The passing hours brought a tumult of emotions, but Flora was certain now of one thing. Her convictions had been wrong concerning Ragnall. Had he been her father’s murderer, he would have had no compunction in turning the dagger to Flora’s own neck, dispatching her before she had a chance to tell her story elsewhere.
Instead, his eyes had told her that he felt only pity; that, and a strange sort of empathy. It seemed impossible then, that he carried the burden of a murderer’s guilt.
She would tell him so—that she’d been wrong—and do all she could to convince him of her own innocence. Together, they’d discover who was truly responsible. As chieftain, Ragnall would have the authority to bring the evil-hearted villain to justice. She believed in his sense of honour to do so, even were it to cause trouble within the clan.
With alacrity, she washed at the small basin, wincing only a little at the tenderness between her legs. True to his word, Ragnall had been gentle with her, and it had been she, rather, who had urged him on. To think that she’d been fearful, in those hours afterward, that he might have rendered her with child.
Now, the notion brought with it altogether different feelings.
Their vows had been made before God and bound by the fastening of hands.
They’d lost so much time, but she would make up for it now. She would be the wife he deserved, and embrace Ragnall as her husband, as her father had intended. In this, at least, she could make amends.
Having donned the red woollen gown, she dressed her hair and made herself presentable. She had faith that he would see the truth.
Then, he would want to bring her to the great hall, wouldn't he? To present her to their clansmen. He’d explain everything, and they would understand. He’d make them believe in her innocence, and all would be well. He was the chieftain, and well-respected. None would question his wisdom.
She had only to retell the details of that night, and he would see the honesty of her words.
She wouldnae allow herself to believe anything else.
When the door opened at last, Flora’s heart leapt and she rose immediately to her feet. How she longed to throw her arms about her husband’s neck and meet his eager kisses with her own.
Only when he stepped into the room with Calder at his side did her joy die in her breast, for Ragnall appeared to have aged since she saw him last.
“Aye, ’tis the lass.” Calder stepped boldly towards her, an unpleasant smile upon his lips. “Her father nae suspected he nursed a viper, but I saw it from the start—that she were a serpent in the guise of a maid, more concerned with her own vain wishes than her duty tae the clan. ’Twas a relief, I tell ye, when the early promise of us being joined as man and wife was broken.”
He shook his head woefully. “I was nae alone in hearing her arguing with Malcolm in his chamber the very evening of his death, but I didnae guess she’d go so far as tae murder him. The bloodied garments were found in her room on the morn, and the wench fled, as ye ken.”
For several moments, Flora was too horrified to speak but then a wave of fury broke over her. “Lies! I never spoke against ma father’s wish. I was all a dutiful daughter should be. I accepted every decision he made, even when the choices were nae ma own.” She cast her eyes to Ragnall, beseeching him to speak on her behalf, but saw only bleak acceptance.
How could it be so?
The laird was no fool. Why would he believe Calder’s accusations?
“Ye see how she is!” Calder folded his arms. “From her own lips, she admits the betrothal was against her wish—and didnae the wench write the same on the note she left in her chamber, sayin’ she wouldnae take ye to husband? She didnae want ye Ragnall, any more than she wanted me.”
An evil glint lit Calder’s eyes. “I guess ye’ve bedded her, but did ye have the chance to inspect her body by good light? It wouldnae surprise me to find she bore some devil’s mark. I hear the witches dunnae like to take mortal men to husband, having enough demons visit them by night to satisfy even the most wanton lusts.”
The gasp of horror died in Flora’s throat as she saw Ragnall look not at her but to the morning sun filling the window.
He wouldn’t countenance such vile accusations. She wouldn’t believe it.
“Nae doubt she came tae ye posing as an innocent and seduced ye with sweet promises,” Calder continued. “But I see now she wears the fine scarlet o' a woman confident in her charms. Had ye come tae yer chamber alone, I’ll vouch she would hae had those skirts thrown up for ye in a trice. Such is the way with women who ken how tae twist a man tae the coil o' their finger.”
Flora felt the heat rush to her cheeks. Would that be what Ragnall saw when he looked at her now—a conniving woman who’d played his passions all along? It shamed her to think that he wouldn’t be far wrong.
“I see it pains ye tae know ye were deceived, but ye need trouble yerself nae longer, Ragnall. If ‘twere left tae me, I’d have the wanton hung for her sins, but I’ll honour yer wishes as head o' the clan. As we agreed, I’ll see tae her detainment at Castle Dunrannoch. She’ll nae more be a danger tae God-fearing men.” Calder cast a swift glance at his chieftain and, seeing him distracted, sent Flora a leer of triumph. “I’ll make it ma concern tae see she thinks long and hard on her wickedness, living out her days in penance.”
Flora clutched at her throat. “But ye cannae! Ragnall is ma wedded husband. Only he has authority over me.”
Rushing to the laird’s side, she took his hand in hers and brought it to her breast. “Look to yer heart, husband. Ye ken I’m a good woman and true.”
Ragnall granted her the courtesy of meeting her eyes but his own had undergone a transformation, filled with an abyss of hollow pain. She barely recognized the man who had jested with her, who had confronted her with his own anger, and had bedded her with such passion.
“The betrothal will be annulled.” Calder declared. “Father Gregory will agree when he hears the truth o' the witch’s unholy crimes. Nae man should remain wed tae such a vixen, least of all the chieftain beloved o’ clan Dalreagh. There be plenty of virtuous women our laird may choose in place o’ this foul wench. Ma own sisters, Sorcha and Hilda, be coming of age for making obedient wives. Come the new year, I’ll send both tae Castle Balmore for ye to know better, Ragnall. I’ve nae doubt ye’ll find one tae yer liking, and the handfasting may take place as soon as ye be ready.”
“Nay!” Flora dropped to her knees, pressing her head to Ragnall’s thigh. “Dinnae send me away.”
“Tae yer feet, wench.” Calder’s rough hand pulled her to her feet again. “Be grateful ye’re spared a trial before the clansmen and the baring of yer body for the search o' witch-marks. Even where a body appears pure, they be sometimes found in the intimate parts—and the searching must be thorough.”
“Enough!” Ragnall spoke at last, his tone tinged weary. “Ye torment the girl for nae good reason, Calder. For all the evidence ye put forward regarding the night of Malcolm’s death, I cannae be certain she wielded the dirk. Return her tae her home, and treat her with the care due the former chieftain’s daughter, but confine her tae her former chambers at Dunrannoch until I’ve thought further on the matter.”
He looked imploringly at Flora. “I want tae believe ye be innocent.”
“Husband.” Her voice was no more than a whisper.
“Haud yer weesht, woman.” Calder’s grip on her arm was firm. “The laird has spoken and ’tis nae fer ye tae argue.”
Ragnall. Don’t abandon me! Can ye not see that I care for ye?
But the laird did not look back as Calder took Flora away.
Daylight had bled to darkness as the granite walls of Castle Dunrannoch loomed, and the moon had risen to the first portion of the sky, casting its glow through the swirling snow.
With her wrists tied, Flora rode astride in front of Calder, obliged to endure the pressing of his body to hers and his fingers touching her. At first, he’d only grasped her hip beneath her cloak, digging into the tender flesh, but he’d soon had the courage to grope at her breasts, all the while breathing hot in her ear. The fine wool of the gown offered little protection from his cruel tweaks and pinches, and he cared not that the chill air invaded her body as freely as his impudent hands.
’Twas Cristemass Day—when Christian souls reflected on the miracle of the Lord’s birth, remembering the holy family gathered about the cradle of the infant who would change the world. A time of hope in the bleakest of times. Yet Flora had never felt more alone.
As each mile of frosted landscape passed, Flora made herself withdraw within, to the heart of herself. There could be little doubt as to the treatment she would receive under Calder’s protection, but she refused to react to any torment he might devise. Let him use her if he would, but he wouldnae have the satisfaction of hearing her beg or show sign of distress.
In so many ways, she’d failed her father and betrayed the name of Dalreagh with her foolishness, for she’d directed her vengeful eye upon the wrong man entirely, and wasted these years in hiding while the real culprit sat in leisure within the walls of her former home.
How had she been so blind?
She saw now that Calder’s resentment of the broken betrothal had fed his hateful nature. Had he planned to accuse Ragnall of the murder? Only her own actions had altered that path, for she’d made herself the most likely candidate by fleeing the castle.
Calder had bided his time, but she doubted not that he intended ill against his chieftain. Had she not seen him tip something into Ragnall’s drink? Were it not for her interference, he might have been dead already.
Icy threads wove about her at the thought, more chilling than the night air—for Calder would try again, she was certain, and assert himself as Ragnall’s rightful successor.
As the heavy iron gates of Dunrannoch rose on their chains, Flora cast a final glance upon the moor, knowing that she might never see it again. Though ’twas a barren place, the trees stark twisted and spiked with ice beneath the shadow of the mountains, its harsh beauty was as much a part of her as the castle itself.
More than ever, she was aware of all she had lost. Her home, where once she’d been happy, and beloved, was now her prison, and who knew what awaited her.
She feared the worst, for Calder had no honour in him. With her marriage to Ragnall annulled, he might subdue the gossip and refute the accusations others would make, taking her to wife himself—but she doubted he needed her bloodline to reinforce his position.
More likely, he’d shame her publicly when he no longer feared Ragnall’s intervention. Once the laird had taken one of Calder’s sisters to wife, he would surely give her no more thought, and her fate would be of no consequence to him.
Flora foresaw only one end and, while she hoped her suffering would not be prolonged, her instinct told her that Calder would keep her for as long as it amused him to make her suffer.
Her only solace was the chance she might have to bring her retribution on her father’s true murderer. Let Calder think her cowed, weak and broken—but she would strike the final blow, and end the torture that had dogged her.
These might be her final days, but she would draw her last breath knowing that justice had been done.