Page 23 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
Though 'twas foolish, a powerful yearning came upon her to touch his cheek. The laird had brought her to his bed for one reason alone. Tender feelings had no place here—yet they crept around her heart and held it captive.
A single tear welled and ran down her nose.
If only Ragnall had been patient, waiting for his leadership of the clan. He might have made a worthy husband. A man she could have loved. The man who would have fathered her children.
Now, all was in ruin, for though she was too weak to avenge her father, she had resolution enough to know that she couldn’t remain under Ragnall’s roof.
Leaving was the only answer.
With the back of her hand, she pushed the tear away.
The next moment, her wrist was wrenched back and the dirk fell from her grip. The laird, his eyes awake and blazing dark, loomed above her, pinning her to the bed with his weight, and the dagger pricked Flora’s throat.
Chapter10
Near dawn, December 25
“Ye mean tae murder me?”The voice that had been husky with desire was now cold as the ice upon the loch, and the dirk Flora had secreted was held to her own throat. “There be many who might wish me dead, but what have I done tae offend ye, a simple dairy maid?”
Flora dared not move, for the sharp point of the dagger touched the very place she’d intended as her own mark. Ragnall need only increase his pressure a wee bit more and her blood would paint the blade.
“Do ye nae recognize me?” Though she trembled inside, she met his fierce gaze. “’Tis I, the daughter o' the man ye killed heartlessly, though he trusted ye with all he held dear.”
Shock passed over his features, with disbelief hard on its heels, anger following close behind. For the merest moment, Flora felt the dirk press harder to her skin and she gave a strangled cry, but the pressure eased almost immediately.
“If I wished tae silence ye, ma bare hands about yer throat would be sufficient, but I’m nae murderer o' women, nae matter what ye believe." He tossed the dirk hard away, so that it skittered across the floor.
"The lass betrothed tae me is dead these two winters long and the truth o' her father’s death along with her.” He fingered her hair, regret creasing his brow, but his voice remained hard. “Ye have the look of her, I admit, but ’tis impossible that ye be her. The lass was nae more than a child when she was bound tae me, and with a mouse-like way about her. She wouldnae have survived without the comforts she’d been raised with.”
“Think ye so little o' the Dalreagh blood?” Flora’s anger flared. “A child I was, but not without friends, and I’ve had two long years tae become the woman ye see now. I steeled myself tae avenge ma father’s murder, vowing tae have satisfaction with the same blade as killed him. Look if ye dinnae trust me. The carving on the hilt will prove ma tale, and ma own claim tae the name Flora Dalreagh. Ma disguise was a simple one, but good enough tae fool ye.”
Ragnall drew back a little, clearly unsure of his conviction, and Flora felt the cool air pass between them. They were both naked still, and Ragnall’s thigh lay between hers. His hand rested upon her shoulder—the same hand that had cradled her throughout their lovemaking.
He seemed to consider all she’d said and a flicker of something like respect entered his eyes. “If it be ye, Flora, I dinnae ken what to believe. Ye appeared a devoted daughter but people do terrible things in sudden anger, and a betrothal is not always of a woman’s choosing.” A sorrowful look overtook him. “I deterred the men from searching, saying that I wouldnae risk them tae the mountains’ winter and, when there was nae sighting nor word of ye, I believed ye dead, as everyone did. I told them if ye were guilty, ye had paid yer due.”
“Kill ma father?” Flora pushed against his chest, attempting to put more space between them. “’Tis a neat tale tae direct the blame at me, when the sin lies on yer own head. Ye be both cunning and clever, I admit, Ragnall, but there be no honour in ye! Only cruel ambition, and ye should be ashamed.”
She bit back a whimper against his hurting fingers upon her shoulder.
“Perhaps ye speak true of yer innocence, but ye have bold-faced cheek tae act the blameless maid when I wake tae find ye with a blade at ma neck. Dinnae avow tae be incapable o' murder when ye were about tae cast me tae ma maker!”
Flora gave an exasperated cry. “Would that I were capable! Ye would be lying insensible at this moment, yer lifeblood atoning for that taken. ’Tis ma own lack of courage that leaves ye alive. I’ve betrayed ma father’s memory in failing tae dispatch ye, and that shortcoming I’ll carry with me tae ma dying day.”
To her vexation, her eyes were filled again with tears. So much had been lost, and with what purpose? Only so that Ragnall could impatiently claim his place as head of the clan.
But her weeping appeared to cause no softening of the laird’s heart. Rising from the bed, he donned his shirt and lit the lamp, retrieving the dagger from where it lay.
Turning it in his hand, he inspected the carving. There could be no mistaking the dirk passed from chieftain to chieftain, bearing the symbols of the Dalreagh clan: a proud stag and an eagle with outstretched wings. Of course, some would say that only her father’s murderer would have had the chance to steal the dirk from him.
Looking up, Ragnall’s eyes held hers for several heartbeats.
Would he kill her now?
If he were the murderer she believed him to be, he would hardly want her spreading her story about the castle.
When he spoke it was with a determined air. “Did it nae occur to ye that yer father chose me as his successor because he trusted me? The clan needs strong leadership. If ye had killed me, ye would have plunged the Dalreaghs into turmoil.” Laying aside the dirk, he took up his kilt and began to wrap it about him.
“If ye be innocent o' the death of yer father, I ken yer desire for revenge, and it does ye credit, though ’tis doubtful ye would have escaped as successfully as before. Ma men would have stopped at nothing until ye were found.”
