In theory, she was already bound, of course—to the fiend who’d murdered her father—and, seeing as the beast himself hadn’t bothered to wed anyone else, the contract remained.
More than once she’d had pause to think on that, since he must have believed her dead, just as she planned. In any case, none of Ragnall’s men ever came seeking her. The chieftain of the clan was free to take another bride in that case, and it was long overdue. Every laird needed his heir, after all.
Although her father had never been one for immoral shenanigans, she knew many of those under his protection hadn’t been so scrupulous. No doubt, Ragnall wasn’t short of women willing to warm his bed—and plenty who’d oblige without a ring on their finger.
Oh yes, it probably suited Ragnall very well not to have been tied to a little peely-walley thing with barely a curve to fill a man’s hands.
For some reason, the notion stoked the resentment in Flora’s heart. With a puff of frustration, she gave the teats a last, brisk wipe. The udder’s owner shifted from hoof to hoof once more and sent its fringed tail to swipe Flora’s face.
“Stop that, ye daft coo. Can ye no see I’m here tae relieve ye? Stand ye still while I see about ye.”
“Easy there, Florrie.” Maggie called again from across the room. “Mayhaps, she be tender, or missing her wee calf.”
Gently, Flora squeezed to draw down the first milk and the cow switched its tail again, giving Flora a mouthful of wiry ginger hair.
“What did I tell ye? I cannae do this with ye swittering at ma face.” Flora heaved against the cow, only to have it push straight back.
“Ye wild beastie! Have ye no manners?” Flora set her hands to the task again. This time, she managed a little milk, but barely enough to consider being ready to start filling the bucket. She increased her pressure but got nothing for her efforts but a measly trickle.
A chicken strolled in, scratching in the straw directly under the cow’s rear end before squatting to lay an egg next to Flora’s bucket. With a satisfied cluck, it pranced off again.
“Ye see that, do ye? There’s someone as knows what they’re aboot.” Flora berated the cow again. “It be yer turn, noo, and nae more fussing.”
Parting her knees, Flora reached under as far as she could and gave each teat a simultaneous squeeze, considerably harder this time. The cow gave a disgruntled moo and shifted position, sending a good squirt of milk directly into Flora’s eye. With a cry, she wobbled on the stool and toppled backward.
No sooner had she landed in the straw, skirts flying upward, then a low, rumbling chuckle came from somewhere behind. “If this be some new technique for milking, I dinnae ken how effective it may be.”
“’Tis this daft beastie that’s causing the trouble and not—” Flora’s mouth dropped. No more than three steps from where she lay sprawled was the man whose face had haunted her these two years past.
In her memory, he was just as tall and broad-shouldered, sporting the blue eyes and wild curls of the Dalreagh clan but, on all the nights she’d conjured his face, it was always to picture him writhing in agony as she pierced him with the dirk.
Not once had she imagined him wearing this expression of amusement.
“Dinnae let me stop ye.” Folding his arms, he leant against the wall of the dairy, grinning down at her. “I can see I’ll learn a thing or two by watching ye.”
The hatred coursing through Flora’s veins grew thick and black. How dare he make jest after all he’d done. Truly, he was without conscience—a murderer fit for league with the devil himself.
“Och!” Maggie’s head appeared above the rump of her cow then disappeared again as she dropped a swift curtsy. “’Tis the laird!”
Ragnall Dalreagh inclined his head in recognition of the courtesy. “And ye fine lassies must be among the new members o' the household.”
“Aye.” Maggie scurried around, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m Maggie McKintoch from the far side o' the moor, and this is ma cousin, Florrie.”
“Pleased tae meet ye. There’s always a deal o' work, so ye’ll be kept busy.” He reached down to grab Flora's hands and, before she could protest, he’d raised her to her feet.
She’d grown several inches since he’d last laid eyes on her, both in height and in womanly dimensions, but she felt a sudden stab of fear as he looked down into her face, studying her intently.
His brow creased a moment, as if trying to place her features.
Thank goodness Maggie had insisted on her wearing the headscarf.
Maggie had assured her that she looked quite different to the scrawny young thing who’d come to live on her brother’s croft two Hogmanies ago, and here was the proof—for the laird seemed not to recognize her.
Realizing, suddenly, that he was still holding her hands, she snatched them away.
“We’d best be getting on, ma Lord. The cows won’t milk themselves. There’s another twenty waiting after these two.”
“So there are.” His mouth quirked upward. “I’ve a good deal tae manage here at Balmore, but I keep the count of ma cattle, at least.”
Flora felt her cheeks burn. Of course the man knew his own livestock.
She dipped her curtsey, righted her stool and sat upon it once more. Then, positioning the bucket, sent up a prayer that the blasted cow would be more forthcoming and not cause her further embarrassment.
No sooner had she leant forward than she felt two warm arms wrap around her and a hard chest press to her back.
“The trick is in keeping yer patience while showing the beastie who’s in charge.” To her consternation, Ragnall was directing her to the udder. “Wrap yer fingers firmly around the top tae trap the milk, then squeeze it down with a rhythmic motion.”
Flora sat frozen as Ragnall moved his hands over hers. “Next, open yer palm and draw down again, letting the teat refill.”
As he guided her, a thin stream of milk descended, hitting the bucket with pleasing surety. The sight filled her with sudden pleasure. However, she was all too aware of Ragnall pressed up against her—and she a total stranger, as far as he knew. It seemed she’d surmised rightly. The laird was an outrageous flirt. No doubt, if she gave him the least encouragement, he’d have her down on the hay.
The thought sent another wave of heat through her. The last thing she wanted was to imagine those hands, however strong and commanding, laying claim to what lay under her skirts—and she was no ninny. If the laird wanted to give her a tumble, she’d have no choice but to comply, and Maggie would be powerless to intervene.
Those hands might be skilled with the livestock but they were also the hands that had sent her father’s dirk into his heart. That, she would never forget!
She cursed having left the dagger with her bundle in the hayloft over the stalls, where she and Maggie slept. If she’d kept it on her, she might have pushed it between his ribs and have been done with it.
Instead, she made do with driving her elbow there and twisted on the stool, hoping to push him off the back. Let him sprawl in the hay and see how he liked it! But, he seemed to anticipate even that simple action and she came up against the unmoving solidity of his torso and his cheek alarmingly close.