Approaching midnight, Hogmany
Every part of her ached—especially where the rope had rubbed—but Flora gave herself over to the softness of the bed in which she lay, to the comforting warmth of the tender hands on her skin and the familiar musk of the man who whispered low.
“Tell me if anything I do hurts ye, but dinnae move.” Firm, assessing fingers ran over her ribs, then her legs and arms, gently bending each joint. “If ye’ve anything broken, I cannae take the chance o’ making it worse—and ye look as if ye’ve been tae the devil and back.”
When Ragnall reached Flora’s collarbone, she winced. Her neck felt raw where Calder had cruelly wrenched.
“Aye, ’twill be sore, ma poor lass.” The hands moved to cup the back of her head, raising her to take a sip of warm broth. “But, ye’re strong, and will soon heal. Nae more harm shall come tae ye, Flora, for the bastard as did this is answering tae the Almighty for his sins.“
Dead?
The wind had been ferocious on the battlements, and she’d been filled with horror, but she'd been aware of the door breaking and men's shouts. Something had moved swiftly through the air, thrown at great force, and she'd caught a glimpse of Calder as he went over. His features contorted with fury, he'd scrabbled at the blade in his neck, then reached for her—to save himself or to take her with him she couldn’t say.
His scream had carried away in the gusting storm and with it her world had faded to black. Aware only dimly of being carried, she’d been too numb with shock and cold to feel anything other than the desire to surrender to those strong arms transporting her from the terror of the night.
She took in the face above hers: the laird of Dalreagh, with his dark curls and piercing blue gaze, and the small cleft in his chin beneath the stubble.
“Aye, ye’ll survive, and thrive, Flora Dalreagh. I promise ye that.” Taking her palm, he brought it to his lips, then to his cheek. As he gave her the faintest of smiles, her heart lurched.
She wanted to press her face to his neck, to inhale his scent and be held close, knowing that she’d ne’er be let go. She yearned for him—this man she’d spent so long running from, whom she’d misunderstood from the first. He’d come to speak for her and to save her, but his sense of honour alone would have guided those actions, regardless of the way she’d treated him.
She needed to tell him how wrong she’d been. That she wanted to make right the wrongs; that she wanted them to try. Would he be able to forgive?
The thought that he might not brought a crushing pain to her chest and no words would come.
Seeing her distress, Ragnall smoothed her hair. “Dinnae speak. Ye’ve suffered badly and need tae rest.”
Yes, she wanted to rest in his embrace. More than that, she wanted to rub the stubble of his jaw and grasp his curls as he kissed her.
But Ragnall only raised the broth again, urging her to take more. “I’ll stay here with ye, nae worry. And, when ye’re ready, ye may decide what it is ye wish.”
What she wished?
She wanted to offer comfort and understanding. To learn the contours of the husband she’d too long denied. To be the wife he deserved. To give her love.
And to receive the same, forever more.
A small crease appeared between his brows as he brought the quilt higher about her shoulders. “I ken ye did as yer father asked when ye spoke the words of betrothal, but I willnae hold ye tae them, if it’s nae yer desire, Flora.” The eyes he turned to her were filled with uncertainty. “If ye prefer tae make Dunrannoch yer home, as mistress o’ the castle, I willnae oblige ye tae return with me. I’ve enough men loyal tae leave a force here, tae protect ye.”
Flora’s chest grew tight. She’d been only a passing fancy and Ragnall was already planning the next woman to warm his bed.
He looked uncomfortable as he couched his next words. “If ye be amenable, I might visit once a month, until ye bear an heir. Then, I’ll leave ye be. Yer life should be yer own, Flora. I shallnae make ye bend tae a path ye never chose.”
Amenable?
There was no doubt he was pushing her away, wanting her to remain his wife in name alone—long enough only to give him a son.
“Nay!” Her voice rasped, emerging from the soreness of her throat.
Ragnall drew back at the abruptness of her declaration, shock and disappointment meeting in his expression. “Nay? Ye dinnae wish me tae see ye again?” He looked almost sheepish. “Me and thee havenae gotten off tae the start I would hae hoped for, there’s no denying, and I didnae show ye the respect ye were due, but I—”
Flora cut him off by grasping the front of his shirt and pulling him downward, tipping back her head to offer her lips. For several long, delicious, wonderful moments, there was only his mouth and hers, the warmth and strength of his arms, and the rapid beating of their hearts, pressed close.
His hands smoothed down her back to her waist, drawing her to him in the way she’d dreamt of, all the while alone and frightened, fearing she’d never see him again.
When he broke away, it was to pull her even more firmly to him, curling her beneath his chin. He murmured softly. “I cannae tell ye how I thought o' yer kiss these days past.”
A flame of hope kindled within Flora. Pushing against his chest she made him look her in the eye. “We barely ken one another, and I was long set on killing ye, for which I hope ye can forgive me, but—”
It was Ragnall’s turn to interrupt. Cupping Flora’s cheek, he held her gaze. “Dinnae speak o’ what’s past. Even when I believed the worst of ye, I couldnae hold myself blameless. Ye acted like a true Dalreagh, honouring yer father’s memory. I cannae be angry wi’ ye for that.”
Flora’s flame grew brighter. “Ye must know, husband, the only place I want to be is by yer side. I willnae let another take ma place. I’m yer wife, and none shall come between us.”
Surprise passed across Ragnall's features, then joyful hope. “I couldnae have commanded ye tae offer what must be freely given.” He rested his forehead upon hers. “In return, ye shall have ma lifelong devotion, but I fear ye must know all there is tae know afore ye make yer decision, for ye’ve no doubt heard more gossip than truth about ma family.”
A swell of compassion filled Flora’s breast. She’d no wish to cause him pain by obliging him to tell any part of the story Calder had revealed so cruelly. “Nay. I know enough. All that matters is that ye dinnae wish tae repeat the mistakes of yer forebears.” Looking into Ragnall’s eyes, she knew he would never lie to her. His history had made that abhorrent to him. “I love ye, husband.”
“And I ye, wife, with a burning passion—ne’er mind that ye cannae milk a cow.” She gave his chest a playful punch, but any protest she was inclined to make was soon forgotten as his lips found hers again.
From far off came the strain of pipes, carrying through the castle, their music reminding all of the passing of the old and beginning of the new.
“’Tis midnight.” Ragnall threaded his fingers through Flora’s hair, straightening the tumble of fiery curls. “And I must ask ye again, mo chridhe. With every man within these walls as witness, will ye let our hands be fastened again, and hear ma pledge tae love ye forevermore?”
“Aye.” Flora nodded. “And we’ll show them how ’tis done, when husband and wife choose one another above all things.”