Patrick Murray was confident, powerful, decisive—a rock even in the most precarious of circumstances. The ultimate warrior. How could he ever understand what it was like not to trust yourself? To no longer have faith in your own judgment? To know how it feels when every instinct tells you something is right and then to later discover that it was wrong—terribly wrong?
She'd never told another living soul about the sheer depths of her stupidity with John Montgomery.
In the weeks following their engagement, he'd stolen kisses, a chaste peck here, a slightly longer kiss there. But one day—a few days before the gathering—she'd accidentally stumbled upon him in the middle of the night on her way back from the garderobe. He'd been drinking in the hall below and had only just come upstairs for the night. He'd kissed her. At first she'd giggled nervously and swatted him away. But then the kiss had turned more insistent, and she'd realized that she no longer wanted to stop. He'd pulled her into a mural chamber inset into the stone wall and down onto a cushioned bench. His hands stroked her body, touching her, awakening wicked sensations that she'd never imagined.
Your skin is like velvet.
He'd nuzzled his face in her chest.
Your breasts are so soft and round.
The things he'd whispered in her ear had excited her. She liked the way he made her feel. Loved. Protected.
Feel what you do to me.
He'd slipped her hand around his manhood, and she'd wondered at the solid strength of it.
Let me love you.
He'd told her it would be all right. That they were to be married. Told her that if she loved him, she would want to bring him pleasure.
Like a fool, she'd believed him. And truth be told, after an initial moment of pain, he hadn't been alone in his pleasure. She'd liked the weight of him on top of her, liked the way his hands caressed her breasts, the way he'd moved inside her. Except for the mess when he'd released himself on her stomach, it had been quite pleasant.
That night she'd given John her virginity, and two days later he'd broken her heart.
He'd found her after the fiasco at the gathering and apologized. Said he hadn't meant his cruel words—his laughter. She'd even believed him. A little. But by then it didn't matter. Her illusions of this handsome man loving her were gone, and in their place she saw the man he was—not the man she wanted him to be.
“Please, Elizabeth, you must reconsider. Think of the contracts. Of what this will mean to our families.”
To his family.Hers did not need her tocher or his cousin's influence in a feud with the Cunninghams. “Nothing would compel me to marry you.”
His handsome face turned as petulant as that of a spoiled child. “But you're ruined.”
She despised that word. She wasn't ruined. She was different. Changed. No longer naïve. “I'd suggest you keep that fact to yourself,” she said coolly. “You'll sign your own death warrant if either of my brothers discovers what you've done.”
He paled. She didn't blame him. Jamie was well-known for his ruthlessness, and Colin, if not as skilled a fighter, possessed an edge of cruelty that made him equally terrifying. “Someone will find out eventually,” he pointed out.
A husband. Her chest squeezed as she thought of all she'd wasted on a man who didn't care about her at all. Who didn't love her—not the way she deserved to be loved. The pleasure she'd shared with him should have belonged to her husband. She clenched her jaw. “That will be my problem.”
Then, she'd still thought she would find a husband to love her. A man who would be able to overlook a foolish girl's mistake.
But time had run out. When she married, love would not be part of the bargain. She would have to tell her cousin what she'd done, and if Robert Campbell could not look past her loss of maidenhood, she was confident that her tocher would blind many an eye.
Crude, perhaps, but none the less true for it.
She dipped her head under the water and plunged her face through the glassy surface one more time, then stepped from the tub. Despite the steamy air, her teeth chattered as the young maidservant rubbed the gooseflesh from her skin with the swathe of linen warmed by a pan of stones heated in the fire. The soft scent of lavender, made more pungent from the steam, filled her nose. It was her favorite scent, and Lizzie saw to it that all the linens were stored with the dried flowers.
The maid started the long process of combing out her hair, hitting a few painful snags along the way. In between the poor girl's horrified apologies, Lizzie thought how much she missed Alys. Donnan was recovering from his wound, but it would be some time before the older woman would chance to leave his side. Lizzie visited their cottage in the village when she could. With five children it was more than a bit chaotic, but she loved every minute of it.
It was everything she wanted and one day hoped to have.
The bath had worked its magic, and for the first time since their kiss, she could think rationally.
Patrick Murray's softly spoken words uttered in the haze of passion had brought all of it back to her. The uncertainty. The heartache. The knowledge that the next time she gave a man her body, she wanted to know that he loved her. Or, she thought sadly, that he would have a legal right to do so.
That was the cold, hard truth. No matter how much she desired Patrick Murray, it wasn't enough.
But …
