Chapter 1
Castle Dunrannoch, Rannoch Moor, Scotland
December 20, 1166
In the northern tower of the castle, the fire had near burnt its last. The candles were guttering low.
The young man pacing the room turned again on his heel. “Ye swore tae give me the privileges of a true son, but these years of loyalty mean naught.”
Malcolm Dalreagh fought to restrain his anger. “I am yer chieftain and ye’ll obey me, as ye’ve pledged in fealty since ye were a bairn.” No other would dare speak to him as his stepson had done this night. Only for his late wife’s sake did he seek to placate the cur.
“Aye, I see the way o' things. Ye be blind tae Ragnall’s ambition and the deceit that runs in his blood, but ye hear the rumours o' how his brother died—and none tae bear witness but Ragnall himself.”
Malcolm’s voice remained steady. “Rumour grows where men be envious. The fact remains that the alliance is fer the good o’ the clan. With Ragnall’s father dead, he holds the lairdship of Balmore and he’ll be seeking a wife. We mun secure a marriage without delay.”
“If that be the way of it, give him Sorcha or Hilda. Ma sisters are only a year or two younger than Flora, and her betrothal tae me was agreed years ago, upon ma father’s death.” Calder scowled. “It suited ye well enough then but I see ’twas an empty promise—a vow tae put ma mother in yer bed.”
Leaning across the table, Malcolm clenched his fists. “Take care, Calder. Brina was a fine woman and I lament her passing as deeply as I did Flora’s own mother. I dunnae take this decision lightly, but it mun be, and it shall. Ye ken as well as I, these are uncertain times, and we mun strengthen the position o' the clan. The MacDonald and the Douglas have been hungry tae seize our land since ma grandfather's time, when Camdyn shared Balmore and Dunrannoch between his sons. The division did naught tae stop their rivalry, and the clan has been all the weaker for it.”
Calder narrowed his eyes. “I still dunnae ken yer eagerness tae marry yer daughter tae the whoreson of a trollop. I hear she made a pretty sight at the last, and her lover alongside.”
In three strides, Malcolm grabbed Calder by the throat, his cheeks bright with rage. “Hold yer tongue, or I’ll slice it from yer head, sworn son or nay. The sins o' Ragnall’s mother were punished enough without being remembered on yer foul lips.”
Gasping for air, Calder clutched at the older man’s hands upon his neck, attempting to pull them away, but the chieftain’s anger gave him strength.
With a final snarl, Malcolm pushed his stepson from him, then moved to the hearth, staring into the dying embers.
“Our new king is headstrong, and determined tae regain control o' Northumbria. There’s talk of an alliance with France. If William rises against Henry, we cannae join the fray as we are. Tae survive any such battle, we mun stand shoulder tae shoulder with every Dalreagh, united whole of heart under the same banner. Ragnall’s men would follow him tae the depths of Hell were he tae command it.”
Passing a hand over his forehead, the Chieftain of Clan Dalreagh looked suddenly far older than his fifty years. “The handfasting shall take place on Hogmany night and one year hence Ragnall will return tae repeat his vows, and take Flora tae the marriage bed. She will be his, whether ye like it or nae, and when the day comes for him tae become Laird of Dunrannoch and chieftain in ma stead, ye’ll bend the knee—as will she.”
Above, where the shadows clung thickest, the pale face pressed to the gap in the floorboards withdrew.
She had no love for her step-brother, but Flora had long accepted that the betrothal was her duty. What now, was this?A chill fixed about her heart.
Though her mind was her own and her soul would remain with God, as Father Gregory had taught, her body would belong to her husband.
A man known for his savagery on the battlefield.
’Twas said he would stop at nothing to gain what he desired.
Sheltered though her life had been, Flora was not foolish enough to believe he desired her.
But, the lairdship of Dunrannoch and chieftaincy of the united clan? For that, a man would take to wife whomever came with the prize—even a scrawny maiden barely entering her womanhood.
And if she failed to please him?
Flora gave up a silent prayer that she would never find out.
Chapter 2
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.