Page 22 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
Worse than her own childhood, mourning her mother's death.
Not that all bedding made a child. In five years, she’d been the only offspring of her parents—and not all pregnancies were successful. During her father’s marriage to Calder’s mother, there had been seven conceptions that she knew of. Only two had carried to term and neither child had survived the night.
Still, she needed to have a care. Would Mistress McTavish know the herbs one took when a babe was unwanted, or Maggie perhaps?
Flora bit hard at her lip. The likelihood was that there was no child but, even if there were, she knew her conscience would never allow her to do such a thing.
To kill the man who’d murdered her father was one thing.
To end the life of an innocent was another.
’Twas bad enough that she must kill Ragnall—and after having lain with him in the act that made her his. After all, the physical bond between man and wife was as strong as any oath of fealty.
She was about to break the vows she’d sworn during the handfasting, and there would be no going back.
Flora squeezed her eyes shut and inched her fingers beneath her head. There it was—the cool, smooth handle of the dirk. Gently, slowly, she drew it out and held it fast in her hand.
With him behind her as he was, she wasn’t best placed to drive the blade home. Better to sit above him and locate the vein. She’d no wish to be cruel.
Though his ambition had led him to do away with her father, he seemed a good man in other respects; the sort her father would have approved of to succeed him.
One plunge of the knife was best, to avoid his struggle.
Ragnall’s breathing remained heavy, close to her ear. If she moved too much, too quickly, she risked waking him.
Supporting his shoulder with her other hand, she maneuvered herself away.
How deeply he was sleeping, and dreaming too, judging by the small sounds he was making.
From across the room, a thin whine carried from where the wolfhound lay. It stirred and stretched, and footsteps padded to the side of the bed. Though the moonlight was dim, Flora saw the smallest glint in the animal’s eyes. It rested its chin upon the quilt—surveying its master, and she who shared his bed.
Don’t look at me like that! Yer master must pay for what he’s done; no matter that ye love him.
Turning her back on the hound, she rested upon her elbow, holding the blade to Ragnall’s neck, the point directed at the thick vein. One sharp push and it would be done, straight through to the hilt.
May God in Heaven forgive me.Flora sucked in her breath.
Her hand was shaking and her vision blurred.
Tears! No! There would be no tears!
The villain had shed none for her father, and she would waste none upon him.
But, from behind, the wolfhound whined again and scrabbled his paws at Flora’s back.
With a shuddering sigh, she loosened her grip upon the dagger, drawing back the tip.
She couldn’t do it!
Ragnall Dalreagh deserved to die, but it wouldn’t be at her hand. Somewhere along the way, what had seemed straightforward had ceased to be so.
It was over.
She would leave Castle Balmore and attempt to find her peace elsewhere. The nuns at Inverness would take her in, perhaps.
Though she was cowardly and ashamed by her lack of resolution, there was solace in knowing that her soul would be in no danger. She might perform penance for the wickedness she’d already perpetrated.
It ought to have brought relief, but a terrible hollowness rushed in to fill the place where her hatred had been—the fire that had burned within her these two years.
