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He suppressed a cringe. How was it possible that he was ready to take Lady Rogene with no regard to the consequences, but couldn’t even imagine consummating the marriage with Euphemia? How would he live with her for the rest of his life?

The same way he’d endured his father, he supposed. He’d lived for his family, to protect his loved ones from a selfish, violent man. He thought of wee Ualan. Angus had to protect him and the rest of his family and clan from this woman.

He had to find some way to reason with her.

She looked at him from below, her eyes like pools of muddy blue water, peering at him dreamily and with hunger. He had to be careful. He knew he’d wounded her pride, and his father’s wrath had taught what that could do. Angus’s broken ribs that hadn’t healed well and his broken nose, which had left a permanent bump, weren’t even the worst of it.

He was pretty sure that his mother had been pregnant with another child at some point but had lost it. She had died soon after from an unknown sickness, too. Angus had always suspected she’d been weakened by internal injuries his father’s fists had inflicted on her.

Besides wounding his children physically, Kenneth Og Mackenzie had possessed an uncanny ability to wound their hearts and souls, as well. Laomann had grown into a weak man who lived by licking arses. Raghnall had grown from a strong-willed boy with his own mind into a scoundrel. Catrìona couldn’t imagine marrying at all, after seeing that a woman’s role was to be a dirty rug under the man of the house’s shoes. She’d found the release of her worries as a child in prayer and meditation, and now felt that her calling was to serve God—and, most definitely—not a husband.

And Angus… Angus felt that his life was not his own, and if he didn’t protect his clan, then no one would. He couldn’t imagine wee Ualan among blood and destruction. He believed love and happiness were a lie. His father had taught him that wanting something for himself was selfish. That he had to put others first no matter what.

And he could take it. He was big and strong, and others—like Catrìona and his mother and Laomann—weren’t.

He cupped Euphemia’s jaw, marveling at her beautiful mouth. Her full lips parted, waiting for him to kiss her.

But instead of her mouth, he saw Lady Rogene’s. Her upper lip slightly thin, her lower lip full. He remembered how she’d tasted—sweet, fruity, succulent.

And he just couldn’t bring himself to kiss Euphemia. Quite surprisingly, it felt that he’d be betraying Rogene if he did.

By God’s blood, what was wrong with him?

Euphemia was still waiting, her eyes growing cold and angry the longer he stood still. Finally, he planted a kiss on her forehead. With a sigh, he let go of her and went to his bed. He removed his shoes and lay down, gazing up at the canopy attached to the ceiling above him. The curtains hanging from the bed’s four corners almost blocked Euphemia from view.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m exhausted and dinna think I can perform.”

All true. He couldn’t perform with her.

He stared at the dark wooden paneling of the canopy and saw the raven hair and dark eyes of the woman he really wanted to be with.

He heard quiet footsteps approach, and the mattress sank a little as Euphemia sat on the edge of the bed. She lit a tallow candle that stood on the chest by the bed, and golden-orange light illuminated her stone-cold face. The scent of burning fat reached his nostrils.

“If ye want to rest, Lord, let me tell ye a story to help ye go to sleep.”

He briefly closed his eyes. He really, really didn’t want to go to sleep next to a woman who would hide in the darkness and threaten him with a knife. He put his hands behind his head, willing his tight muscles to soften, but his senses were on edge.

“Please,” he said through gritted teeth.

Fire from the candle played against her face, casting dark shadows from her nose and lips, and making her look devilish, evil.

She smiled. “A long time ago,” she said in a singsong voice, as though telling a good-night story to a child, “there was a young lass so beautiful that all the lads in the village wanted to marry her. One day, a king was passing by the village and stopped to give his horses a rest. He came to her house, wanting a jug of milk to satisfy his thirst. But once he saw her, he was stricken by her beauty. The king was good, and handsome, and brave, and strong, and a great warrior. His people loved him, his neighbor kings feared him, and all was well in his life…until he met the beautiful lass.”

She paused and angled her head to look at him. He kept silent, waiting for her to continue.

“Dinna ye want to ken why he got in trouble, Lord?” she asked.

Angus really didn’t want to know. Her voice was too soft, too soothing. “Why did he get in trouble?” he asked.

“Because he had a wife, see,” she said as though she were explaining how to build with wooden blocks to a child. “A queen.”

Angus didn’t like where this was going, didn’t like it at all.

“Aye, I see,” he said.

“But the king fell in love with the village lass, and she fell in love with him. So, all he could offer her was to become his mistress. But she was so in love that she rejected all her suitors and went with him, like a whore, and lived in his castle. Do ye see a problem here?”

Angus released a long sigh. “Lady Euphemia, I get yer meaning, and I already assured ye, I wilna have mistresses.”