by Cathy MacRae
It was Riona’s turn to stare. “Ye are so angry about Gilda.”
“Not about Gilda,” Ranald retorted with heat. “With the bastard who dared lay a hand on ye.”
“What? But I thought . . .”
Ranald jerked away from the table and strode to her side. His gaze roamed over her face, and it was a peculiar sensation to realize he did not feast his eyes on the curves she knew her damp arisaid revealed as it clung to her body. Men had stared at her with appreciation for several years now and she had shrunk from their stares. But Ranald searched her soul.
“If I had been yer da, and ye hadnae told me of yer attacker . . ..” Ranald hesitated, a sudden thought coming to him. “Or was he a tragic young lover?”
Riona swallowed hard. “Nae. ’Twasnae done by my consent.”
His face tightened, but this time it did not alarm her. “I would have stripped the hide and the manhood from any man I thought could have done this.”
“And that is why I couldnae tell.”
Ranald canted his head to one side. “Aye?”
“He promised he would come back. And harm everyone I loved.”
“Come back? So he wasnae a Macrory?”
Riona bit her lip again. Ranald was too quick by half. Even years later, a war could be fought over this. She was tired of minding her tongue, tired of men trying to pry the information from her. She was also terrified Gilda’s father would discover the truth. For that reason alone, to keep word from getting out or demanding satisfaction from her attacker, revealing the extent of what he’d done, Riona would remain mute.
“Ye willnae tell me?”
Silence was her answer. Ranald lifted his hand, startling her with his gentleness as the back of his hand touched her cheek, stroking slowly downward as he brushed a lock of damp hair from her face. His skin burned hot against hers and she leaned into its warmth.
Their argument for the moment over, Riona once again felt the bone-chilling cold of her damp clothes and shivered. She stood, immobile, as he freed the ties of her arisaid. With both hands he swept the wet wool from her shoulders, draping it carelessly across the table behind him.
A strange look crossed his face as he unfastened his own quilted jacket, and Riona’s breath quickened. Alarm shot through her, but before she could move, he shrugged out of the garment and slipped it over her shoulders. Immediate, welcome warmth flooded over her, and she sighed.
“I willnae send Gilda away,” he vowed. “She isnae a bargaining chip between us. Ye will trust me on this.”
Riona nodded, but she knew different. If she did not bear him a son, he would not want another man’s bastard daughter as his heir. She shrank from him. How many children would she bear before she gave him a son? How many times would he come to her bed?
Panic seated itself firmly in her chest, and her breath whistled in the back of her throat.
Without knowing how she got there, she found herself wrapped in Ranald’s arms, her face against the solid firmness of his chest. She breathed in the smell of him, leather and sweat and the bite of ale he’d drunk earlier. She closed her eyes and listened to his beating heart. Heat suffused her, curling through her with an unexpected tingle in her veins. Slowly, she relaxed, and his arms loosened. Though she could have easily stepped away, she did not, strangely content to remain a moment longer.
His breath stirred the hair beside her ear, and his voice was soft and deep. “Know this, Ree. I willnae touch ye without yer consent. Ye willnae confuse me with what happened five years ago.”
* * *
The fire burned low, its embers secret molten chambers buried in the heart of the wood. Ranald stared into the ruby depths.
What had happened to Ree? There was the obvious answer, of course, but he wanted to know why some man thought he could assault a young girl and live.
The door to his bedroom opened and closed without a knock at the portal for permission to enter. Ranald sucked in a breath of irritation as Finlay strode to the hearth and picked up the metal rod lying to the side. Poking at the wood, the charred logs collapsed, sending a flurry of sparks up the chimney and out across the floor.
Ranald jumped to his feet, brushing an ember from his lap. “Damn it! Leave the thing alone.”
“’Tis cold in here.”
“I’m nae interested in the cold. Let me be.”
With a loud grunt Ranald couldn’t pretend to ignore, Finlay moved to the table across the room. The clinking of metal sounded loud and Ranald checked his annoyance. Dragging a chair across the room, Finlay dropped it several feet from Ranald’s own, settling into it with a sigh. He handed Ranald a mug, who eyed it warily.
“Drink. ’Twill take the edge off.”
Ranald snorted. “I was drunk last night. Thanks, but my head already hurts.”
“I dinnae say ye had to get drunk.” Finlay shrugged. “But if ye’d rather not risk it . . .” He stretched his legs and rested his booted feet on the hearth.
Something resembling a snarl rumbled from Ranald’s lips as he snatched the mug from Finlay’s hand and tossed back a large swallow. Liquid fire burst in his mouth, sliding with a knife’s edge down his throat, landing like flames in the pit of his stomach. Ranald let out a whoosh of surprise and shot Finlay a nasty look.
The big man smirked. “Ask next time.”
Ranald stared at his friend, looking for a sign the man was laughing at him. Finlay’s shoulders shook—but he shifted in his chair. His lips quirked up at their corners—but he yawned hugely and noisily.
Ranald eyed the pale, honey-colored whisky in his mug. They’d been drinking ale downstairs.
“She’s a good lass,” Finlay commented at last.
The muscles in Ranald’s jaw clenched. It wouldn’t help to throw Finlay out of the room, though it might relieve some pent-up anger to try. He drew a deep breath, forcing each muscle to relax.
Taking a sip of the whisky, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I dinnae blame the bairn for this.”
“Nae. I wasnae talking about Gilda. I meant Lady Caitriona. There was a good bit of talk after ye left the room.”
Ranald tossed his friend a sideways look. “And I suppose ye will tell me about it whether I like it or no’?”
“Och, aye. Ye need to know the lass is well-loved by her clan.”
Ranald snorted and quaffed more whisky, relishing the sting as it slid down his throat.
“Well thought of, too. And fiercely protected,” Finlay added.
Refusing to comment, Ranald let the silence between them grow. The mug dangled from his hand as he perused the intricacies of a spider’s artwork stretching at an angle between two beams overhead.
Finlay grunted and shifted his feet, folding his hands behind his head. “The seer doesnae like ye.”
Dropping the empty mug to the wooden floor with a resonant clang, Ranald slammed his hands on the arm of his chair, his dark mood suddenly blacker. “What would ye have me do? Smile and tell Ree I’m pleased some man has stolen her innocence and left her with a bairn? That I dinnae mind she’s obviously scared to death of intimacies with men? That my marriage will be desolate and empty?”
Finlay tilted his head forward. “It doesnae have to be.”
“No. My bride was raped as a lass and should be expected to welcome me into her bed with gladness.” Furious with his self-pity, Ranald snatched Finlay’s mug and downed the contents in a gulp of searing fire.
“Ye can overcome—”
Ranald stormed to his feet, bracing a hand on the back of his chair as his vision dimmed. White-hot rage welled up in him.
He rasped, “I promised her I wouldnae touch her if she wasnae full willing.” He settled the force of his fury on Finlay. “How long will that take? I dinnae want another man’s image in my wife’s bed. How am I to keep from seeing him, grunting atop her, every time she flinches from me?”
Ranald swung his leg with anger, connecting his booted foot with deadly accuracy against his chair, sendin
g it skittering with a discordant screech across the room. It came to rest against the far wall, one leg dangling uselessly from its broken joint, a dislocated arm clattering along the floor.
“Damn!” His chest heaved. He glared at the broken chair, longing for the worthless life of his faceless enemy within his grasp.
“Feel better?”
“Nae.” Ranald sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I will do what I must.”
“What will that be?”
“Marry the lass. After that, I have nae idea.”
* * *
Riona approached Ranald’s closed door. Raising a fist to knock on the portal, she hesitated. She lowered her hand to her side and unclenched it, stretching her fingers wide, releasing a small amount of the tension flowing through her.
I cannae do this. I will give us both the night to think. If the king willnae release us, I will try to be a wife to him. She shuddered, took a closer step to the door, and laid her fingertips on the heavy wood. Her heart raced and she leaned her forehead against the back of her hand, breathing deeply to calm her fears. The door eased open a fraction. Voices murmured beyond, growing in intensity.
Disjointed words rose to her ears. “. . . my marriage . . . desolate . . .”
Curious, she crept closer, putting an eye to the narrow opening, but could see little more than a sliver of Ranald sitting in his chair. Leaning against the door, she widened the narrow crack. Ranald leapt to his feet, and with a terrified gasp, Riona sprang away from the door. Had he seen her?
Ranald’s voice rose, but did not come closer, and Riona cautiously put her ear to the opening.
“How am I to keep from seeing him, grunting atop her, every time she flinches from me?”
Cheeks flaming, Riona whirled from the door and ran blindly down the hallway. Her feet slid on the stairs and she gasped for breath through the tears clogging her throat.
It wasn’t fair! It was not something she’d willingly done. All her good intentions for her marriage were for naught. Ranald had made it abundantly clear he would never be able to forgive her.
As her husband, he would not see her as his wife, but as another man’s conquest.
Chapter Eight
The day was scarcely a promise on the horizon as sunlight curled through the morning mists. Ranald had already checked the location of the guards on the wall and gathered their reports. Nothing was amiss, and the affairs at Scaurness Castle seemed to be perfectly normal. After a restless night, Ranald looked to the new dawn for peace.
Sitting outside the main doors into the keep on a patch of grass, he waved away the gulls lighting near him, hoping for a free meal. A brief movement at his side caught his attention and he noted how the early morning sun glinted off red-gold hair as Gilda sank down beside him. Mimicking his position, she carefully extended one leg, drawing the other up to drape an arm across her bent knee. Wiggling a foot, she peeked at Ranald.
The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Ye’ve lost yer shoes again, so it seems, lass.”
A wide smile split her elfin face and she quickly pulled both knees to her chest, tugging at the hem of her dress over her feet. Releasing the fabric, it drew back slightly, revealing tiny, perfect toes. He reached over and gently tweaked her hallux toe. Gilda giggled and yanked her dress back down.
“So, ye like collecting sea shells?” he commented idly.
The child stilled, and for a minute Ranald was afraid he’d upset her. She released a pent-up breath, and he patiently waited for her to speak.
Twisting the hem of her gown in her hands, she pulled it up and down her shins. “I like angel shells,” she finally whispered.
A lock of shiny hair slid over her shoulder and Ranald carefully tucked it behind her ear. “They’re verra pretty,” he agreed.
“Grandda is a n’angel.”
Startled, Ranald stared at her. Her luminous gray eyes sucked him right in. How on earth could he have not known she was Riona’s child? Deep in those silvery depths was a hole where her grandda use to be, empty except for the tears that welled.
Pain sliced through him and he held out both hands. Gilda leaned toward him, her arms stretched to meet his. Pulling her onto his lap, he cuddled her against his chest as she sighed her way straight into his heart.
* * *
More gulls swooped overhead, their shrill cries all but lost on the wind. Dissipating mist clung to the lower branches of the trees. People stirred, smoke rising from morning fires. Ranald inhaled the sweet scent of the child in his lap. A chicken flapped its way noisily across the bailey and Gilda sat up, her interest piqued.
“Dost yer ma know where ye are this morning, lass?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” Gilda confided. “Probably wheedling pasties from Cook.”
Ranald laughed, startled at what was most likely something she’d overheard. “Is that something ye’d likely do, then?”
Gilda nodded her head vigorously. “Och, aye. I love pasties. Cook always gives me extra.” She twisted in his lap until she was facing him. “What is yer name?”
“My name is Ranald.”
She inclined her head, thoughtfully. “My name means Gift from God. What does yers mean?”
Ranald stared at her, nonplussed. “I dinnae know, lass.”
“We can ask Auntie Tavia. She’ll know.” She angled her head to one side. “Ye talk funny.”
Feeling adrift at sea with her sudden shifts in conversation, Ranald could only lift an eyebrow in query. “I do?”
Gilda patted his quilted jacket. “Ye dress funny.”
“Och. I came from a land far from here. We dinnae dress as ye do.”
“Ye willnae be warm this winter, Ranald.”
She’d spoken with such authority, Ranald couldn’t help but think he needed to see about having warmer clothing made at once. He caught the sound of his name, bemused by her acceptance of him.
“I shall wear my plaide when ’tis colder,” he reassured her.
Gilda nodded, but her attention was on the ties to his jacket. Her chubby fingers twisted the fabric as she tried to poke the lace back through its original hole.
Finally, her gaze slid to him. “D’ye like sea shells, Ranald?”
“I collected a few when I was a wee lad.”
“Did ye live by the ocean, too?”
“Nae. But I visited here when yer ma was but a lass.”
“Will ye take me doon to the shore?”
Ranald raised his eyebrows. “I suppose we have to get permission, first.”
Gilda’s face clouded. “But Auntie Tavia says ye are the new laird and can do as ye please.”
Wondering what else Auntie Tavia said, Ranald shrugged. “I’ll let ye in on a secret, Gilda. Even the laird has to follow rules.”
The wee lass tossed her head, sending ripples of flame colored hair dancing across her shoulders. “My grandda dinnae have such rules. He did whatever he wanted.”
Ranald hid a smile. She would be a heartbreaker one day. A shadow fell on them and they both looked up. Gilda grinned.
“Yer ma’s lookin’ for ye, lass.” Finlay squatted beside the pair and poked Gilda gently in her tummy. “I found ye by listening for yon tummy. It growled like a bear.”
Gilda giggled and grabbed at his finger as it descended on her belly again. “It dinnae!”
“Like two bears,” Finlay avowed.
“Ranald and I are going looking for sea fallen stars and angel shells.” She darted a quick glance at Ranald who reminded her of the rules with a quirk of his eyebrow. Twisting the tie of his jacket around one finger, she cast her eyes downward. “After breakfast.” She looked from one man to the other. “If Ma says we may.”
Finlay swallowed his laugh, but could not keep the merriment from his eyes. “I’ll see if I can roust a few young guardsmen not averse to playing nursemaid to the twae of ye on the beach this morning.” He rose to his feet and offered a hand to Gilda. She took it and trilled in glee as he swung her up onto his back.
“Stay in the cove at Tavia’s,” Finlay added. “It isnae safe further up the beach.”
* * *
The eyes staring back at her from the mirror were rimmed by reddened, swollen lids. Riona sighed and, rinsing a piece of linen in the cool water in the ewer, wrung it out and placed it over her eyes. She paced slowly back to her bed, hands outstretched to warn of a misstep, her face tilted up to keep the cloth from falling.
A knock at her door sounded as she climbed onto her bed. “Come in.”
Bustling skirts and the delicate scent of dried herbs heralded Tavia as surely as did her voice. “’Tis time ye were out and about, lass.”
Riona heard the scrape of shutters opening, and even through the folded linen, she could tell the room lightened considerably. She moaned.
“Ye are feart for the day ye niver seen,” Tavia chided her, sweeping the cool, damp cloth from Riona’s eyes. She grabbed for the cloth, but it landed on the washstand, out of her reach.
With a huff, she sat up on the bed, her back to the wall. “Ye dinnae hear him. He doesnae want me.” Her voice throbbed, low and full of hurt.
“He’s a man, aye?” Tavia nodded to Riona’s rounded, youthful figure, ill-concealed by the thin shift. Riona frowned and crossed her arms over her breasts, trying to flatten them, but only succeeding in pressing them together, pushing them above the lace-edged neckline.
Tavia snorted. “That’ll lose his attention.” She held up Riona’s gown and beckoned to her. “Come, now, and get dressed. Ye have some planning to do.” She frowned at Riona’s protests. “Ye will feel better after ye get some food in yer belly.”
Defeated, Riona ducked into her gown and Tavia busied herself with the laces.
“Why him? Why not someone else?”
“Who, lass? Yer da has already said nae to those who asked for yer hand.”
Riona stepped to her dressing table and picked up her comb. Thoughtfully, she pulled the teeth through her hair, pausing as she hit snarls in the heavy curls.