Taking up her knife, she continued preparing the rabbits laid out on the table. "If ye’ll help us a while wi’ the neeps an’ tatties, ’twill be welcome, but ’tis best ye help serve in the hall tonight.” She looked disapprovingly at the scarf about Flora's head. “The laird will be wantin’ ye tae serve him particular, so ye’d best do away wi’ that bit o’cloth. From the little I can see of yer hair, ’tis a fine colour, and worth admirin’. Whit’s fur ye’ll nae go by ye.”
It was clear that Mrs. McTavish had a soft spot for the laird. In fact, Flora hadn’t heard an ill word of him from anyone, but taking the girls on the moor in the gloaming! She knew that Highland men had a deal of passion and would take whatever comforts a girl was willing to give, but the laird ought to set a better example.
I’ll be serving him, alright—but with more on his platter than haggis and stovies, thought Flora, taking a knife to the pile of waiting turnips.
By the time the clootie dumpling was cooked, Flora had taken out most of her ire on the vegetables. The past years had taught her what it was to work but, still, she felt weary on her feet. Having hardly slept probably didn’t help.
“Ye’ve earned a rest, lass.” Mrs. McTavish placed a hand on her shoulder and passed Flora a slice of clootie. “This here be from the smaller pudding I made yesterday. Take ye into ma cubby and lay down yer head on the cot for a while. The master will expect ye fresh and lively, so we cannae be having ye swooning on yer feet.” She looked thoughtful a moment. “If ye find yerself ponderin’ and worryin’, there’s a wee bottle o’ spirit on the shelf there. ’Tis useful, sometimes, for putting aside whatever be making ye anxious—only be careful tae take but a drop. Any more and ye might nae wake up again!”
Wearily, Flora nodded. All afternoon, the knowledge of what she must do had eaten at her, and the situation had hardly been helped by listening to the chatter of the servants—all about how kindly Ragnall was, and how good at settling the disputes of the clan.
Little did they know what sort of man he really was.
Doing as Mrs. McTavish directed, Flora went through to the small room off the kitchen, which the cook had made cozy for herself. Seeing the bottle of malt, Flora took it down. Her father had always advised against strong drink, saying it turned a man to the devil. If she remembered rightly, Calder’s father had fallen out with him over that very thing, having a liking for whisky himself. Her father had said it was what killed him—too much of the drink.
I wonder…
Unstoppering the bottle, Flora gave it a wary sniff.
How much did a person have to consume before they ‘didn’t wake up’ as Mrs. McTavish put it?
Back in the kitchen, one of Ragnall’s men had come down for a jug of ale, a bannock and some cheese, to take up to the laird’s chambers. Resting before his guests arrived for the evening’s festivities, Ragnall wouldn’t be expecting her but it surely wouldn’t be too difficult to gain entry.
He might be cross, of course, that she hadn’t come when he’d first asked her, and she’d have to make herself amenable, to throw him off the scent—but if she could get him to drink the malt, he might fall unconscious long enough to allow her to do what she must.
The question was how to do so, and what amount would be enough. Although it was a time of feasting and merriment, she didn’t have the impression that Ragnall would willingly drink himself to a stupor in the middle of the afternoon.
Perhaps, she might take him the clootie dumpling and douse it in the whisky. Would that hide the taste sufficiently? Tipping up the bottle, Flora let the liquid dribble over the heavy suet. The smell made her nose wrinkle but she added some more. The fruit dumpling did seem to have a remarkable capacity to absorb the malt.
She peered down the neck. The bottle had been nearly full and now looked to contain less than half what it had. Enough surely?
Replacing it on the shelf, Flora smoothed down her skirts and unwrapped the cloth from her hair. As Mrs. McTavish said, if she wanted to win his attention, she’d be better off letting him see her long braid. The quicker she was in Ragnall’s chamber and getting him to eat the clootie, the sooner all this would be over.
Chapter 7
Afternoon, Christmas Eve
Ragnall swallowed the last of the ale and tossed the final morsel of bannock to Murdo. Looking at the bed again, he felt the same disappointment that had been nagging at him through the dark hours. The lass hadn’t visited him as he’d hoped. In fact, he’d ended up tossing and turning, half-expectant and then more than a little frustrated, when he should have been sleeping.
Of course, there were any number of others he might invite in her stead, but the lure of sampling one lass after another had long since worn thin.
He hadn’t invited the milkmaid to his bed lightly.
Something about her refused to give him peace. Her stubbornness, perhaps; that determined set to the chin that reminded him of his own defiant nature.
And it was strange how much she looked like the young bride who still haunted his thoughts—that sad-looking girl who’d run away rather than marry him.
Not that he held himself responsible for her death. Malcolm, after all, had come to him, bartering for the betrothal. He doubted even her father had realized the extent of her aversion, or what it might lead to.
Someone had killed Malcolm Dalreagh that night. Perhaps it had been Flora and perhaps it hadn’t. Fleeing the scene had made it look bad for her, but Ragnall wasn’t so sure she was the culprit. Anger could make a person act against their usual nature, but had that pale-faced virgin been capable of murder?
But, if it hadn’t been Flora, then who?
Someone disgruntled that Ragnall had snatched the prize and all that came with it? He had a few hunches but with no evidence to act upon and no trace of the murder weapon, he’d been reluctant to throw accusations.
The best way had been to keep things quiet.
Fortunately, the first on the scene had been Malcolm’s elderly servant and he’d had the wisdom to come straight to Ragnall. The old retainer, though adamant that she couldnae have committed the act, had agreed that Flora would be likely to take the blame.
From there, the decision had been simple enough. Ragnall’s men had seen to the body, and no-one had been the wiser.
The story put about was that the chieftain had passed in his sleep, content in the knowledge that the clan was in good hands. Only Calder had begun asking awkward questions and, though Ragnall had no love for the man, he’d agreed to let him steward the castle in return for his discretion.
Since then, Ragnall had done all he could to drive that night from his mind, including his sadness over the loss of young Flora. Perhaps only the angels would ever truly know what had happened to her, but the note she'd left had convinced him that she'd nae wish to be found. The winter had been a bitter one. If she'd headed towards the mountains, as she said, there could be no doubt that she'd perish.
He'd become adept, over the years, at pushing down memories too unsettling to live with. Better to pretend some things had never happened.
There were certain events though, that could ne'er be forgot.