Chapter Two

H e studied her, eminently curious about the woman who would become his wife.

Torsten's gaze swept over the disheveled woman before him, noting every detail with a soldier's precision. He thought she might be vibrant under different circumstances, but he could not be sure. Certainly, she was not at the moment.

Her pale porcelain skin, though nearly flawless, was drained of color. A scar the size of a small coin marred her cheek, just beneath her right eye. It was a slanted rectangle of raised skin, smooth but unmistakable. The years had softened its edges, yet it remained, a vivid reminder of some long-forgotten injury. Her rosy lips trembled, outlined in blue, highlighting her cold fear. Eyes of rich amber, fringed by dusky lashes, were slanted upward at the outer corners, giving her a cat-like appearance. But those eyes, so striking and stark against her bloodless cheeks, were now frozen and unblinking, locked in a wide-eyed stare that betrayed her tremendous fright. Her soaked locks were attached to her face and neck in tangled strands, and her dress, heavy with water, adhered to her slender frame, emphasizing her fragility.

There was little, he decided, to recommend her as a mate; even had the setting been less harrowing, he felt confident that he would not have given her a second glance. She was beyond the blush of youth, well-beyond those years, he imagined, guessing her to be at least half a decade more than twenty.

The Killer of Men ? Looking at her now, she appeared more a rain-soaked sparrow caught in a sudden squall than an indiscriminate executioner of suitors.

He raised a brow at her, awaiting some response to his surely startling statement.

Those cold blue lips moved for a moment before any words were uttered.

"No. I will not." She shook her head. The wet clumps of hair clinging to her neck maintained their hold, only sliding back and forth against her flesh. "I choose death."

Torsten rolled his eyes with impatience at such theatre, or rather what he supposed was expected to be her valiant resistance.

"?Tis nae an option," he clipped. "Nae yers, at any rate." He stepped closed to her and said in a voice dangerously quiet, "Let me make this clear. Ye will wed, or I will slay a man a day, each and every day, for as long as ye refuse." He shrugged, unmoved by her swiftly expanded fright or the gasps and murmurs evoked from the crowd of people hemmed in behind Raina MacQueen. "I imagine eventually," he continued, "I get through the men and begin with the women and bairns. Dinna matter to me."

"But you cannot—" she tried to challenge.

"Aye, I can." He waved his hand behind him, where more than half his army stood at the ready. "Clearly, ye can see that I can."

?Twas then an easy choice.

Or rather, it should have been.

Torsten's marginal interest in his new bride-to-be grew tenfold in that moment, watching as she seemed to contemplate his words, as if she might actually allow him to carry out his threat against innocents. She didn't take her gaze from him but seemed to stare through him for a moment, her mahogany eyes brightened with possibilities, it seemed.

So long did she take to consider her choices that murmurs of discontent rose from the very group of people he'd just threatened.

She shook herself again, harshly, as if to dispel some notion that she might have taken leave of her senses, that she did have options.

"Very well," she said woodenly, nodding stiffly.

Supposing that the tears that rose and glistened in her eyes now might actually be manufactured, Torsten's lip curled with disdain for these perceived theatrics.

Having concluded what he'd set out to do for the moment, he pivoted on his heel, advising his men, "Bring them up, all of them," easily and purposefully dismissing his bride.

He climbed through the dunes and then ascended the ancient set of stone steps, navigating the steep cliff at the top where there was scarcely a safe path. At the summit, he glanced downward, taking a closer look than before, noting that the cliff dropped no more than twenty yards in total, from the base of the keep at the edge of the crag to the flat sand of the beach below. He caught a glimpse of Raina MacQueen, escorted by Uilleam, his hand firm upon her arm despite her grim-faced efforts to shake him off.

Turning, Torsten continued on toward the keep, debating if he would enlist masons to begin work on a curtain wall. MacQueen had built no palisade around the keep or any of the outbuildings. Mayhap he believed there was no need, for the cliffs at their back made attack nearly impossible, and all the land in front of Lochlan Hall was flat grasslands as far as the eye could see, preventing any surprise attack, and making defense rather easy if enough skilled archers were employed. Mayhap the old man was only arrogant, supposing his English loyalties and vast wealth would protect him.

The de Graham's approach—Torsten backed by an army of four hundred—had certainly not gone unnoticed. It had, however, hardly been contested. They'd met resistance by the castle guard, since learned to number thirty-seven, scarcely enough to protect so rich and vast an estate, certainly not when a third of them, they'd also learned, also acted as fishermen and were upon the beach in that capacity rather than defending their home.

Perhaps he was arrogant himself now, assuming that his large army rather precluded the need for a curtain wall.

They'd arrived only thirty minutes ago, had secured the castle and village with naught but two injuries to their own and hardly a scratch to the MacQueen people, who'd thrown down their weapons with contemptuous haste. Torsten had expected to wait in the hall for Raina MacQueen to be brought to him—since Malcolm MacQueen was too incapacitated to leave his bed, he'd discovered a quarter hour ago—only to be informed by Lochlan's steward that Lady Raina was not inside the keep but upon the beach.

He found the steward where he'd left him, seated at the end of the high table in the cavernous great hall, which was about as clean as any Torsten had ever visited. For being the center of life at Lochlan Hall, it should have shown signs of frequent use, but instead the stone floor was devoid of rushes, seeming to be free of stains; the numerous candles set in iron rings and suspended high above were tall and unused, both the candles and the frame in which they sat lacking even a single drop of old, hardened wax. The hearth, which encompassed half of one entire wall, was not blackened with soot and grease but rather the stones might have been recently laid, so unblemished were they—indeed, the fire pit inside was empty, nary a bit of kindling or peat to be found, nor any evidence that a fire had ever been laid there.

Torsten approached the steward and the table, the latter which gleamed as if freshly scoured and polished, or like the hearth, never used. He had questions about this, but they could wait.

"Lady Raina has agreed to be my wife," he shocked the steward by saying. "Call forth the priest, if one abides, or send for the closest one—"

"You do not have Lord Malcolm's consent," the steward argued, his thick brows knitting. "And he will not give it, I assure you."

"I dinna need his consent," Torsten informed him just as his men began ushering the fisherfolk and as expected, his bride, into the hall. From his tunic, he withdrew a scroll, which he tossed down onto the table. "I have the king's consent and the bishop's dispensation to wed Raina MacQueen."

"This is—"

"Nae any of yer concern," Torsten advised the thin man pointedly, his tone curt. "Remember that for future reference regarding anything I do or say, or any action I take going forward as laird and commander of Lochlan Hall. "

The reedy man gasped with affront and sent the sealed scroll rolling across the table with a flick of his fingers before crossing his arms over his chest.

Allowing a snort of amusement to erupt for the steward's childish manner, Torsten turned and summoned one of his officers. "Thomas," he said when the young man arrived at his side, "find a suitable cage, cell, or gaol—whatever ye manage—in which to house Lochlan's steward for the immediate future." He glanced back at the man, who'd previously and reluctantly identified himself at Seòras, and whose gray eyes were now round with shock. "He'll need time to accept how things will work and proceed here at Lochlan Hall."

"Aye, laird," replied Thomas with a biddable nod before collecting the steward and dragging him away from the table.

With that, Torsten turned to face the score of persons being bustled into the hall, his gaze easily finding Raina MacQueen, as she was at the head of the captives, being led still by Uilleam. She didn't resist forcibly so much as she dragged her feet, so that the lad was compelled to yank her forward with less gentleness than was advisable.

When she realized the steward's apprehension and removal from the hall, she adjusted her manner, now marching forward willingly and with a sudden fire in her amber eyes.

"Where is Seòras being taken? You have no right—"

" Ye have no rights," Torsten cut in, meaning to forestall this argument and others with his uncompromising tone. "Ye are the captured, the vanquished, the imprisoned. I have every right and I will utilize all of them. Who is Lochlan's priest and where might he be found?"

"I will not—"

"Bluidy hell, woman," he growled impatiently. "Niall! Bring me the other lass," he called out, his countenance severe as it remained fixed on Raina MacQueen, "the fisherwoman."

A short yip of fright was followed by footsteps approaching, one set marching, one set scraping.

Torsten turned as they neared and said harshly to Niall. "Strike her with closed fist if Lady Raina fails to answer my questions. If she refuses still to answer, cleave that one's hand from her wrist with yer sword."

"Aye, laird," came the obedient reply at the same time disgruntled murmuring erupted from the crowd of onlookers.

Facing Raina again, he caught sight of her open-mouthed astonishment before she clamped her lips closed.

She didn't look at him, however, didn't visit upon him any fright and dread, but exchanged a wordless stare with the fisherwoman. Torsten was briefly surprised to find that both woman's gazes were ablaze with some undercurrent of animosity.

Curious, he mused, and repeated, " Who is Lochlan's priest and where might he be found?"

While she kept her hostile gaze fixed on the other woman, Raina MacQueen swallowed and answered, "Father Walter, and if he was not found within the keep, inside the chapel, he will be at the kirk in the village."

"The kirk was empty," Torsten advised her.

Raina transferred her gaze to him. Her eyes, now vivid with a stubborn defiance, bored into his. Her jaw set, she squared her shoulders, alive with a mulish resistance that belied her earlier bloodless terror. "I am not his keeper," she said imperiously.

Torsten studied her, intrigued—though no less annoyed—by this shift in demeanor. Meaning to turn and instruct his men to find and bring forth the priest, he pivoted just in time to witness a dozen de Graham soldiers entering the hall, escorting more peasants who appeared to have been rounded up from the village. The hall, spacious though it was, had its capacity only just beginning to be stretched as the crowd inside doubled in size.

Among those entering now was a man who must surely be Father Walter, garbed in a soft gray cleric's robes, his face wreathed in remnants of white hair, a few long strands attached to his crown. He wore a solemn but composed expression, his eyes scanning the scene inside the hall with a concern that did not appear altogether anxious.

"Ask and ye shall receive," Torsten quipped without humor.

The cleric was elderly, possibly being moved at speeds greater than he was accustomed to, but unlikely to stumble with heavy de Graham hands on each of his arms.

When the priest was brought before him, his brow furrowing as he met Raina's gaze, Torsten introduced himself. "Father Walter," he began, "I am Torsten de Graham, mormaer of Glenbarra Brae, dispatched by King Robert Bruce. By royal decree and at my command, you are instructed to perform the marriage ceremony between Lady Raina MacQueen and myself."

Father Walter's gaze flickered with apprehension, but he maintained his composure. "My lord," he started, his voice steady but tinged with unease, "I am bound by the laws of God and man. I cannot—"

"Aye, the laws of man as well as God. In this case, that would be King Robert and myself," he declared, his words sharp. "You will marry us, or you will face the consequences of your defiance."

That, apparently, was the meek end of said defiance .

Father Walter bowed his head briefly. "Very well, my lord," he acquiesced solemnly. "I will perform the ceremony."

Torsten's lips curled in a satisfied smirk, his gaze unwavering. "Proceed then, if ye will."

The priest's eyes widened. "Now? But I haven't the proper vestment, haven't my missal—"

Torsten leaned forward, suggesting coolly, "I'm sure ye can muddle through it, guid man."

Father Walter bobbed his head repeatedly in an artless nod before his gaze flickered again to Raina.

Torsten moved to her side, and briefly frowned at Niall, inclining his head harshly until the fisherwoman whom he'd threatened was returned to the crowd of peasants.

Torsten's closest advisors, Gilles, Rory, and Aonghas, came to stand at his side.

"My father should be present—" Raina began to protest.

"We will speak with him later," Torsten clipped, standing tall at her side, his left palm laid over the back of his right hand in front of him. "I hear he is nae long for this world; I am as eager as ye are to introduce to him yer bridegroom, the new lord of Lochlan Hall."

Despite his initial hesitation and lack of preparedness, Father Walter stumbled through the ceremony. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke the traditional vows, and his knuckles were white as he clasped his hands before the couple.

Raina's responses were barely audible, her voice wooden and small. She repeated her vows mechanically, her eyes fixed stoically on some point across the hall. Torsten sensed little fear now, only a resigned acceptance of her fate .

The satisfaction he knew for how easily his mission had been accomplished notwithstanding, Torsten's expression was unreadable as the ceremony concluded with a perfunctory blessing from Father Walter.

The air was heavy with tension, the makeshift ceremony lacking any semblance of joy. As the peasants looked on in silence, Torsten and Raina were bound together in a union that neither desired nor celebrated, but one that had just altered the trajectory of their lives.

With barely a glance at Raina, who remained frozen and pale in front of the high table, Torsten stepped around the cleric, his gaze sweeping over the assembled peasants and fisherfolk who had been forced to gather in the hall, their expressions ranging from bewilderment to fear.

"People of Lochlan Hall," he began, his voice carrying a commanding edge that demanded attention. "I am Torsten de Graham, dispatched by King Robert Bruce to bring this fortress rightfully under his banner. Ye now find yourselves under my rule, and I come nae as a tyrant but as a steward of justice and order." He paused, his gaze skimming the stupefied faces of the crowd, before continuing with a firm tone, "Yer livelihoods will continue as before. Those who toil in the fields and ply the waters shall do so under my protection. But make nae mistake, there will be changes. Yer allegiance now lies with me and King Robert Bruce, and the laws of this land, however they were practiced before, are now superseded by my commands." His eyes narrowed slightly as he emphasized the next point, "Any disputes among ye will be settled under my jurisdiction. I expect loyalty and obedience, and those who uphold the peace shall be rewarded." Torsten's voice softened slightly as he concluded, "I do nae seek unnecessary hardship, but ken that any defiance or resistance will be met with swift and severe consequences. Together, we shall build a future where Lochlan Hall prospers at the same time it supports the reign of Robert Bruce, our rightful king." He paused briefly, returning to Raina's side, who looked as if she hadn't blinked and might be holding her breath. "And now ye will cheer and wish yer lady well," he commanded the bleak crowd.

Feet were shuffled and eyes averted from both Lady Raina and their new laird. Not a word was spoken, and no hands were joined and clapping.

Torsten narrowed his eyes, considering the crowd. Most often, governed by fear, a subjugated throng would obey swiftly, if not enthusiastically. But when he discovered more than one darting glance, aimed with precision and what he imagined was extreme censure at Raina, he began to believe that all was not rosy and sweet under the roof of Lochlan Hall.

He lowered his head toward her hair, still damp and disheveled and emitting a scent of lavender. "They dinna seem to like ye," he taunted her, "nae more than me."

"I will happily yield the popularity contest to you, sir," she said acerbically, if quietly, lifting her chin. "You and they can go to hell."

Though he cared little for the machinations of Lochlan Hall, much less for melodrama, he could not allow his command to go unanswered. Mayhap his new wife was more shrew than actually a killer of men, mayhap these people took umbrage at how long it had taken her to spare their lives by agreeing to wed him, mayhap both parties were to blame for what was apparently a contentious relationship between lady and peasants. Whatever the case, he didn't care, save that he needed to exert his authority and they needed to understand what he expected of them.

"And now," he repeated through clenched teeth, "ye will cheer and wish yer lady well."

Lackluster was their response, and that was painting it with a generous brush, but they did applaud the newly-wedded couple.

On his left side, Gilles muttered under his breath, "Bluidy half-wits."

"Come, bride," Torsten said next, putting his hand to Raina's elbow, at which she flinched, "let us bring fair tidings of our nuptials to yer sire."

RAINA'S THOUGHTS SWIRLED in a blur of chaotic images and emotions. Everything had happened so quickly—in truth, the nuptials had been a haze, a ceremony she barely comprehended as her mind raced with fear with what she could have or should have done differently to have escaped this fate.

Honest to God, a fleeting thought had circled round her brain down at the beach when Torsten de Graham had initially threatened to harm others if she did not consent to wed him. What do I care? She'd contemplated then. They hate me. I owe them nothing. From the day she'd returned to Lochlan Hall at the beginning of the year, they'd shown her neither respect nor kindness, naught but contempt at the worst and indifference at the least. In truth, it was fleeting, the feelings behind her hesitation, and she did know an instant remorse for her own cold-hearted thoughts, but there it was, however briefly it had been alive in her .

She swallowed, the air catching in her throat, knowing that she wouldn't have actually allowed another to die for her—or apparently be injured, as in the case of the wretch, Nell, who possibly and regularly exhibited the most overt disrespect.

Instead Raina rather expected that she might have signed her own death warrant when she nodded, agreeing to wed the man who appeared as if he might be the type to wish she would refuse so that he could satisfy his bloodlust. He would have to settle for tormenting and torturing her as his wife, she guessed.

Surely, the man breathed fire, so hostile was his manner. The dragon emblem on his banner was fitting then, so symbolic of the ferocity and fear he inspired in all who dared cross his path.

Now, as she was followed by Torsten up the wide staircase at the end of the hall, she was angry with herself for her own powerlessness, for how quickly and easily she'd succumbed, and was gnawed at by a dreaded uncertainty about what lay ahead.

Torsten de Graham—God help her, her husband now!—was imbued with a severe and icy demeanor, with no care for his new bride beyond the orders he carried from Robert Bruce. He was here to claim the castle for the patriots of the war, and Raina was just another piece of that conquest.

Taking a deep breath, Raina squared her shoulders and turned left at the top of the stairs, walking down the corridor to the stairwell at the southeast corner and climbing up to the third floor and the family chambers.

As she pushed open the door to her father's chambers, Raina steeled herself for the confrontation ahead. Her father, frail and ailing, was a shadow of his former self, but his sharp tongue and cold eyes could still pierce her deeply. Actually, his sharp tongue no more, since her father had struggled to speak in the last week, his words mere sounds, indecipherable but always harshly given. She anticipated his contempt, certain he would scorn her for having wed de Graham instead of sacrificing herself to salvage the MacQueen pride. Silently, she prayed for the strength to endure whatever fate awaited her, her hatred for both her father and her new husband burning fiercely within her. In fact, no; she didn't hate her father. When she wasn't afraid of him, she simply felt nothing at all.

Raina stepped into the dimly lit chamber, her eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom. Her father lay in a large, canopied bed, draped in rich, dark fabrics embroidered with the MacQueen crest, depicting a fierce eagle with wings outstretched and talons ready, symbolizing strength and defiance. The room was filled with the scent of medicinal herbs, and the air felt heavy with decay.

Her father, once a robust figure, now seemed shrunken and small against the grand bed. Though his skin was pasty white and his frame frail, his eyes, though dimmed by age and illness, still held a glint of sharpness and malice. His long, thin white hair spread across the pillow, and his breathing was labored, indicating the harsh decline of the last few weeks.

Beside the bed stood a nurse and a male attendant, both of whom stared at Torsten de Graham, their expressions clouded with either dread or fear.

Without a word, Torsten dismissed them with a curt wave of his hand. They scurried from the room, leaving Raina alone with her father and the imposing figure of her new husband. The heavy door closed behind them with a foreboding thud, sealing Raina in the room with the two men who had so deeply shaped her fate, neither to her benefit by her reckoning .

Upon the large bed, his frail form propped up by numerous pillows, Malcolm MacQueen's eyes were fixed intently on Torsten. His lips quivered as if he wanted to speak, but no words came out. His agitation was palpable, his thin, bony hands clutching the bedclothes tightly, betraying his frustration and helplessness against the grip of his illness.

Grudgingly, sensing she had some responsibility here and now, Raina said, "Father, this is—"

"We've met already," Torsten de Graham coldly informed her, cutting her off without glancing at her. "I visited earlier, ere we ventured down to the beach. I advised Sir Malcolm that his keep belongs to me now."

He stared with what seemed a sinister delight at the frail man, suddenly appearing larger and more dynamic, indeed more powerful, when compared to the shriveled man that was her father.

"But I dinna say much more than that," he said, his gaze fixed on Malcolm MacQueen, "dinna tell him that I intended to wed ye. But I'm pleased to tell him that the deed is now done."

Raina stood opposite Torsten, her gaze moving from his ruthless visage to her father's, who croaked and squeaked his helpless distress.

"Your son is dead," Torsten declared, a cruel edge to his voice, "and your daughter is now mine, a de Graham. Your bloodline will die with ye. I'll nae kill ye to spare ye. I want ye to lie here and ken what is happening all around ye, in your own keep. And I want ye to recall what atrocities ye visited upon so many places—Dunkeld, Selkirk, Alderlea among others. Ye did that, allowed the rape and plunder of those places, nae only allowed it but contributed to the villainy. Had nae anything to do with war, ? twas naught but evil. And now I've avenged those souls put under your blade and surely countless others upon whom ye visited the same carnage. I've taken everything away from ye."

Stunned, her mouth agape, Raina watched as her new husband turned on his heel and strode from the chamber.