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.
Chapter 3
Castle Dunrannoch
Approaching dawn, January 1, 1167
“Wake up, Maggie.”
The maid started at the abrupt shake Flora gave her.
“I need yer help, and quickly.”
“’Tis still night, ma lady.” Maggie blinked, squinting against the illumination of the candle flame.
“It is.” Flora threw back Maggie’s blankets and pulled her upright. “And the best time for an escape. At least six hours until dawn light and they’ll start searching.”
“But, what’s all this aboot? Ye cannae be gallivanting off in the dark.” She rubbed at her eyes. “Is it a game, mistress? I thought all were a’bed hours ago.”
“Not a game, nay.” Flora tugged Maggie to her feet and put a shawl around her. “Something horrible has happened.” Flora’s voice caught in her throat but she summoned all her strength to remain calm. There was no time to lose.
“Maggie, ye know the legend o' the Dalreagh curse?”
“O’course. Lyle McDoon placed a curse on the clan, after Camdyn, the Wolf o’ Dunrannoch, refused him the hand o' his youngest daughter. He vowed that every male heir o' the Dalreagh line would perish an untimely death. ’Tis a wondrous tale, though ye know I’m nae superstitious like most folk. Yer father is well in years and has ne’er even had the croup. I take such things with a pinch o’ salt.”
“So do I, Maggie, but—” Flora gulped back her tears. “I heard the piper, I swear.”
“Camdyn’s ghost?” Maggie looked suddenly fearful. “As plays whenever a member o’ the clan is due tae meet his end?”
“Perhaps.” Flora grasped Maggie by the shoulders. “I cannae say, but I went tae ma father’s chamber, Maggie, and—” Flora’s voice failed her again.
“Wae ist, mistress? Ye mun tell me.”
In answer, Flora drew out the dagger from her pocket.
“Saints preserve us! There be blood on it!”
“Hush!” Flora pressed her finger to Maggie’s lips. “Ma father is killed, but I dunnae believe ’tis the curse.” Setting her chin, she replaced the dirk to her skirts. “Someone wicked resides here tonight and they’ve brought aboot his death.”
Maggie’s eyes grew round. “A murderer! ’Tis a terrible sin, but I dunnae ken why ye wish tae flit. The castle be the safest place for ye.”
Flora took the woman’s hands in her own. “I believe I know the man responsible.”
“Ye do?”
Flora nodded. She’d heard the stories, that Ragnall had brought about his brother’s riding accident, to bring lands into his own hands—and his own father had died not long ago. Had the causes been natural? If he were capable of doing away with his own kin, his ambition surely knew no bounds.
With Flora’s father dead, Ragnall would be proclaimed chieftain before the body was cold.
“Aye, Maggie.” Flora set her chin. “The Laird of Balmore—as sleeps alongside his men in the hall this night. I agreed tae the marriage through duty tae ma father, but what duty commands a woman tae wed the beast she believes killed her own kin?”
The maid nodded sadly. “'Tis the devil’s work, right enough. Yer father entrusted the laird with not just yer hand and yer future safekeeping, but the wellbeing of every Dalreagh soul. I ne’er did hear o' such wickedness. There be no honour in it, for certain—only greed and high ambition. Who knows what such a man is capable of. I hardly like tae say it, but I would fear for yer safety, ma lady. There’s naught tae hold him tae treatin’ ye kindly.”
“Ye see why I need tae go?”
“O’ course—and if ye be leaving, I’m coming wi’ ye. We’ll go tae ma brother’s croft. ’Twill be hard in the snow, but nae more than four hours on foot… But, what shall I tell them, ma lady? I cannae say who ye truly are, or yer plan will be for naught. We mun hide ye good and proper.”
Flora squeezed Maggie’s hand. “I’ll be Florrie—another maid in service. Say perhaps I wasnae treated well and want a fresh start; that I dunnae wish tae talk on it. I’ve some small coin I can bring with me, tae thank yer brother for taking me in.”
“Aye, it could work. Now, as ye say, we ought tae be off, tae be well away by the time the castle wakes. Mayhaps, ye might use yer writin’ skill as Father Gregory taught ye, and leave a note tae put them off the scent for when they do come a’lookin.”