“I do. Whatever happens between us shall be at yer instigation, lass.”
Though she continued to frown, she lowered her mouth to his and Ragnall felt the sweet brush of her lips, feather soft. He caught the scent of hay and the clinging fragrance of milk mixed with earthier tones.
Instinctively, he brought his hand to her nape, opening his mouth a little, hoping she would venture her tongue within, then worked his fingers beneath the knotted fabric of her headscarf, wishing to feel the silkiness of her hair.
As the cloth fell away, she gave a cry and drew back suddenly. Opening his eyes, Ragnall blinked at the vision before him. With her flame-red locks cascading wild and her face flushed, she was disarmingly beautiful.
Her looks were the sort a man dreamed of or, rather, it was as if he'd already met her in a dream. There was something familiar in the slant of her mouth and the uplift of her eye, and in that particular hue of red that crowned her.
However, whatever she saw in his face, it gave the lass a fright. Placing her knee full in his stomach, she levered herself up and swung from the bath, sending water sloshing across the floor, her soaked skirts flapping.
Murdo gave a mournful whine as the door banged shut behind her and, sinking back beneath the water, Ragnall sighed deeply. There would be only one remedy for what he needed from Mistress Florrie. He could but hope that her curiosity would bring her to him sooner rather than later—or it wouldn’t be only the haggis swollen to bursting by Hogmany night.
Chapter 6
Before dawn, Christmas Eve
For the hundredth time, Flora berated herself.
She’d wavered when she should have been strong.
If she’d killed him when she’d had the chance, none of this would have happened. Thank the Lord, despite the scarf slipping away to reveal her hair, he seemed not to have recognized her.
At the time, she’d surmised giving in to the kiss would be the easiest way to get what she wanted—a helping hand out of the bath, and away from that hulking brute. Admittedly, she’d not much experience. The only kisses she’d received in the past had been on her cheek or the hand. Not even Calder had tried to put his mouth on hers, and it had never occurred to her to invite him to do so.
It had lasted but a moment. She’d been aware of the soft bristle of his beard and the fresh scent of the soap on his skin. Aware too of the hardness of his body beneath her. Not just in the part that was alarming, but all over. The man had a warrior’s body, battle-hardened, the skin taut over his muscles.
She hadn’t wanted to kiss him. Not in the least.
But she’d let her lips touch his. Just enough to allow him to let her go. It had meant less than nothing. Why then, did she keep thinking of it?
One thing was certain. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again—of letting her softer feelings interfere with what needed to be done.
She was a Dalreagh, not a coward, and she wouldn’t shrink from taking the revenge that was her due. Her father had been murdered, and she would never forget that. If it was with her dying breath, she would avenge him.
All the night, she’d hidden from Ragnall, knowing he was in his chamber, waiting. Now, Maggie and the others around her slept, exhausted from their labours, their blankets pulled tight to their chins, while she fingered the dirk, testing its sharpness on her thumb, hardening her heart for what must come.
Today, there would be feasting. She would make sure Ragnall saw her; would make sure that his invitation was remembered. She would go to him and, when he was replete from whatever it was a man did with a woman, slumbering upon his pillow, she would stab him through.
There would be an end to it, and she would deal with the consequences. Perhaps the truth of her story would be believed, and she would return to Dunrannoch as a free woman. If not, she would undoubtedly be put to death as a murderess herself.
And what of the justice that was meted out beyond the grave?
Was there a special place in hell for women who murdered their betrothed husbands? Father Gregory had never mentioned it but she suspected he’d only ever told her what he’d thought relevant to her life. He would hardly have anticipated Flora finding herself under this necessity.
A chill stole around her heart.
She would try not to think on that; only of the immediate deed before her.
Entering the kitchens, Flora was taken aback at the heat coming from the ovens and the great fire, but the warmth was welcome. Overnight, the temperature had dropped, first sending snow, then thickening the ice upon Loch Balmore, so that all were speculating on it being strong enough for curling. The dreich weather of the past month had been replaced by blue skies and a frost that made one’s chest ache.
Ragnall, she was told, was particularly good at the game, always sending his stones true, to meet their mark.
Flora had used to enjoy the game herself, having been taught by her father, but she’d no time to think of frivolity. If she had her way, the laird of Balmore would never again have the chance to prove his prowess with a curling stone.
The hearth here was bigger even than theirs at Dunrannoch, with six smaller pots hanging on arms around the central cauldron, and the room was full of bustle. The demands of preparing the feast had everyone lending a hand.
Nevertheless, the cook, Mrs. McTavish, gave her a merry smile as she approached with that morning’s milk. “Here be, lass. Come and give the clootie dumpling a stir.” She beckoned to Flora. “’Tis the best luck when all do take a hand. Six times one way, then six t'other.”
Setting down the pails, Flora wiped her hands on her apron and gave a small smile of her own. If Mrs. McTavish did but know Flora’s mind, she wouldn’t be so warm in her welcome, but her simple kindness touched Flora’s heart. She’d naught to complain of under Ragnall’s roof, receiving nothing but fair treatment.
Taking the spoon with both hands, Flora wielded her might to stir the heavy mixture of suet and dried fruit and flour. Wrapped in a cloth and placed in boiling water, the pudding had been one of her father’s favourites.
A hard lump came to Flora’s throat but she refused to give in to self-pity.
“Ye be stronger than ye look.” The cook gave her a nudge. “And a pretty one besides. Ye ken the master be askin’ after ye? I’ll warrant ye’ll nae be in yer own bed this night, nor any through Hogmany, if ye’ve a likin’ tae his company.”
Mention of Ragnall’s philandering ways stirred the flame of anger in her again, but Flora made herself answer meekly. “If the master wills it, I suppose I cannae disagree.”
Mrs. McTavish blew out her cheeks. “Well, I ne’er did hear of any lass thinkin’ twice about flichterin’ into his chamber. Were it summer, he’d have had ye on the moor in the gloaming if ye was willin’, but ’tis a mite oorlich for that. Still, I’d say ye’ve already sampled a wee smourich.”
“Aye.” A passing lad winked at Flora, blowing his own kiss. “An’ the laird’ll be givin’ ye more than a coorie.” Passing his arms around his chest, he acted out a playful cuddle. “If he’s nae tae yer likin’, come and find me, lass. I’ll keep ye roastit.”
“Away wi’ ye, afore I gie ye a skelpit lug!” The cook clipped the boy’s ear and shook her head, laughing. “Pay nae notice tae the cheeky eejit. ’Tis the laird as wants ye."