Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties) Read Free Page A

was glad of the interruption, and used it to study the man who had once been a fearsome MacGillivray clansman.
    Though fearsome was definitely not the appropriate word to apply to this particular Scot—or at least not anymore. It was clear that he had once been a man of great strength, and though he held the position of steward, she thought he must once have been a warrior as well. But the years had taken their toll on him—his face was terribly weathered, and his hands gnarled and arthritic. He walked with a bit of a limp as well, though not enough of one to hinder his movements.
    There was something else that had taken its toll on the man, though, something which Jane was unable to identify. She could detect no visible hunch, yet the man walked with a stooped gait as if there was a great weight pressing down upon his shoulders. And his face, though very kind in appearance, looked disappointed somehow.
    Or perhaps ... sad.
    She was frightened by the burly specimens of virile Scottish men present in the great hall that evening. This one, however, for reasons unknown to her, stirred within her a small pang of sympathy.
     
    As the night wore on the merriment grew significantly uninhibited—as did the accompanying drinking. By the time the festivities came to a close, far beyond the midnight hour, more than a few guests in the great hall were clearly in their cups.
    For Jane, though, the end of the celebration arrived much too soon. She was not ready for the duty which lay ahead of her this night. She knew that what happened between a man and a woman behind closed doors was supposed to be highly pleasurable. Amelia told her so, and Jane believed her for Amelia had experienced it more times—and with more men—than any of the unmarried girls she’d known in Sussex.
    With the hour drawing ever nearer to that when she would be expected to couple for the first time in her life, she could not imagine such an act being at all pleasurable with a man as old as Lord Reginald. But as much as she would have wished it, the moment could not be delayed forever. At her husband’s bidding she was shown to her quarters by one of the female servants where she was washed, undressed, and prepared for her deflowering by a tearful Ruth.
    “Now you be a good girl,” she said when she was finished brushing out Jane’s long, russet hair at the ornately carved vanity. “Lie still, and try not to cry. If his Lordship has not had too much to drink, I imagine it will be over fairly quickly.”
    “Why would it not be over quickly if he has had too much to drink?” Jane asked, her voice unsteady.
    “The drink, you see, it tends to ... interfere with the men folk’s ability to—well, never you mind that,” she broke off in haste when Jane paled. “It will be fine.”
    With a warm kiss on her forehead, Ruth left the room. Jane watched through the glass in the mirror as her beloved maid shut the door behind her, leaving her entirely alone in a bedchamber that did not at all feel like it was hers.
    She gazed at her reflection. Her tears had long ago run dry, but her eyes were still visibly red and swollen. A sense of numbness had overtaken her, reflecting itself in her face. Her usually alabaster skin looked waxy, and her blue eyes—which normally sparkled with vivacity and were generally considered the only redeeming feature of her otherwise plain appearance—were dull, lack-lustre.
    In fact, with her sallow face illuminated as it was by the flicker of her lantern, she thought she might well be mistaken for a corpse. There was no help for it, though. And even if there was, she was not entirely sure she would bother. She had not an ounce of desire to render herself more attractive for Lord Reginald.
    Resigned, she stood from the dressing table and crossed the room to the bed. Drawing her shift up to her knees so she could climb the high frame, she crawled into the middle of the straw mattress and pulled the many covers up to pool loosely