. I do not play well for an audience. I should be far too nervous to do that.’
‘Of course, you would.’Bryce sighed and looked out the window as white, fluffy snowflakes spiralled down. They would have to ride home with their plaids up and heads down into a blizzard, and all for nought. Damn his father and his matchmaking.
***
The ride home was not pleasant and was carried out in silence. The wind picked up, and the snowfall thickened, and by the time they had left Crag’s End and reached the head of the glen above Penhallion, the hills were blanketed in white and the sky dark grey and ominous. So was the mood.
‘So the mare was not to your liking, Father,’ he shouted as his bitterness forced its way out.
‘Nor to yours, it would seem,’ came Jasper’s acid reply.
‘Why did you have to throw that poor lass at me like a bone to a dog? Clearly, you had no interest in that horse, lied to get me there and then dangled me in front of poor Clara McMullan. It was humiliating.’
‘For who, her or you?’ said Jasper, his voice rising to battle the wind. ‘And what, pray, is wrong with this one? Clara is perfectly biddable and a bonnie little thing to boot. She can run a household and is keen to get a husband, and Fergal is eager to get her off his hands.’
