Chapter Twelve
Liam was right.
Clara curled into herself on his bed as she thought through what had just happened.
She knew exactly why he was angry, though she’d pretended confusion. Most men became furious when she refused to conform to their wishes. Liam was no different than any other stubborn man in that matter. But of all the people she knew, he was the one she least wanted to upset, the one she most wanted to please. But not at the cost of her entire life.
He had touched her more intimately than any person she knew. Not just physically, but because he listened when she spoke, took her to activities that interested her, and never, ever laughed at her oddities. She valued him as a good friend and hoped they could become lovers now that she had become a demi-rep.
She would see about mending fences with him after she returned to London.
With that thought firmly in place, she wrapped herself in the spare blanket and lay down to sleep. It took her a while to quiet down, but eventually she relived the experience of climax in her memory. The feel of him between her thighs and the soaring explosion of sensation at the end had her relaxing into his bedding and enjoying the scent of him everywhere.
Eventually, she slept.
Sometime in the night, she heard him come in. She felt him settle on the bed beside her. When she stirred, he murmured to her, saying something to the effect of, “Hush. We’ll rest a while together.”
She didn’t speak, but allowed her body to conform to his. He curled into her back, and she held his hand as he wrapped his arm around her waist. He surrounded her, and she smiled as she dropped off to sleep. He had forgiven her their fight. All was well.
They slept.
The door burst open with a bang that reverberated through her aching head. She jolted upright, but it was nothing compared to what Liam did. He leaped over her to stand unapologetically naked in front of her. And with a jolt of shock, she saw he held a wicked-looking dagger in his hand.
“Aw down with you, boy,” his father boomed with an echoing laugh. “That little prick won’t do naught to me.”
“Get out,” Liam said, his voice colder than she’d ever heard before.
She sat up, wrapping the kilt tightly around herself. Behind the laird stood his men rubbing their eyes as they peered in through the door. They’d likely been sleeping out there and were just now waking amid the commotion.
Meanwhile, the laird stomped forward. Liam paced him, keeping between his father and Clara. “Now isn’t the time,” Liam hissed.
“Oh, now is the best time,” returned the laird as he peered past Clara to the bedding behind her. “Step aside, lass. We’ve got to have the proof.”
Liam gripped his father’s arm. “I didn’t take her,” he said in a harsh undertone. “She’s still pure.”
“What?” The word was equally quiet, though fury still throbbed in his words. The MacCleal looked at his son, then he spit on the bed. “You’re worse than a Jesse dobber. To think that a son o’ mine…” He shook his head. He abruptly straightened and gestured his men back. “Get back,” he growled. “Let Beitidh in.”
The men did as they were bid, and soon the woman maneuvered her way inside carrying a heavy robe.
“Go help my lady.” The MacCleal sneered the last two words as his woman came bustling forward.
“Och, now, Lady Clara, there’s no need to fear.” She was speaking loudly while the laird kicked the door shut. Then she nudged Liam aside as she reached for Clara. “There now, lass, give the plaid back to your husband. I’ve a robe that will fit you nice this morning.”
Damnation, her head really hurt. Every sound had her wincing, and she knew it would be ten times worse if she spoke. She remained silent as the MacCleal stripped the blanket off the bed to scowl down at the white sheet beneath.
“Och,” said Beitidh as she shook her head. “You’ve got yourself a whore daughter-in-law then.”
Liam reacted with violence as he grabbed Beitidh’s arm. She’d just pulled a vial out of her bodice, but now her face paled as she flinched from Liam. It didn’t stop his father, though, as the laird grabbed the vial, unstoppered it, and splashed red blood on the sheet.
“What are you doing?” Clara asked, her mind and body rebelling at the sound of her own voice. She watched in confusion as the man purposely smeared the dark stain with his hand, before lifting the sheet up.
“Open the door,” he said.
“Not yet,” Liam snapped, as he yanked the robe out of Beitidh’s arm and passed it to Clara. She was quick to pull on the robe, dropping the plaid in the process. Meanwhile, the MacCleal stomped to the door carrying the now-bloodied sheet.
“Wait—” Clara began, but she hadn’t the voice to stop what was happening.
Once the MacCleal swung the door open, the men crowded forward.
