“Alana! Where is she, damn it all!”

Alana shuddered at the sound of her father’s blustering voice. He did not sound pleased, not at all.

Mairi leaned over, patting her hand. “I will go with you, if you wish.”

“Nay, you mustn’t trouble yourself.” She rose, brushing dirt from her apron as she did, forcing a smile for the cook’s daughter. The two of them had been friends from youth, when Cook had come to work for the household.

Cook was one of the only female household servants who’d managed to maintain her position under their roof for so long. Likely because she was rather homely, with a face Douglas Stewart had often compared to lumpy porridge. He’d even gone as far as to wonder aloud how any man had managed to get her with child.

Mairi, sadly, had inherited her mother’s complexion. Though Alana wasn’t certain whether she felt sorry for the girl or relieved that she’d never have to avoid Douglas’s attention.

“I’ll finish the weeding later,” she promised her friend, washing her hands in a shallow bucket by the door leading from the garden into the kitchen. She insisted on behaving as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening, which meant spending mornings in the garden while the two of them giggled and gossiped about the goings-on in the house.

There had not been much giggling as of late, try as Mairi might, to raise Alana’s spirits. They both knew what hung over Alana’s head, though Mairi couldn’t possibly understand what it meant to never know when whatever hung there would fall.

It was as if she held her breath at all times, halfway to flinching back from the blow. Preparing herself.

Alana brushed back the hair which had worked its way free from the plait which she’d wound around the back of her head in order to keep it out of her way while working. She knew there would be dirt smudged on her cheeks and forehead, though she cared not.

Her father rarely, if ever, took pains to present himself well to her.

His chambers sat opposite the great hall, not far from the kitchen. She walked through with her eyes straight ahead, her head held high. Like as not the entire household staff felt sorry for her. Though she would prefer their pity to their relief at seeing her go, she’d far prefer them going about their business and paying no mind to her.

She also knew them well enough to know the impossibility of such an occurrence. She was the daughter of the clan leader, the only living child, and she was soon leaving them.

And she’d been more than clear on how she felt about this. Her only regret was not having planned her escape better, or at all. She might have had a chance if only she’d taken the time to think things through. A lesson learned far too late.

After the failed attempt at running away, her father had made doubly sure there were eyes on her at all times. Even down to a guard outside the door to her bedchamber.

He’d left the chamber door open to her, which she knew was an invitation to enter on arrival. She did so, stepping into the warm room—warmed by the kitchen fire, pleasant in the winter but less so in the waning days of late summer.

“Close it,” he ordered without looking up.

She did so, then went to the table which he’d set with a map and two cups of ale.

She wondered if one of those cups was for her—after all, she was the only other person in the room. The long, wide table took up much of the space, the high-backed wooden chairs taking up most of the rest. She crossed the empty floor in two short strides and stood opposite where her father sat.

His eyes were on the map, not on her. “I’ve had word from the village,” he said without looking upon his daughter. “Escorts have arrived to accompany you to your new husband. They rode in early this morning after having journeyed through the night—thought they might reach us sooner, I expect—and took rooms at the inn on learning there was still another two hours of riding ahead of them.”

She blinked, swaying slightly as the news hit her like a blow from her father’s war hammer. She almost wished it were the hammer itself which had landed the blow, as it might mean the end of her misery.

“What?” she stammered, hating her slow-wittedness but being completely at a loss nonetheless.

“Come now. You’re normally quicker than that.” He looked at her then, with eyes so unlike hers. She had her mother’s eyes and her mother’s complexion—fair, creamy, with just a dotting of freckles over her nose. Douglas Stewart’s eyes were gray, flinty, and shrewd.

“You’ve hired men to escort me?” she whispered, struggling to catch up.

Damn it all, she hadn’t wanted him to see her at a loss. He had the advantage, he’d always had the advantage, but she might at least keep her dignity intact.

Instead, she was left whispering breathlessly, like a dolt.

“I haven’t hired them. Your soon-to-be husband has,” he informed her with a sly grin. “He knows what he’s about, that one. Knows it would be better for ye to have protection on the road, but we both know what he’s really concerned with.”

“Pray tell,” she invited.

“Like as not, he’s gotten word of your slipperiness. I had hoped he would not, but there you are.” He spread his hands in a mock shrug, sneering all the while. He was enjoying himself, she realized, which only made her hate him all the more. She’d never imagined hating her own father—the confirmation that she did, that she did down to the very bottom of her soul, brought her no pleasure.

But there was no helping it, either.

“Word does travel,” she murmured, barely keeping her rage at a mere simmer. In her mind’s eye, she clawed at his face, tore out his nasty tongue, gouged out the eyes which had ogled so many an innocent young woman. He would never hurt another, not as long as he lived.

A satisfying fantasy, to be sure, but hardly one which could ever be brought to life.

“Aye, that it does.” He stood, lifting a cup in each hand and extending one of them to her. “Come. Let us drink together, this once. To your happiness and good fortune.”

She knew better than to refuse, though her heart was hardly in it. Not that he cared.

“Why are you forcing me to do this?” she asked. “As we’re sharing this first and final drink together, the least you can grant me is a little honesty.”

“I thought the least I could grant ye was a drink,” he chuckled.

When she glared at him, unblinking, he relented.

“All right, then. Why am I doing this to ye? Because this is the way it’s been since the beginning, lass. What do ye think your life was meant to become? Did ye think you’d have a home here? Under my roof? Until the end of your days?”

“What would be so wrong with that?” she challenged, though she had no desire for any such thing to come to pass.

He growled, already at the end of his short tether. “For starters, you’re the daughter of the head of Clan Stewart. You’re not fit to marry just another lad from the village, or even one of my most trusted men.”

And a good thing, that, since his trusted men were a bunch of filthy, rutting pigs.

“And ye must be married,” he continued, “as your marriage will ensure the continuation of our clan’s stability and wealth.”

“Is that why my grandfather sent me mother off to marry ye?” she dared ask.

They never discussed her, ever.

A brief flash of something other than boredom and irritation crossed his face, and it was clear she had struck a blow of her own. For once, she had injured him.

“You’ve no right to be asking such questions,” he warned, his jaw tightening with every word.

“And why not? She was my mother, and she came to you from England. The opposite of what I’m about to do. Was this the sort of arrangement made for the two of ye?”

“I said, you’ve no right.” He slammed down the cup from which he had yet to take a drink. “And I’ll thank ye to keep your wicked tongue to yourself.”

A wicked tongue she had inherited from him, though she knew better than to bring this up at that exact moment. It was enough to know she’d unsettled him so.

“I only wanted to know what my mother might have felt as she made her journey,” she murmured, suddenly demure and almost apologetic so as to assuage his temper.

He let out a barking laugh. “What she felt? What of it? That doesn’t matter a bit, which is something you’d do well to get through that pretty head of yours, my lass. Your mother was an intelligent woman, for she knew how to keep her mouth shut and endure.”

Keep her mouth shut and endure. That was all anyone expected from her.

He leaned forward, hands on the table, peering into her disillusioned eyes. “And even then, she managed to be lovely. Quiet, graceful, serene. All of which ye could never be.”

Each word slammed into her head. Into her heart. He was so brutal, so nasty, so completely unfeeling toward his own flesh and blood. For a moment so brief it might as well have been a dream, she had tricked herself into believing he might actually care. That he might feel paternal warmth for his only living child.

She’d even imagined briefly, when he’d offered her the cup, that they might share a moment of regret that life had taken such a turn.

That would never come to pass, for he felt no such regrets. Regret would require loving or even liking her.

The realization stirred her rage. “Yes, she was all those things. But she was never happy,” she whispered, her voice like the hissing of a snake.

Again, his expression betrayed him, and this time he confirmed her suspicions. He’d loved his wife.

And Alana doubted her mother had ever loved him. She had never been happy living under his roof, sharing his bed. Bearing his children, all of whom except one hadn’t managed to live past their first year.

How could she have ever been happy in such a marriage?

When Douglas reacted as though his daughter had slapped him, she knew she was right.

“Get out,” he ordered, pointing to the door. “And I hope to never lay eyes on you after this day.”

She held his gaze, lifting the cup to her lips, downing the sour-yet-warming liquid inside, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth and setting the cup on the table with a sharp clang.

“For once, we’re in agreement,” she said, turning on her heel and leaving his chambers for the last time.

“They ought to be here after dinner,” he called out to her retreating back. “Be prepared.”