Page 3 of The Lady's Guide to a Highlander’s Heart
Turningfor the twentieth time against her pillow, Flora wondered if she were the only one still awake.
The hubbub from the hall had quietened down some time ago. She’d stayed for the first footing, with one of the newer stable boys proudly carrying in shortbread and salt, a black bun and a brick of peat. After that, the men had grown riotous and she’d politely excused herself, knowing that the ale would eventually catch up with them.
Most would fall unconscious where they lay. It was the same very year. In the morning, she’d find them sprawled over benches and tables, clutching poorly heads. A good bowl of porridge usually sorted them out.
She could hardly help being awake, of course. As of this very night, she was no longer simply Flora Dalreagh, daughter of their clan chieftain; she was a woman betrothed.
And the man to be her husband? Distant cousin though he was, she’d only met him once before, and had been too young then to take notice—but, there had been plenty to take notice of today, and everything they said about him appeared to be true.
Taller and broader than any other, he carried himself like the warrior he was, and there was a hardness to him she’d not seen in other men—as if he might reach behind and draw his sword at any moment.
As if he’d think nothing of swinging it wide and lopping off whomever’s head was nearest.
He’d probably done so on many an occasion—on the battlefield. She wondered briefly how many men he’d killed. Not that it mattered whether it were one or five hundred. A soul dispatched in battle wasn’t the same as a life taken under normal circumstances. It was just the way of things. Each clan had to protect its own.
Still, the imagining of it made her stomach turn.
What did it do to a man?
Could anyone be the same after they’d spilled blood?
Being a woman, she’d never know—for her duty was to her father, helping run the castle. She’d worked hard before the snows came, ensuring provisions were set by to get them through the winter months, preserving and pickling and smoking what they could; storing the rest.
Her duty was to her father and to her clan.
And now?
Another duty was to be hers, not just as daughter but as wife—and it caused her stomach to turn some more.
She was an innocent, of course; even Calder had never pushed her to give up what they’d both anticipated would be his with time. Of all the unmarried women in the castle, she probably knew a great deal less than most, but she knew more than nothing, thanks to Maggie.
Her maid was snoring soundly on her cot, having had more than a little ale herself. Before passing out, she’d had more than a few opinions to share on Ragnall Dalreagh—not all of them uncomplimentary. To hear Maggie speak, the betrothal wasn’t the worst thing—and certainly better than the match Flora had been expecting with Calder.
Flora turned again, pulling her legs away from the cold spot at the bottom of the bed.
A year from now, she wouldn’t be in the bed alone—and Maggie wouldn’t be in the corner cot.
Another wave of nausea passed over her.
Maggie had told her enough that she knew what was expected. A wife obeyed her husband in all things, no matter how vile they might seem—but a considerate husband knew to take the bedding gently.
Would Ragnall be considerate?
Across the room, Maggie gave another loud snort and shifted under her blankets.
It was hopeless. Flora might as well have someone in the room playing the bagpipes for all the sleep she was likely to find this night.
With a sigh, she plumped the pillow beneath her and willed her mind to find some peace but no more than a few moments passed before another sound carried to her ears.
A thin sound at first. A reedy repine. A long lament curling through the darkness.
Nay!
It couldn’t be!
No one could be playing the pipes. There was not a body in the castle would thank whoever dared take up the instrument at this time of the night.
Clutching the quilt to her chest, Flora sat upright, listening keenly.
