At first, shock and fear at being discovered paralyzed Abigail’s thoughts. She tried to speak, but could tell no sound had made it past her throat from the disgusted expression twisting her mother’s features.

That disgust sliced through Abigail, leaving a bloody trail of inner pain behind. However, instead of the shame she usually felt at her inabilities, fury at her mother’s betrayal boiled up inside Abigail.

More than two years had passed since the first edict from the king that had torn Abigail’s world apart for the second time. Because of Sir Reuben’s miserly response to the king’s call for soldiers from his landed knights, the king had demanded his vassal provide a marriageable daughter. He and Scotland’s monarch wanted to intermarry English nobility with the hard-to-control Highland nobles.

Emily had been sent to Scotland to marry Talorc, Laird of the Sinclairs. Only she had ended up kidnapped and wed to his rival, the laird of the Balmoral clan.

When Abigail had learned of this situation, she had assumed that would be the end of it. Scotland’s king should be happy one of his Highland lairds had taken an English wife. Naïve as that thought might have been, she was certain she had been right.

According to the king’s letter, Abigail’s planned upcoming marriage to the original Highland laird was the result of Sybil’s petition for redress, not the Scottish king’s. Her mother had petitioned her king, knowing the outcome would be that her deaf daughter would be given in marriage to a stranger in a foreign land.

Abigail put every bit of loathing she felt at her mother’s perfidy in her glare. “I was looking for the truth; something difficult to come by in your company.”

Sybil dismissed the insult with a sneer. “You have no business in here.”

“By your action, you believe I have no place in this keep at all.”

A silent stare answered her accusation, but it spoke more loudly than words could have. Sybil wanted Abigail gone. Pain tore through her, the years of rejection coming together in one moment to pierce her heart with a mortal blow.

“When were you going to tell me?” Abigail asked, making no effort to modulate her voice.

“When I felt it necessary,” Sybil replied with dismissive venom.

“At the altar? When I stood before a priest to say vows?”

Her mother’s expression was all the answer Abigail needed. Sybil had had no intention of preparing Abigail for the wedding that was to take place across the Scottish border. Abigail didn’t think anything could hurt worse than the betrayal she found between the lines of the king’s missive. She had been wrong.

Knowing not only that had Sybil arranged for this marriage, but that she intended Abigail to go into it not only deaf, but blind as well, destroyed the last vestiges of hope of her mother’s love to which she had stubbornly clung all this time.

“How could you be so cruel?” How could any mother set her daughter up so foully?

“It is not cruel to secure your future.”

Abigail didn’t believe the benevolent justification for a second. “There is no security in subterfuge.”

She should know. She lived in daily fear of being revealed as deaf. Many considered such an affliction the result of demon possession. The Church’s answer to such a circumstance was enough to give Abigail nightmares. Many, many nightmares since her sister left at their king’s edict to marry a Highland laird.

“You should be grateful. What chance would you have to marry without my machinations?” Her mother had the gall to look self-righteous, but Abigail knew better.

“Emily wanted me to live with her. I would have been out of your way then.” Abigail forced the words out, knowing her mother had no patience for her affliction.

“Not permanently. Once her husband realized you were cursed, he would send you back to us.” Sybil spoke as if the words were not daggers to the heart of her eldest daughter. “This is a better solution.”

“Emily’s laird knows of my affliction. She told him.”

“Of course she didn’t. If she had, he would never have allowed her to extend the invitation for your visit.”

Abigail felt herself shaking. “Do you hate me so much?”

“I am showing a mother’s concern in securing your future. Jolenta is jealous of the good match you are making,” Sybil had the gall to point out, confirming she had told Abigail’s younger sister of the wedding plans.

The truth that the slight had been on purpose could not have been more obvious.

Abigail had to swallow back bile as she became physically ill at this additional evidence of her mother’s hatred. “The only future you are securing is your own.”

“Think what you like.” Sybil shrugged. “You clearly place no importance on my motherly wisdom. Thankfully, I still have a daughter who listens to my advice.”

The unjustness of the accusations took Abigail’s breath. Sybil had withheld both motherly affection and advice ever since her eldest child had become an abomination to her. Saying as much would carry no weight with her lady mother, though, so Abigail did not try. “I think the Sinclair laird will be furious when he realizes he has been deceived.”

“Then you had better make sure he never finds out.”

“How can I do that? We will be married.” She didn’t have Emily to nudge her when others spoke to her or cover for her when she missed something.

“You need spend little time with him. He is after all, a barbaric Scot.”

According to Emily’s rare letters, Talorc of the Sinclairs was both barbarian and proud. What would such a proud laird do when he learned of the deceit? Would he kill her? Declare war on her father? Sending her to a nunnery or back to her family was the best possible scenario, but not one she could rely on.

And the sad truth was, Abigail’s mother obviously didn’t care what the outcome would be, so long as she was rid of her cursed daughter.

“He will be my husband regardless. What if he seeks out my company?” she asked, with little hope of reasoning with Sybil.

Her mother’s expression revealed what she thought of that possibility. “He hates the English. He is acceding to the marriage because of the dowry his king has offered him.”

The king’s missive had said as much, outlining a very generous dowry that sounded more like a bribe from monarch to laird to ensure the Highlander’s cooperation.

“What of my dowry?”

“You think I would provide such when your sister ended up married to the wrong laird? I insisted that the dowry provided with Emily be returned to the Sinclair laird or for him to do without.”

Cold certainty settled in Abigail’s heart. “You want to rid yourself of me and had no intention of paying a nunnery a proper dowry to do so.” That was supposing a nunnery would take her, even with the right monetary incentive. “So, you have orchestrated this bargain made in hell.”

Sybil slapped Abigail, knocking her backward. “Do not dare speak to me thus.”

“Why not? It is the truth.” Abigail put her hand over her throbbing cheek, screaming in her head, but unable to express the pain through her voice.

“The truth is, you will no longer be my problem.”

Abigail staggered under the verbal blow so much more painful than the slap. “What if I tell him before he is bound to me? What will you do then?”

She could stop the madness before it began.

Those words were the last Abigail was able to utter as Sybil lifted the stick that hung by a thong from her girdle—the one she used to pound on the table for attention or as a weapon to punish servants. Realizing what her mother intended to do, Abigail turned to run, but tripped on her gown.

The first blow fell across her shoulders as she tried to regain her footing. The second came swiftly after, and soon Abigail gave up on trying to get away, but merely curled into a ball, her only protection in making a smaller target for the enraged woman to hit.

The blows stopped abruptly and Abigail sensed a scuffle above her, but she refused to uncover her head to see what was happening. Gentle hands lifted her as a familiar scent told her who held her. It was her stepfather. She raised her head to discover Sir Reuben looked furious. He yelled something at her mother, but Abigail could not read his lips from her position. She could tell the words were strained and angry from the taught muscles in Sir Reuben’s neck though.

Her mother opened her mouth, but he spoke again, shaking his head. Abigail could feel the vibrations in his chest.

Sybil’s eyes widened in shock and then narrowed in anger, but she left. And at that moment, Abigail craved nothing more.

Sir Reuben said something but clearly was not attempting to communicate with Abigail as he tucked her more firmly against his broad chest. He carried her through the keep to her small bedroom and laid her on the bed.

“I have called for Anna to come tend you.” He spoke carefully so Abigail could read his lips without effort.

“Thank you.” She was too distraught to be sure her words had voice, but she hoped he understood.

He sighed, looking guilty—which surprised her. “I should have realized she would not tell you of the wedding.”

Not knowing what to say, unsure if she was capable of speech at all, Abigail looked away.

Sir Reuben turned her head back. “Listen to me, child.”

She gave him a look.

He smiled. He actually smiled. “Then read my lips.”

She nodded grudgingly, barely moving her head up and down once.

“At first, I thought your mother’s idea mad, but then we got the first letter from Emily.”