A Man in a Kilt by Sandy Blair

Author:Sandy Blair [Blair, Sandy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Man-Woman Relationships, Scotland, General, Romance, Historical, Ghosts, Fiction
ISBN: 9780821777664
Google: wRDrAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 0821777661
Publisher: Zebra
Published: 2004-08-31T23:00:00+00:00

Tears coursed down her cheeks as Beth vomited into the chamberpot. When the painful retching finally stopped, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and cursed. Since childhood, every damned time she became terrified—felt that familiar overwhelming heartache—she vomited.

Why, God? Why has he done this?

Her breath hitched and hiccupped as she staggered to her feet. With her neck and shoulders sore, she looked at her equally aching arms and saw his handprints around her biceps.

She'd married a madman.

Beth limped into what had once been her bathroom, now her closet, and rummaged through the trunks. She found her jeans and sweater, but no underwear. She could live without them.

This could not be happening. Not again. Dear God, not again.

Just fifteen minutes ago she'd been contentedly musing over the realization that she'd fallen in love with a beautiful man, and he with her. How stupid could one woman get?

Sniffling, she yanked up her zipper and went looking for her sneakers. She didn't know whom to be angrier with: herself for believing in the unbelievable—that a handsome man could love a plain woman such as she— or him for his painful deception and blatant use of her. That she'd brought it all on herself by opening her heart to him didn't bear thinking about. She'd known better.

Dressed, she scoured the sparsely furnished solar for a weapon. She'd not be caught off guard again. Not physically and never again emotionally. If the son of a bitch dared come through the door while she plotted her escape, someone was going to die, and it wouldn't be her. She hadn't fought all her life for respect to become Duncan MacDougall's punching bag. No way.

Her gaze settled on the cast-iron fire poker. She hefted it, testing its weight and balance in her hand. It would do.

At the window, fire poker in hand, she studied the boats leaving the quay. She had to get on one, to leave, but how? The few times she'd asked to be taken to Drasmoor just to see the village, she'd been told to seek out her husband or been given some excuse why now wasn't a good time. Duncan had apparently ordered his men to keep her here. But she wouldn't stay. Couldn't.

She continued pacing. Haunting images of Duncan's tenderness in the wee hours of the night, and his later inexplicable brutality, constantly interrupted her thoughts of escape.

"Why?" she kept asking aloud. Why had he bothered to show her such consideration and warmth only to yank it away come dawn? Was he schizophrenic or something?

The twenty-first century certainly hadn't invented madness, just promoted it with drugs and impossible goal setting, so yes, he could well be clinically insane, and no one here would dare lay a hand on him for fear of reprisal. He was, after all, the MacDougall—the Black. No wonder she was wife number four! Had he killed wives two and three? Probably. Had he lived in her time, he'd be the one kept in isolation on an island, not her.

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