Before dawn, Christmas Eve
For the hundredth time, Flora berated herself.
She’d wavered when she should have been strong.
If she’d killed him when she’d had the chance, none of this would have happened. Thank the Lord, despite the scarf slipping away to reveal her hair, he seemed not to have recognized her.
At the time, she’d surmised giving in to the kiss would be the easiest way to get what she wanted—a helping hand out of the bath, and away from that hulking brute. Admittedly, she’d not much experience. The only kisses she’d received in the past had been on her cheek or the hand. Not even Calder had tried to put his mouth on hers, and it had never occurred to her to invite him to do so.
It had lasted but a moment. She’d been aware of the soft bristle of his beard and the fresh scent of the soap on his skin. Aware too of the hardness of his body beneath her. Not just in the part that was alarming, but all over. The man had a warrior’s body, battle-hardened, the skin taut over his muscles.
She hadn’t wanted to kiss him. Not in the least.
But she’d let her lips touch his. Just enough to allow him to let her go. It had meant less than nothing. Why then, did she keep thinking of it?
One thing was certain. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again—of letting her softer feelings interfere with what needed to be done.
She was a Dalreagh, not a coward, and she wouldn’t shrink from taking the revenge that was her due. Her father had been murdered, and she would never forget that. If it was with her dying breath, she would avenge him.
All the night, she’d hidden from Ragnall, knowing he was in his chamber, waiting. Now, Maggie and the others around her slept, exhausted from their labours, their blankets pulled tight to their chins, while she fingered the dirk, testing its sharpness on her thumb, hardening her heart for what must come.
Today, there would be feasting. She would make sure Ragnall saw her; would make sure that his invitation was remembered. She would go to him and, when he was replete from whatever it was a man did with a woman, slumbering upon his pillow, she would stab him through.
There would be an end to it, and she would deal with the consequences. Perhaps the truth of her story would be believed, and she would return to Dunrannoch as a free woman. If not, she would undoubtedly be put to death as a murderess herself.
And what of the justice that was meted out beyond the grave?
Was there a special place in hell for women who murdered their betrothed husbands? Father Gregory had never mentioned it but she suspected he’d only ever told her what he’d thought relevant to her life. He would hardly have anticipated Flora finding herself under this necessity.
A chill stole around her heart.
She would try not to think on that; only of the immediate deed before her.
Entering the kitchens, Flora was taken aback at the heat coming from the ovens and the great fire, but the warmth was welcome. Overnight, the temperature had dropped, first sending snow, then thickening the ice upon Loch Balmore, so that all were speculating on it being strong enough for curling. The dreich weather of the past month had been replaced by blue skies and a frost that made one’s chest ache.
Ragnall, she was told, was particularly good at the game, always sending his stones true, to meet their mark.
Flora had used to enjoy the game herself, having been taught by her father, but she’d no time to think of frivolity. If she had her way, the laird of Balmore would never again have the chance to prove his prowess with a curling stone.
The hearth here was bigger even than theirs at Dunrannoch, with six smaller pots hanging on arms around the central cauldron, and the room was full of bustle. The demands of preparing the feast had everyone lending a hand.
Nevertheless, the cook, Mistress McTavish, gave her a merry smile as she approached with that morning’s milk. “Here be, lass. Come and give the clootie dumpling a stir.” She beckoned to Flora. “’Tis the best luck when all do take a hand. Six times one way, then six t'other.”
Setting down the pails, Flora wiped her hands on her apron and gave a small smile of her own. If Mistress McTavish did but know Flora’s mind, she wouldn’t be so warm in her welcome, but her simple kindness touched Flora’s heart. She’d naught to complain of under Ragnall’s roof, receiving nothing but fair treatment.
Taking the spoon with both hands, Flora wielded her might to stir the heavy mixture of suet and dried fruit and flour. Wrapped in a cloth and placed in boiling water, the pudding had been one of her father’s favourites.
A hard lump came to Flora’s throat but she refused to give in to self-pity.
“Ye be stronger than ye look.” The cook gave her a nudge. “And a pretty one besides. Ye ken the master be askin’ after ye? I’ll warrant ye’ll nae be in yer own bed this night, nor any through Hogmany, if ye’ve a likin’ tae his company.”
Mention of Ragnall’s philandering ways stirred the flame of anger in her again, but Flora made herself answer meekly. “If the master wills it, I suppose I cannae disagree.”
Mistress McTavish blew out her cheeks. “Well, I ne’er did hear of any lass thinkin’ twice about flichterin’ into his chamber. Were it summer, he’d have had ye on the moor in the gloaming if ye was willin’, but ’tis a mite oorlich for that. Still, I’d say ye’ve already sampled a wee smourich.”
“Aye.” A passing lad winked at Flora, blowing his own kiss. “An’ the laird’ll be givin’ ye more than a coorie.” Passing his arms around his chest, he acted out a playful cuddle. “If he’s nae tae yer likin’, come and find me, lass. I’ll keep ye roastit.”
“Away wi’ ye, afore I gie ye a skelpit lug!” The cook clipped the boy’s ear and shook her head, laughing. “Pay nae notice tae the cheeky eejit. ’Tis the laird as wants ye."
Taking up her knife, she continued preparing the rabbits laid out on the table. "If ye’ll help us a while wi’ the neeps an’ tatties, ’twill be welcome, but ’tis best ye help serve in the hall tonight.” She looked disapprovingly at the scarf about Flora's head. “The laird will be wantin’ ye tae serve him particular, so ye’d best do away wi’ that bit o’cloth. From the little I can see of yer hair, ’tis a fine colour, and worth admirin’. Whit’s fur ye’ll nae go by ye.”
It was clear that Mistress McTavish had a soft spot for the laird. In fact, Flora hadn’t heard an ill word of him from anyone, but taking the girls on the moor in the gloaming! She knew that Highland men had a deal of passion and would take whatever comforts a girl was willing to give, but the laird ought to set a better example.
I’ll be serving him, alright—but with more on his platter than haggis and stovies, thought Flora, taking a knife to the pile of waiting turnips.
By the time the clootie dumpling was cooked, Flora had taken out most of her ire on the vegetables. The past years had taught her what it was to work but, still, she felt weary on her feet. Having hardly slept probably didn’t help.
“Ye’ve earned a rest, lass.” Mistress McTavish placed a hand on her shoulder and passed Flora a slice of clootie. “This here be from the smaller pudding I made yesterday. Take ye into ma cubby and lay down yer head on the cot for a while. The master will expect ye fresh and lively, so we cannae be having ye swooning on yer feet.” She looked thoughtful a moment. “If ye find yerself ponderin’ and worryin’, there’s a wee bottle o’ spirit on the shelf there. ’Tis useful, sometimes, for putting aside whatever be making ye anxious—only be careful tae take but a drop. Any more and ye might nae wake up again!”
Wearily, Flora nodded. All afternoon, the knowledge of what she must do had eaten at her, and the situation had hardly been helped by listening to the chatter of the servants—all about how kindly Ragnall was, and how good at settling the disputes of the clan.
Little did they know what sort of man he really was.
Doing as Mistress McTavish directed, Flora went through to the small room off the kitchen, which the cook had made cozy for herself. Seeing the bottle of malt, Flora took it down. Her father had always advised against strong drink, saying it turned a man to the devil. If she remembered rightly, Calder’s father had fallen out with him over that very thing, having a liking for whisky himself. Her father had said it was what killed him—too much of the drink.
I wonder…
Unstoppering the bottle, Flora gave it a wary sniff.
How much did a person have to consume before they ‘didn’t wake up’ as Mistress McTavish put it?
Back in the kitchen, one of Ragnall’s men had come down for a jug of ale, a bannock and some cheese, to take up to the laird’s chambers. Resting before his guests arrived for the evening’s festivities, Ragnall wouldn’t be expecting her but it surely wouldn’t be too difficult to gain entry.
He might be cross, of course, that she hadn’t come when he’d first asked her, and she’d have to make herself amenable, to throw him off the scent—but if she could get him to drink the malt, he might fall unconscious long enough to allow her to do what she must.
The question was how to do so, and what amount would be enough. Although it was a time of feasting and merriment, she didn’t have the impression that Ragnall would willingly drink himself to a stupor in the middle of the afternoon.
Perhaps, she might take him the clootie dumpling and douse it in the whisky. Would that hide the taste sufficiently? Tipping up the bottle, Flora let the liquid dribble over the heavy suet. The smell made her nose wrinkle but she added some more. The fruit dumpling did seem to have a remarkable capacity to absorb the malt.
She peered down the neck. The bottle had been nearly full and now looked to contain less than half what it had. Enough surely?
Replacing it on the shelf, Flora smoothed down her skirts and unwrapped the cloth from her hair. As Mistress McTavish said, if she wanted to win his attention, she’d be better off letting him see her long braid. The quicker she was in Ragnall’s chamber and getting him to eat the clootie, the sooner all this would be over.