His Lady of Castlemora. Joanna Fulford

      ‘You are a widow with no children and no dowry to speak of. God’s blood, do I have to spell it out?’ He glared at her. ‘You have one chance now and this is it, unless you’d prefer the cloister.’

      Seeing that she remained silent he nodded. ‘I didn’t think so.’

      She closed her eyes, trying not to give way to rising panic. Her father had spoken no more than the truth about her circumstances and her lack of religious vocation. She realised too that there was no way out of this: much as she wanted to reject this proposition a refusal to comply would leave the way open for Murdo. All he’d have to do would be to ask for her hand and it would be granted. She was under no illusions about what would happen then.

      She licked dry lips. ‘When is this betrothal to take place?’

      ‘I have decided upon Thursday next.’

      Her heart leapt towards her throat. Thursday was only two days away. ‘That’s too soon.’

      ‘Soon or no, it’s your betrothal day.’

      ‘This haste is indecent.’

      Her father’s gaze grew steely. ‘Your opinion is irrelevant. You’ll do as you’re told. The betrothal will take place in my private chamber. I shall invite Lord Ban there, ostensibly to discuss business. It will be a simple matter for you to join us unnoticed. Everyone else will be about their work and it will be quiet enough for our purposes. It won’t take long.’

      He was right: it wouldn’t take long to join her hand with Lord Ban’s and to speak the vows that would make her his. How easily a woman was disposed of. She’d had no say last time either, although then there had been a public wedding followed by lavish feasting and then the bedding ceremony, held amid ribald jests and laughter. How hollow that laughter had proved to be.

      She shivered inwardly, recalling all the nights spent in Alistair Neil’s bed; nights she had come to dread. Your late husband couldn’t get a cock stand. Murdo’s mocking voice echoed in her head. The words were not entirely accurate though. Alistair had, occasionally, achieved an erection but it carried a price. She swallowed hard, seeing it all in her mind’s eye, her husband standing by the bed, slowly removing his belt, wrapping the buckle end around his fist …

       ‘Take off your shift.’

       ‘Please, my lord …’

       ‘I said take it off.’

      Trembling she complied. When she was naked he nodded.

       ‘Lie down as I have instructed you.’

       Reluctantly she obeyed, knowing what was coming and knowing it would be far worse if she tried to resist. She gasped as the belt descended across her buttocks leaving a fiery welt, her hands clawing the coverlet. At first pride kept her silent but she had quickly learned the folly of that. Since it was her cries that excited him he would continue to beat her until she did scream. When she cried out he flung down the belt and joined her, pinning her down, his knee forcing her legs apart. Then he took her from behind. It hurt, but her cries pleased him and, mercifully, that part of the procedure never lasted long, a minute or two at most before the small, probing member was withdrawn. Then he rolled off her, panting and sated. She shut her eyes, praying silently that this time she would conceive and that somehow his thin and watery seed might take root in her womb …

      Isabelle had heard it said that sometimes women found pleasure in the act of intercourse but she couldn’t imagine how, even if the man were not violent. Alistair had dreamed up many ways of achieving his purpose, almost all of them painful, but he took good care that the marks he left on her didn’t show. Even if he had not, no one in that household would have questioned his behaviour. Nor would the law: it was a husband’s right to chastise his wife if he chose. It was his right to do anything he liked, and her duty to submit.

      ‘Are you listening to me?’

      Her father’s voice pulled her up abruptly. ‘Yes, my lord, I’m listening.’

      ‘It won’t take long. When it’s done you’ll consummate the betrothal.’

      Isabelle paled. ‘I will not; that is not until we’ve got to know each other a little better.’

      ‘Damn it, you’re no blushing virgin now and this is no time for airs and graces. The union will be consummated immediately and you will give yourself to Lord Ban whenever it pleases him thereafter. Is that clear?’

      She swallowed her rage. ‘Very clear.’

      ‘I hope so.’

      ‘And just how is this arrangement to remain secret?’ she demanded. ‘I would not be the subject of servants’ gossip.’

      ‘There are ways and you will find them. I imagine Lord Ban will not lack invention there.’

      ‘I am quite sure he won’t.’

      The sarcastic tone wasn’t lost on her father. He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d do well to curb your acid tongue, my lass. No man wants a harridan for a mate.’

      She lowered her gaze, quelling the urge to argue. Her father’s temper was close to the edge already. If she pushed him any further he might bring the betrothal nearer still or add some further humiliating conditions to the arrangement.

      ‘I beg your pardon. It’s just that this has happened so quickly; it wasn’t what I expected and it has left me unprepared.’

      He looked a little mollified. ‘Ah, well, I suppose it has, but you must get used to the idea.’

      ‘Yes, Father.’

      ‘The sooner you are with child the sooner you can live openly as husband and wife and take your rightful place in society. Remember that.’

      She nodded mutely, not knowing which was worse: having to submit to the will of a stranger or, possibly, failing to conceive. All the old doubts revived. If it became evident that she was barren then she would be quietly put aside. The arrangements attending this betrothal were precisely to allow for that. She would be made to enter a nunnery; to remain there for the rest of her life, conveniently forgotten. Lord Ban would return to Glengarron and seek another wife. Either way he would emerge the winner having risked nothing. Her nails dug into her palms as impotent anger mingled with equally impotent resentment. In a man’s world the only option for a woman was obedience.

      Ban received the news of his imminent betrothal with outward sang-froid. In reality he was a little disconcerted to discover that his words had been taken so literally. He’d expected to have more time. However, Graham was obviously keen to see his daughter plighted and, given the circumstances, perhaps there was little point in delay. He listened attentively while the other man explained the details. Ban nodded. It was a good plan; one that could be implemented with the discretion they all desired.

      ‘Afterwards, you may have the use of the chamber for an hour,’ his host went on. ‘I’ll ensure you’re no disturbed.’

      Ban blinked. Whatever else he hadn’t been expecting that. He’d vaguely imagined that some quiet arrangement would be made that night whereby he and Isabelle might seal their betrothal. This was something else again. If he jibbed at the thought how much more would she dislike it? Yet if he demurred now how was that going to look? After all, he’d been the one to propose this.

      ‘I thank you for the courtesy,’ he replied.

      ‘Don’t mention it.’ Graham eyed him steadily. ‘After this you’ll be left to your own devices.’