Chapter 2

The Plough tavern, three weeks later.

Like every other night, the tavern was filled with men and ale, its sour scent sticking to every surface around Domnhall. It was the one thing he hated about taverns, how they always smelled of ale, the floors and tables sticky with its residue, reminding him of the castle when he was a boy; and of his father, whose cup was never less than half-full, a maid always topping up the drink for him.

It was a small price to pay to be away from the castle, though. He had only been there for a few months after returning from France to take on the mantle of the laird, and he already felt like the walls were closing in on him. The walls held memories in that place. The stone floors still carried the phantom sight of his mother’s blood, red and sticky after those nights when his father was particularly vicious with her. It was better to be at the tavern, with its loud patrons and the serving wenches and the whisky, all of it taking his mind off everything else.

Next to him, Hugo was on his third drink, while Domnhall still had his first. He never drank more than one at a time, never more than three in a day, even at feasts; always just enough to take the edge off, but not so much that he couldn’t control himself.

Never as much as his father.

Hugo’s dark eyes scanned the crowd for the next pretty woman who would fall into his bed, and Domnhall chuckled at him. He had already promised himself to two different women that night, both of them swayed by his crooked smile and boyish charm, even though at thirty-one, he was far from being a boy, and yet he was still looking for a third.

“How will ye ever manage tae entertain three lasses at once?” Domnhall asked, half-curious and half-impressed.

“The night is long,” Hugo said in his strange accent, a mix of his mother’s French and English with a slight Scottish lilt. It was that accent, along with his dark blonde hair and his tall and lithe figure, that had all the women in the room falling for him, Domnhall knew.

In all the years he had spent in France, over a decade of his life, his accent had never changed, though he supposed that was why he was as popular in France as Hugo was around those parts. Domnhall was used to women fawning over him, but in the Highlands, he was just another man.

His own eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a woman for himself. When Hugo caught him, he laughed and shook his head.

“Your bride will be here soon, no?” he asked, as if Domnhall didn’t remember. “And you’re looking for a mistress already?”

“Nae a mistress,” Domnhall said. “I ken me bride will be here soon an’ that’s why I’m lookin’ fer a lass tonight. It’s me last chance.”

“I doubt women will be deterred by the presence of a wife,” Hugo said. “I don’t think they ever have been.”

“But ye ken,” Domnhall pointed out. “I willnae betray me wife.”

It was the one thing he had sworn to never do: hurt the woman who would marry him. It didn’t matter to him if he would end up loving her or not—chances were he never would. After all, how often did arranged marriages end in love? Even so, now that he had no other choice but to take a wife, he would make sure she would never feel the pain his mother had felt. He would make sure to never be cruel.

Hugo gave him a curious look, but then patted him gently on the shoulder. “You’ve always been a good man. Your bride is lucky.”

Domnhall very much doubted that. “I never wished tae marry such a young lass, an’ I am certain she doesnae wish tae marry me either. Why would she? I’m almost fifteen years older than her.”

When Domnhall had first heard of his council’s idea to marry one of the Robertson girls, he had thought at least one of them would be appropriate for him, but the two oldest were already married, and even so, he was still several years older than them. He had tried to resist, but then the King’s council had heard of the plan and everyone had agreed it was the best course of action.

Everyone but Domnhall and, most likely, Billie Robertson.

“Had you followed in your father’s footsteps, she could have been your daughter,” Hugo said, laughing. Domnhall, on the other hand, wasn’t amused at all, mainly because it was true. His father had only been sixteen when he had married his mother, Fiadh, and fathered him.

“Let’s hope I never follow in me faither’s footsteps.”

It scared him, knowing that his marriage would be one without love, much like his mother’s and father’s marriage. The two of them had never cared for each other, and it had been perfectly obvious to Domnhall from a very young age. His father had only loved two things, women and wine, while his mother had remained in love with the man to whom she had been betrothed before his father had dragged her into an unwanted marriage: Blaine Ferguson.

If me faither is truly me faither, at least.

His mother, before her death, had left him with a parting gift he had never wanted. After all those years in his father’s castle and then in France, she had waited until the last moment, in her deathbed, to reveal the truth to him.

She didn’t know if John MacAuley was his father. For all she knew, she told him, it could be Blaine Ferguson.

“Are you thinking about your mother again?” Hugo asked, knowing him so well that he could always tell what he was thinking. It wasn’t much of a surprise to Domnhall. Every time his father was mentioned, his mind went back to that last conversation with his mother.

“O’ course I am,” Domnhall said. “How can I nae?”

Hugo let out a long, heavy sigh, the kind he reserved for those times when he thought Domnhall was being particularly obtuse. “We have discussed this, mon ami. How can you know what your mother said is even true? She was very unwell.”

Hugo had a point, Domnhall knew. During those last few days of her life, his mother had been in the throes of a terrible fever that wouldn’t break no matter what they gave her. For all he knew, she could have been confused, telling him something that wasn’t true at all.

“Besides,” Hugo continued, “your legacy is through your mother. She was a MacAuley before your father ever was.”

That was also true, Domnhall thought. His father was only the laird of the MacAuley Clan because he had married his mother, the last surviving heir after everyone else had perished in a vicious war. Regardless of who his father was, Domnhall had a blood tie to the MacAuleys, and the council of the clan wanted him as the laird. They had even agreed to his conditions that any plan his father had made would be scrapped, as he didn’t want to be anything like him. In any respect, and that Hugo come with him from France to serve as his advisor. Surely, that had to mean they wouldn’t simply toss him aside if it turned out John wasn’t his father.

“Aye, I suppose ye’re right,” Domnhall said, though even to his own ears, he sounded uncertain. “I wouldnae be doin’ any o’ this anyway if it wasnae fer Blaine Ferguson. But with all the rumours…”

Domnhall let his voice trail off, shaking his head. He had only just become the laird of the clan and he was already running into issues. The rumors that Blaine Ferguson was planning to take over the MacAuley Clan were becoming all the more widespread and all the more serious, and the only way for Domnhall to avoid such a situation was to ally with some strong clans. Billie Robertson was the key to that, and so all he could do was hope his new bride would be understanding.

He didn’t need her to love him. All he wanted was for her to tolerate him long enough for them both to fulfil their duties.

“Don’t think about any of that tonight,” Hugo said, rather unhelpfully. Perhaps it was easier for him to ignore everything that bothered him, but Domnhall wasn’t as good at it. Besides, Hugo himself could be cold and distant sometimes, losing himself in his thoughts. It was rare, but when he did, Domnhall instantly knew there was something his friend was keeping from him, something he refused to tell him. “Let’s find ye a bonnie lass,” he said, putting on Domnhall’s accent, “so ye can forget all about it.”

Domnhall’s gaze did fall on a woman, but not for the reason Hugo might have thought. He could see her through the windows, trying to wrestle herself free from a drunk man’s grip. The man was stumbling and gesturing wildly at her, perhaps even yelling, though Domnhall couldn’t tell with all the noise in the tavern. The girl was shaking her head wildly, pushing and kicking at the man, but he seemed not to feel any of it, numbed as he was from all the alcohol.

Domnhall remembered his mother. He remembered his father’s hands on her, tight and bruising and relentless, the way he had looked at her, half in disgust and half in lust as she had tried to escape him. The same scene was playing out before him now, and he knew what would follow if he didn’t do something to stop the man.

“I’ll be back,” he told Hugo as he slid out of his seat and headed for the door. A long time ago, he had made a promise to himself that he would never let his father touch his mother again, and that he would never let another man like him terrorize a woman.

He was going to keep that promise.