Read Highland Moonlight for Free Online

shirt.
    His beard grew thick and red along his jaw. Lines fanned out from the outer
    corners of his eyes, the same tawny color as his son’s.
    “I have come from Lochlan to ask for your protection, John Campbell,”
    she said with difficulty for her teeth had begun to chatter.
    “Protection from whom?”
    “From my father and your son.”
    His brows rose.
    She tugged at the liripipe covering her hair and tossed it to the ground.
    “‘Tis Lady Mary MacLachlan, I am.”
    “Aye.”
    “I carry your son’s bairn and I ask for your protection and shelter, until
    the birth.”
    John Campbell’s gaze swung to his son. “Is this so, Alexander?”
    “Aye.”
    Mary leaned back against the stone wall behind her as a wave of
    nausea rolled over her. She swallowed in an attempt to control it, and
    pressed a hand, trembling with cold, against her forehead praying it would
    ease. Her stomach rebelled and she turned aside hating the helplessness
    of it as she heaved up the small amount of water she had been able to
    keep down.
    Alexander jerked the crossbow from her hand and tossed it to one of
    the clansmen standing near.
    Tears blurred her vision as she accepted defeat. She hugged the
    stone support too weak from the sickness to fight.
    Alexander braced himself for a struggle as he scooped her up and
    was surprised as she curled against him and buried her face against his
    shoulder. The fragile feel of her, as he hefted her slight weight, punched
    fear into his gut. He climbed the steps to the dock and strode past his
    father.
    “You will tell me what this is about, Alexander,” John demanded,
    keeping pace with him as they crossed the courtyard to enter the castle.
    “Aye.” He gave a short nod. Mary’s pale skin and icy legs were more a
    concern to him than his father’s displeasure. “After Mary has been tended.”

    ****
Mary drew the tartan around the bodice of the worn blue surcoat as
    she went down the stairs from the gallery. The violent shivers that plagued
    her earlier had subsided. Food and rest had lessened the after effects of
    the journey as well. Worry over what havoc her father wreaked below had
    driven her from the comfort of the bed. The tartan that had served her as a
    kilt now covered the threadbare gown and, she hoped, made her
    appearance more acceptable. Her stomach felt as though a flock of
    sparrows fluttered within it as several pairs of male eyes followed her
    progress down the stairs of the great hall.
    John Campbell stepped forward to meet her at the bottom. “‘Tis a
    pleasure to have you here in my home, Mary.”
    “‘Tis pleased I am to be here, Lord Campbell,” she said with a curtsy
    then accepted the hand he offered her as she straightened.
    The evening meal is ready. We have been waiting for you.” He tucked
    her hand into the bend of his arm and escorted her to one of the tables.
    Collin strode toward her. His cheeks flushed, eyes alight with anger,
    he lashed out at her with an open palm.
    Alexander grasped his arm from behind preventing the blow from
    landing. “I can not allow you to abuse the lass, Collin. You strike her, you
    strike the bairn.”
    “She is my daughter.” Collin jerked his arm free. “What right have you
    to stop me?”
    “She is to be my wife, and I do not need a wife unable to do her duty
    because she has been beaten.”
    Heart beating high in her throat, Mary faced her father. “Is there any
    wonder I do not feel secure with you?”
    “You are my blood, Mary. That alone should be enough to insure your
    trust.” Collin jaw worked furiously with temper.
    “Aye, striking me for certes will inspire my trust,” she said, her tone
    dripping sarcasm. “Hugh Mac Pherson never raised his hand to me or my
    sister. And I had no such problem feeling safe with him.”
    Collin’s face grew more flushed by the moment. “He was not your
    father, I am. Do you feel no loyalty for your own kin?”
    She raised her chin and fought the urge to spit in his face.