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steely hands release her.
    “Begin, priest.”

CHAPTER 4
     
    What the hell had he done?
    Glancing at the backs of his two
men as they trailed the obstinate woman out of the Great Hall, John Stewart’s
brow creased into a deep frown. By St. Andrew, what madness had overtaken him
to force this poor lass to go through with such a wedding?
    Rudely dressed in the borrowed
tartan, Catherine Percy had been surly but silent throughout the ceremony--until
the priest addressed her. But then, like a she-devil, she’d come to life,
caterwauling like some eldritch creature over the infamy of such a wedding. At
that point, however, Athol’s patience had crumbled like dried parchment. His
grip on her arm had been strong enough to break a bone, though she’d hardly
acknowledged it at all. She’d simply glared fearlessly at him, her midnight
blue eyes blazing with reproach.
    And they’d continued. She’d been
left with no options. She’d been given no choice.
    Ignoring the priest who was edging
along the wall toward the door, Athol sank into his chair at the dais. So much
for the trust that her family had placed in his hands! So much for the
protection he’d promised to give. He ran a weary hand over his face. Well, she
was safe, and she would continue to be--that was all he’d agreed to. What’s
done is done!
    Staring into the fire crackling in
the huge open hearth, John Stewart cursed his foolish temper. He’d been so
riled after discovering Ellen with that thieving escort of his ward--his wife,
he corrected himself--that he’d been about to burst with the need to strike
out. But with the two vile creatures already gone, Catherine Percy had been the
only one left. God knows, obstinate as she appeared to be, she probably didn’t
deserve marriage to him.
    John Stewart had never been fool
enough to think the imminent union between him and Ellen was a love match.
She’d been his mistress in recent years, and as far as he could surmise, she’d
had a healthy appetite for other men before they’d met. But what he’d never
suspected was that she would be discontented with his generous offer of marriage.
She was from a good family, true. But as far as her prospects for marriage, his
name and his wealth were certainly superior to anything she would have ever
hoped for elsewhere.
    He stretched his legs toward the
fire and squeezed his eyes shut. But what had he been thinking tonight? This
was all a mistake, that he was certain of! And wasn’t it just his luck? Nay, he
thought, cursing his temper. It wasn’t just Fortune’s wheel that had married
him to Catherine Percy, a woman with the same scrupulous virtues as his cousin,
Susan MacIntyre.
    When the dowager brought Susan up
to the Highlands more than six months ago with the intention of marrying the
lass to him, he’d been appalled at his mother’s choice. The fact that she was a
dour-faced prude had not been Athol’s only objection to the young woman. She
had no life in her, no interest with anything beyond her damned needlework. By the devil, she didn’t even like to hunt! He’d known old nuns with more blood in their veins.
Nay, she was not the woman for him.
    So he’d erred a bit in judgment.
Asking for the hand of Ellen Crawford hadn’t been the best of choices, either. But if the time had come that he was to be pressured into taking a wife, at least it could be
someone that he would enjoy in bed.
    Athol rose abruptly to his feet and
strode to the fire. But that was all, he thought, before he’d known the truth
about Adam of the Glen.
    The devil take the man! A bastard
brother! So much for the ideal marriage he’d thought his parents had been
blessed with. But what was most amazing was the fact that the dowager had
somehow kept the secret for all these years. That, in itself, gave Athol a
completely different view of his mother’s power.
    But why had she withheld the truth
from him? He knew of dozens of bastard children being raised in the households
of their