His father blinked owlishly at him. “What you yapping about?”
“Get up, you drunken bastard,” Liam said. “The pride of the MacCleals,” he taunted. “Tricking a naïve girl to steal her dowry. You disgust me.”
Beitidh was awake now, though also drunk. “Aw, it got the job done,” she grumbled. “What does it matter—”
“Say another word, and I will beat you. He may have ordered it, but you lied to her face, dressed her like a harlot, and set her to wander alone through the men.” The idea of what might have happened to Clara made his blood boil. He reached down and hauled Beitidh to her feet, not caring when his father tumbled sideways into the dirt. “Go,” he growled straight into the woman’s face. “Get far away,” he growled, as he shoved her toward the road.
“Och,” his father cried as he righted himself. “Leave her be.” The man managed to sit up, but he couldn’t keep the position. He slumped back against the tree trunk and peered owlishly at Liam. “You were taking too much time.”
“It was one day!”
“It’s been years that you’ve been away. Years to bed one rich Sassenach.” His father waved a limp hand at him. “We got tired of all yourthinkingandplanningand wasting time.”
“You’re the one who taught me to think, but now it’s all about your cock and your drink.” He wanted to beat his father senseless. He wanted to choke him for poisoning Liam’s future with Clara. But that would be like kicking a stupid dog. His father had had honor once and brains, but now he was awash in drink. It didn’t matter if this started from grief at losing Liam’s mother or was simply laziness plus the influence of Beitidh’s loose morals. The end result was the same.
His father was not a fit leader for his clan.
Liam spit at the ground, repulsed by his own culpability in this disaster. He was the MacCleal heir, and yet he’d hadn’t been here to stop his father’s slide into debauchery. And he’d brought Clara into this disaster knowing full well that trickery was a possibility.
“You’ve poisoned everything,” he said. “I still had ways to convince her.”
Now his task with her was a million times harder. When Clara realized the truth, she would leave. And Aaron would move heaven and earth to block Liam from gaining her dowry.
His father wasn’t listening. The laird’s eyes were shut, and he mumbled incoherently as he slumped against the tree. Ten feet away, Beitidh was in a similar position curled up against a different tree trunk.
The sight made him nauseous. Even more so because he knew that in the morning, both would be awake and gleefully planning the spending of Clara’s dowry. Such was their constitution that these two could be blind drunk now, and yet still able to cause mischief in the morning. They likely would not even remember that he’d been here.
Liam rubbed a hand over his face. He needed to figure out what to do. Was there any hope of salvaging the situation?
Maybe. If he could buy more time with Clara. Enough to convince her that his father’s and Beitidh’s perfidy was not Liam’s choice. But the only way to do that was to claim that the situation was a fait accompli.
Liam and Clara were married. By Scottish law, the two of them were husband and wife.
The problem was that the English were famous for ignoring inconvenient facts. Aaron could deny everything that had happened here. At a minimum, with the right amount of bribery, he could annul the marriage, especially since Liam hadn’t bedded her.
That meant Liam now had to bluff. He had to declare their wedding an undeniable fact. He had to be cold and uncompromising on that, showing not even the tiniest amount of sympathy to how Clara had been abused this night. He had to claim her dowry for his people, and then he had to keep her here while the finances were settled. Aaron would not hold back on the money as long as the cash supported Clara.
It was a cold way to begin his life with Clara. He wouldn’t blame her if she never forgave him, but it was the only way forward for his clan. They needed her dowry, and if that meant that he had to spend the rest of his life with an angry, bitter wife, then he would do it. For his people.
But what a miserable, awful future that painted for himself and Clara.
