‘You wed a filthy Scots brute, and expect me to rejoice, Tara? What were you thinking, to fall so far into ruin and depravity? I once entertained fond feelings for you, let you consume my dreams, and if circumstances had been different, I would have….Oh, what does it matter now that you have thrown yourself away.’
She should have walked away from Forster, but she had not. Instead, she had been craven and weak. ‘I was alone and penniless. What was I to do?’ she had squeaked like a timid little mouse.
The memory of Forster’s face burned her, even now. It had been a mask of disgust. ‘You could have found a man to wed who was honourable, but you just sold yourself cheap. That Scot bought you for a handful of coin, from a whorehouse, from what I hear.’
His hypocrisy had sparked anger. ‘You wed for coin too, did you not, Lieutenant? A wealthy heiress, I am told. You did not marry for love or honour but for wealth and comfort. You were gone six weeks, and that is not enough time to form an attachment to anyone.’
‘A man has a duty to see to the advancement of his family,’ he had spat.
‘Do you love your wife, Lieutenant?’
‘I took on a good, respectable young woman who will be a loyal wife.’
‘And there is my answer. You wed for money, and I wed for survival. Does that make me less than you? I think not. You do not know what I have endured.’
Forster had glanced Callum’s way. ‘I can imagine it, Tara. It cannot be pleasant, lying under him night after night, taking him inside you. I wonder how you can bear it.’
Forster had always been so gentlemanly and charming. It was strange how men were like that when one had the protection of another man, but when that was gone, and a woman was defenceless, they all became the same kind of snarling beast.
‘Callum was here, protecting me, while you were not, so take your judgement and your superiority, and go to hell,’ she had said, fearing the urge to slap Forster’s pompous face would become too strong.
Lieutenant Forster called after her, his parting words scathing. ‘Already that brute has rubbed off on you. Already you talk like him and curse like a slattern.’
‘And I am better for it,’ she had cried. ‘Whatever you think of me, know this. I wed the better man.’
‘No. He is the worst kind of man. He is a Scot, and now so are you, and we cannot be friends.’
‘You were never my friend.’
Tara sighed. She would never really be a Scot, and this was not the life she had envisaged - this wild place, her brooding, intense husband. Nothing in her genteel upbringing had prepared her for this future. Suddenly it all crashed in on her – her uncle’s death, the poverty she had fallen into, the endless worry, and most of all, the appetites of men and their place in her downfall. Yes, men had brought her low, and they bullied her relentlessly. Tara was heartily sick of it.
She flinched at Callum’s hands on her shoulders. He kissed her neck, leaving a pool of warmth where his lips had been.
‘Forgive my anger. I was jealous of you talking to that redcoat, is all.’
‘You have no need to be, for I have no wish to talk to Lieutenant Forster ever again.’
‘Good,’ he said, turning her around. His lips found hers, and he pulled her close, his manhood hard against her belly. ‘I will not ask you what was said, but I will own that I was in a fearsome temper for a while. But looking at you with the sun in your hair, Tara, you are so beautiful, that I can forgive anything.’
‘Forgive?’ she said.
Callum’s grey eyes held yearning and desire, and he kissed her again. ‘Sit down in the grass with me, for I am in no mood to return to Raigmoor’s darkness just yet.’
He took Tara’s plaid from her and laid it flat, crushing the bright dandelions and buttercups poking their way up to the sun. Callum stroked wisps of hair off her neck where they had come loose from her bun, took her hand, and kissed it tenderly.
Tara frowned and plucked a buttercup and then another, wishing Callum would not look so intently at her, for his stare was penetrating, and emotions she tried to bury were forcing their way out. She began to make a chain out of the buttercups to distract herself.
‘What are you doing?’ he said.
‘Making a buttercup crown. My mother and I used to do this together on summer days.’
Callum plucked a few and handed them to her. ‘What was she like, your mother?’
‘Kind and good. Too good for this world,’ said Tara bitterly.
‘You miss her, and you miss her counsel,’ he said, handing her more flowers.
Tara’s nimble fingers threaded one into the other. It made the awkwardness between them and her sadness more bearable.