Page 7 of The Lady's Guide to a Highlander’s Heart
“Noo, wipe the teats with the wet linen, Florrie, for there’s right enough muck on them, and pull a couple of times before aiming for the bucket, tae flush through any dirt. ’Tis just the same as wi’ the goats.” Maggie settled herself on her stool and got to work, humming the festive ditty as had been sung in the kitchen the night before.
Everyone else in the castle seemed in fine fettle—but for herself. Flora could barely recall the last Yuletide she’d been truly happy. A time long before, when her mother was still alive, she supposed, but that was far too many years ago to provide comfort. Lady Brina had been kind in her way but her stepmother had seemed to have little interest in Flora, other than as the bride she wished to secure for Calder, her son.
To her shame, Flora hadn’t been able to summon much grief on her passing.
Sighing, she rested her cheek against the cow, leaning beneath to clean off the teats. At her touch, the animal gave a snort and fidgeted its hooves.
She could hardly blame it. The whole process was undignified, so Flora had often thought.
Maggie’s sister-in-law had given birth three times since Flora’s arrival, yet she still wasn’t at ease with seeing the babes at their mother’s breast. Naturally, a bairn had to have its sustenance, but the poor woman had been obliged to sit and be milked in much the same way as this cow.
That was one thing, at least, Flora knew she’d be spared—for she’d no intention of being any man's wife, and there would be no wee ones without the minister’s words binding her to a man.
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.
