Colm McEwen narrowed his eyes. ‘Aye, and he paid a pretty penny for the privilege too. How he wanted you. Much good it did him. It was his only weakness, for he was a heartless bastard. But he longed to get his hands on your innocence.’
Maren’s belly coiled in revulsion. ‘How could you give your only daughter to such a man.’
‘Give. I did not give him anything. He bought you. And don’t look so outraged. What worth is virginity if it is given away without gain? His desire bought me the time I needed to end him, enemy, that he was. You should not begrudge me that indulgence, for it led to Drayton’s demise. In this matter, I judge your innocence well-spent.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, I thought you had long since given up your virtue to one of the lads running around Durness.’
Her father was lying to her and even to himself, for he had kept all the lads away from her on pain of death.
‘My God, you are a monster, just as mother told me,’ said Maren.
Her father put his hand to her throat and squeezed. ‘Do not sully her name with your bile. I loved her.’
‘Yet she hated you and what you became.’
His hand softened, and his face fell. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Aye. She told me every day that I was not yours. She said you had relinquished all claim to being her husband, and I should never honour you as my father.’
‘Then why did she not say this to me?’
‘Because you were never there, and when you were, she lived in fear of your temper. Mother went to the grave cursing your name. She could have had a good life of comfort and plenty if you had not seduced her into running away with you. And when she had given up everything, you did not value her. You betrayed her over and over with other women.’
‘Tis a man’s privilege to do as he pleases.’
‘And a woman’s to suffer it, eh?’
‘Aye.’ Her father’s voice held no remorse, but his face told a different story. Maren had hit a chink in his armour.
‘Why is this place in such disarray with barely any servants nor any sign of your ill-gotten gains,’ said Maren.
‘I am ailing, or had you not noticed?’ he spat.
‘Ailing from what – a surfeit of remorse?’
‘No, daughter - an affliction of the lungs. They are being consumed little by little every day.
Consumption? How could this monster be brought down by such a commonplace thing?
‘Every bloodied cough is a knife to the chest,’ he continued. ‘Every suck of air is a struggle which exhausts me. But I am not food for worms yet. Are you happy now, to see me in such dire straits?’
‘Happy enough, save for one thing. I need you to be strong.’
‘Why? Have you hit the bottom and find yourself unable to climb out of the sludge of ordinary folk.’
‘No. I need you to kill Drayton Carver.’
His brows furrowed. ‘Drayton? What are you about? What is this?’
‘He is not dead,’ spat Maren.
‘Aye, he is. I sent him up to Black Pass, knowing a redcoat patrol would happen upon him. I sent the fool to his doom. We both saw his broken corpse.’
‘But you did not see his face, did you?’
‘There was none left to see.’
Maren shook her head in contempt. ‘He made a fool of you. That corpse was not Drayton. It was a man who looked like him - same build, hair, same verminous look. He knew you were bent on murdering him, so he killed another to take his place.’
‘No. That cannot be,’ spat her father.
