Page 41 of Ghost of the Ton

The deerhound’s tail twitched, then he obediently trotted toward the fireplace, where a fire crackled and spat. The dog circled on the spot three times, then lowered himself on the rug with a grunt of satisfaction.

Hamish settled into his place, nodding to his mother in greeting. Then he gestured to his sister’s place. “Is Iona not joining us for luncheon?”

“I dinnae know,” she replied. “I’ve not seen her all morning.”

“Foolish, wayward lass.”

Hamish reached for the venison joint and carved a slice. He raised his eyebrows and his mother nodded, then he placed the slice on her plate.

“Another? Or some pie, perhaps?”

Ma shook her head and Hamish cut himself a thick slice of the pie, his stomach growling at its savory aroma.

Devil’s balls, he was hungry.

“Perhaps it’s time Iona was married,” Ma said, pouring herself a glass of wine. “The right husband—a man who loves her—and the responsibility of being a wife, and eventually a mother, might do her good.”

“She’s young for marriage, Ma.”

“She’s seventeen—a year older than I was,” Ma replied. Then she took a bite of her venison and smiled. “Glenblath venison is as good as it was the first time I tasted it on my wedding day.”

“And ye want to see Iona married off to a stranger, like ye were?” Hamish said. “Glenblath’s her home.”

“What woman of our station can claim that the place of her birth is her home?” she replied. “The home she settles in after marriage is rarely the home she was raised in. And even that home she cannae say is truly hers, for she must defer to her husband in all things—and then to her sons. Only a man can truly call a place his home, for he remains there all his life and can lay claim to it.”

Was that why she was so eager to leave the castle? Because she knew it could never be her home?

“I notice ye’ve made no reference to yer wife not being at luncheon,” his mother said.

“Ma, it does no good to refer to her as—”

“But she is, son. Whether or not ye continue with this annulment, that lovely young woman is yer wife at this moment. Because of that, she should be taking her rightful place at our table.”

He glanced at the empty space, picturing his wife there as she had been at breakfast—a shimmer of fear in her eyes that she’d fought to conceal. Those eyes had shown kindness and compassion when she’d looked upon Iona, despite the girl’s open hostility. She’d discussed her leaving in such a resigned manner, as if she’d accepted her status as being something unwanted, to be discarded.

A shiver rippled across his skin as he recalled the feel of her little hand in his, the soft fingers that had caressed his skin, the scars on her hand from the disease that she’d survived against the odds. And those lush lips, begging to be tasted.

Had he kissed her, would he have been the first man to do so? Might he have opened her body such that the passion with which she defended herself and spoke of her vocation could be put to much better use—to the furtherment of carnal pleasure?

He would never lose enjoyment of the sight of a woman in a state of need, ready to take his cock. And as his wife, she would have been—nay, she was—his by right to claim in his bed, his by right to be the first to awaken her to pleasure.

It was something he’d fisted himself to pleasure over in anticipation of—the awakening of an innocent. But that pleasure had been denied him, having only had his bed warmed by the likes of Maisie—earthy creatures of carnal pleasure who knew how to satisfy a man’s body even if they could never touch his soul.

What might she look like, her pale face flushed with desire, those hazel eyes widening in surprise as her body rippled around his cock? Or those plump lips parting to receive him while she kneeled before…

“Hamish!”

He drew in a sharp breath and glanced up to see his mother staring at him. Shifting in his seat, he became aware of his erection beneath his plaid.

“Y-yes, Ma?”

She arched an eyebrow, her mouth turned down in disapproval. The look transported him to his boyhood, when, his body awakening to unfathomable sensations, he’d first fisted himself to pleasure on the moors after witnessing the stags in rut. Though he’d feigned innocence, the expression in Ma’s eyes then was the same as it was now.

Mothers knew—and saw—everything.

Then the door opened and hope surged within him, which was doused as Iona entered. Face flushed, his sister slumped into her seat.

“Where have ye been?” he asked.