Chapel, Inner Courtyard of Castle Dunrannoch
Evening, December 31, 1166
The ride had been but two hours and the ground, though hard-frosted, had provided sure footing for Ragnall’s mount. He and all his men had been granted good welcome at Dunrannoch. The great hall was festooned with garlands of green, the hearths glowed warm, and the tables were generously provisioned. All honours and civilities had been observed and Malcolm had raised his first toast to his guests from Balmore.
Yet, Ragnall could not ignore his growing unease.
Something within Dunrannoch was amiss.
The bride who stood before him with eyes downcast was neither child nor woman. The perfect age most men would say. An age at which a female could be moulded to a man’s liking, and this one seemed meek enough, though she was thinner than he’d have liked, and bore a pained look.
’Twas a relief her father deemed her too young for bedding—for Ragnall had not the appetite for such a bland morsel. Another year might bring more flesh on her bones, but as to whether she’d become a worthy chatelaine for his household, that would remain to be seen. The woman who held the keys to every door needed more strength than was apparent in this wee mouse.
As the monk bid them face one another, he made the sign of the cross over the length of Dalreagh tartan, then tied their wrists close. “Like this knot, ye shall be bound—from this moment forward and as long as ye shall live. May the vows ne’er grow bitter in yer mouths.”
Ragnall clenched his jaw. The marriage ’twas a contract, pure and simple, to bring him Dunrannoch on Malcolm’s death.
All would call him chieftain—every Dalreagh who’d whispered that he’d left his brother to die on the moor after falling from his horse; every man who’d jeered at his mother’s fate, and who’d questioned the legitimacy of his blood.
If he were Broderick’s own, only God knew, but his dark mane and blue eyes had been enough to sway his father to keep him under his roof. Fortune had dictated that his mother’s lover bore the same flame-bright hues in his hair as Vanora herself.
The monk motioned for them to kneel and Ragnall cast his eyes again over his bride. Though her plaits were bound about her crown and covered in a fine veil, it was plain she was of the same colouring.
A stray lock, bracken-red, curled to touch the arisaid pinned at her shoulder. Her hair looked well against the russet tartan threaded with green, the length of fabric falling down her back and belted about her girlish waist.
Mayhaps ’twas that alone—that vividness in her colouring—which stirred his disquiet. Had his mother looked so on her wedding day?
He wondered what Malcolm saw when he beheld his daughter: the wife he’d wed twenty years ago, or the woman whom it was said he’d truly loved—Ragnall’s mother, Vanora.
Better that she’d wed Malcolm in her sister’s stead, but there was no merit in dwelling on such thoughts. The past was done.
“With these vows, yer lives are bound as one.”
The girl’s eyes fluttered to look at the monk as he uttered the words of betrothal.
“With these hands, ye shall embrace one another as man and wife. With these hands, ye shall hold the sons and daughters God blesses ye with.”
The ever-present knot in Ragnall's stomach tightened.
Aye, may God bless me with the sons this clan needs.
His own father had been a tyrant, barely showing love for Alasdair, let alone the son whose birth remained forever in question. Ragnall had long vowed that it would be different when he had his own family. He'd do all in his power to ensure his wife's comfort, and she'd give him what he needed in return.
She seemed meek enough—disposed to obey, to do her duty. He'd want more than that, of course, but all things were achievable in time. Her affection would come, when she saw how important their marriage was to him. His own happiness depended upon it, and the legacy of the clan. He wouldn't repeat his father's mistakes.
The girl's gaze had lowered at the mention of children and she bit at her lip but as the holy man urged her in her own response, she raised her eyes to meet Ragnall’s and he recognized more than coyness. A flicker of defiance perhaps, though tempered by fear.
Certainly, the blush in her cheek was becoming; she might grow to be a beauty.
“Ragnall, Laird of Balmore, do ye take this woman tae be yer own? Do ye promise tae protect her, tae meet her physical needs, and tae beget upon her the children ordained by the Lord?”
“Aye.” Ragnall addressed all who witnessed the betrothal—the girl’s father and the others alongside. “I give all that a husband gives a wife, until ma dying breath.”
Returning his glance to his bride, he was surprised to see her staring intently up at him with lips half-parted. For all her modesty, she was affected by the words.
By God, if he kissed her now, he’d swear she’d open to him. Deep in his baws came a heated ache and he let his imagination linger upon her mouth.
From across the room came a gruff cough from her father, pulling him from his reverie.
He’d a promise to keep, and a full year before he’d find out just how willing the wench was.
’Twas nae a marriage for love, but he would see right by the woman who was to be his wife—and perhaps there would be more pleasure in it than he dared hope.
Turning for the twentieth time against her pillow, Flora wondered if she were the only one still awake.
The hubbub from the hall had quietened down some time ago. She’d stayed for the first footing, with one of the newer stable boys proudly carrying in shortbread and salt, a black bun and a brick of peat. After that, the men had grown riotous and she’d politely excused herself, knowing that the ale would eventually catch up with them.
Most would fall unconscious where they lay. It was the same every year. In the morning, she’d find them sprawled over benches and tables, clutching poorly heads. A good bowl of porridge usually sorted them out.
She could hardly help being awake, of course. As of this very night, she was no longer simply Flora Dalreagh, daughter of their clan chieftain; she was a woman betrothed.
And the man to be her husband? Distant cousin though he was, she’d only met him once before, and had been too young then to take notice—but, there had been plenty to take notice of today, and everything they said about him appeared to be true.
Taller and broader than any other, he carried himself like the warrior he was, and there was a hardness to him she’d not seen in other men—as if he might reach behind and draw his sword at any moment.
As if he’d think nothing of swinging it wide and lopping off whomever’s head was nearest.
He’d probably done so on many an occasion—on the battlefield. She wondered briefly how many men he’d killed. Not that it mattered whether it were one or five hundred. A soul dispatched in battle wasn’t the same as a life taken under normal circumstances. It was just the way of things. Each clan had to protect its own.
Still, the imagining of it made her stomach turn.
What did it do to a man?
Could anyone be the same after they’d spilled blood?
Being a woman, she’d never know—for her duty was to her father, helping run the castle. She’d worked hard before the snows came, ensuring provisions were set by to get them through the winter months, preserving and pickling and smoking what they could; storing the rest.
Her duty was to her father and to her clan.
And now?
Another duty was to be hers, not just as daughter but as wife—and it caused her stomach to turn some more.
She was an innocent, of course; even Calder had never pushed her to give up what they’d both anticipated would be his with time. Of all the unmarried women in the castle, she probably knew a great deal less than most, but she knew more than nothing, thanks to Maggie.
Her maid was snoring soundly on her cot, having had more than a little ale herself. Before passing out, she’d had more than a few opinions to share on Ragnall Dalreagh—not all of them uncomplimentary. To hear Maggie speak, the betrothal wasn’t the worst thing—and certainly better than the match Flora had been expecting with Calder.
Flora turned again, pulling her legs away from the cold spot at the bottom of the bed.
A year from now, she wouldn’t be in the bed alone—and Maggie wouldn’t be in the corner cot.
Another wave of nausea passed over her.
Maggie had told her enough that she knew what was expected. A wife obeyed her husband in all things, no matter how vile they might seem—but a considerate husband knew to take the bedding gently.
Would Ragnall be considerate?
Across the room, Maggie gave another loud snort and shifted under her blankets.
It was hopeless. Flora might as well have someone in the room playing the bagpipes for all the sleep she was likely to find this night.
With a sigh, she plumped the pillow beneath her and willed her mind to find some peace but no more than a few moments passed before another sound carried to her ears.
A thin sound at first. A reedy repine. A long lament curling through the darkness.
Nay!
It couldn’t be!
No one could be playing the pipes. There was not a body in the castle would thank whoever dared take up the instrument at this time of the night.
Clutching the quilt to her chest, Flora sat upright, listening keenly.
The pipes were growing louder. Not far off now but as if in the passageway.
“Maggie!” Flora hissed through the darkness. “Do ye hear it?”
The woman in the cot muttered something but didn’t wake.
Still, the pipes were playing. They halted briefly by the door, so loud that Flora could hardly believe Maggie didn’t wake, then the piper seemed to move on, towards the staircase beyond, and downward, to her father’s chambers.
As the sound receded, Flora wondered at the quietness of the hall. Had no one heard? But there was no shout—of revelry nor protest.
Bringing her feet to the floor, Flora fumbled for the over-gown draped close by, pulling it over her shoulders, then felt her way to the hearth, to light her tallow.
She considered waking Maggie, but there was no time to waste. The piper might have disappeared altogether by the time her maid gathered herself.
Entering the passageway, Flora cupped her hand to protect the flame from the cool draught. Shadows flickered over the narrow stone walls and then the confines of the stairwell as she descended. Though she trod softly, each step seemed to echo—yet no door opened and no voice called.
Only the pipes’ wail drifted faintly from below but, upon reaching the lower floor, she saw no sign of anyone.
All was suddenly quiet and she hesitated a moment. She should return to bed but a stirring of unease brought her to her father’s door. No matter how deeply in his cups, he would never take his rest anywhere else. Nevertheless, an urge came strong to reassure herself he was there and she lifted the latch.
Even by the dim tallow’s light, Flora saw his form beneath the quilt. There he was, as he ought to be. Why then did a prickle move over her skin? Why did the darkness here make the room feel changed?
Hurrying to his side, she set the candle upon the chest.
“Father.”
She brushed back his hair and leaned close.
His eyes were half open but their lustre was gone, and his lips were still.
No breath.
Her own froze in her breast.
“Father!”
She pressed her palm to his cheek and found it warm.
A tug at his shirt loosened the yoke from his neck, and his head lolled to one side.
Gasping, she saw what she had not before.
The quilt was bunched upon his chest. Pulling it back, she saw the dirk buried between his ribs, thrust upward at a sharp angle, and the blood seeping from the wound. The ornate carving upon the hilt caught the candlelight. ’Twas his own blade!
“Father.” With a sob, Flora laid her head over his heart.
No movement there, no beat, no life—but the warmth of his body told her some evil force had but recently done its work.
Starting back, she looked to the farther reaches of the room. Though her hand trembled, she lifted the flame and made herself search each corner. Had the foul fiend lurked there, she would have been helpless to his whim, but there was naught in the room save herself and the flesh that had once been her father.
Lowering the candle, she turned to him again, closing the eyes that no longer saw. She kissed his forehead and took his hand in hers.
She feared not the dark, nor any spirit wandering in it. No supernatural being had ended her father’s life. That deed lay at the door of some living creature within the castle—and only one man had motive to do such a thing.
Only one man.
He who would greet the morning not just as laird of Balmore, but Dunrannoch too, and chieftain of all.
An ambitious man, and heartless.
A man who cared not who stood in his path.
The man to whom she was bound.