Chapter Twenty-One

A s the days grew shorter and the chill of autumn settled over Lochlan Hall, Raina threw herself into her duties as chatelaine with renewed vigor. Having no other choice, lest she go mad for mourning something that had never stood a chance, she found solace and purpose in the responsibilities that came with administering to Lochlan Hall.

Each morning, Raina rose before dawn, her breath visible in the crisp air as she donned her woolen shawl and made her way to the great hall. There, she met with Peigi as she was coming in, discussing the day's tasks and addressing any issues that had arisen. She took pride in ensuring that every detail was attended to, from the maintenance of the castle grounds to the well-being of the servants, whose numbers were steadily growing.

Aonghas and Uilleam had remained behind with another forty soldiers, but Raina didn't know whether Torsten intended to ensure her safety or merely to secure Lochlan Hall as a de Graham stronghold. The construction of the watchtowers and the ongoing fortification of the palisade, which grew taller and more impenetrable by the day, suggested a strategic defense. Raina reassured herself that with forty men, supplemented by the locals if necessary, they could hold off a siege for a considerable time.

The MacQueen men from her brother's army—Lochlan's army now, she reminded herself— had joined the king's forces with Torsten. Aonghas had hinted that Torsten didn't fully trust them yet and wanted to safeguard against them causing trouble at Lochlan Hall if they'd remained.

"They'll nae challenge him out there in the field," Aonghas had remarked. "They'll learn to look to him, to depend on him for their safety, for their very lives."

Though Raina still looked to Peigi for advice on household matters, she now freely turned to Aonghas and Uilleam for support in other areas, such as estate management, security, and strategic planning. The de Graham men had become dear to her, with Aonghas and Uilleam specifically emerging as her champions and cohorts. She found herself consulting with them on matters beyond Peigi's expertise, such as overseeing the construction of new defenses, managing disputes among the tenants, and ensuring the overall security of Lochlan Hall .

She valued their intelligence and their opinions, seeking their counsel on everything from the best locations for the new watchtowers to the most efficient methods for storing and rationing provisions for the winter. Their insights were invaluable, and their unwavering support gave her the confidence to make decisions that would benefit the estate and its people.

In every meaningful way, Raina was laird of Lochlan Hall. She felt that way, and she reveled in both the challenge of it and the reward of it.

As often as time allowed, Raina took time to visit the tenants on the estate. She listened to their concerns, offered assistance where needed, and made sure that their needs were met. She liked to think that her relationship with the peasants was improving, and she found that she had grown considerably in her ability to manage these interactions with confidence and grace.

Despite the many improvements in and around Lochlan Hall, and her own personal growth, there had been little reconciliation between Raina and the fisherfolk, not all of them. Those who'd fled after her abduction, including Duncan, Kenneth, and several others, had not returned, and she suspected some or all of them had been her brother's spies. Over time, she had adopted an aspect of Torsten's leadership style, ruling the fishermen with a disconnected, authoritative approach. She established the rules and ensured they were followed, understanding that their respect or approval was secondary to maintaining order and efficiency. Aside from Artair and Edane and their crew, the fishers' disdain for her lingered, but Raina was gradually learning not to let it affect her. Her focus remained steadfast on her duties and the well-being of Lochlan, rather than seeking validation from those unwilling to offer it and unworthy to give it.

She no longer visited the beach on Mondays. At the insistence of both Aonghas and Peigi, those seeking payment were now required to come to her in the hall. After the incident of her kidnapping, where the fisherfolk had stood by, seemingly pleased with her suffering and relieved they were not targeted, she refused to go out of her way to accommodate them. They were now compelled to come to Lochlan Hall, and sometimes, out of sheer defiance, Raina would make them wait for up to thirty minutes before attending her duties.

There was another reason, however, that prevented her from making the trek to the beach. Though she had always considered the trail down the cliff face more challenging than treacherous, Peigi and Aonghas had repeatedly urged her to consider the danger it now posed, to respect her condition .

Her condition , they called it.

Aye, she was pregnant with Torsten's child.

Her child, truly, she thought with prideful vehemence, allowing herself to embrace the joy of impending motherhood. Though she mourned what she believed to be true, that Torsten would never return to Lochlan, in this new life growing within her she found such great solace. Each flutter of movement filled her with joy and hope, painting a future ripe with the promise of love.

As the weeks passed, Raina found herself immersed in a quiet, wonderfully uneventful life at Lochlan Hall. The winter that followed was blessedly mild, the chill softened by occasional days of unexpected warmth. The castle walls, fortified against the elements, stood steadfast against the gentle winds that swept in from the coast. Inside, the hearths crackled with warmth and Raina's belly grew, stirring with life.

Raina came to realize that she thought of Torsten less and less as time went on. While she freely acknowledged that she loved him, she found solace in cherishing the small piece of him she had—the child growing within her. Yet, she deliberately pushed aside memories of him, knowing that dwelling on his absence would only bring unnecessary pain. To again pursue any idea of love would be to abandon reason altogether.

With the passage of time, Raina found herself less plagued by the grief over what might have been. She looked back on their time together with a sense of clarity, recognizing it as her first experience of a broken heart—and silently praying it would be her last. Aye, she ached at times to see him, to hear his voice, to be warm and safe in his strong arms, to know his kiss, but she knew that yearning for Torsten's presence would only reopen wounds that time had begun to heal.

If Torsten ever did return, he would discover what Raina had: she was self-sufficient. She was capable and powerful. She didn't need him or anyone to carve out this most rewarding life for herself. After only months she considered herself older and wiser, certainly beyond an age and mentality that would allow her to attach any hope to his return. He might one day come—anything was possible—and she might even allow him to plant his seed again, desiring another child, but she would stand steadfast and detached as she waved him goodbye when he inevitably left again.

Sweet heavens, but I've become as cold as Torsten , she thought.

No matter, though. All her love and joy would be reserved for her child or children.

She didn't need Torsten. And she certainly wasn't foolish enough to give her heart twice.

NOT A DAY PASSED THAT he didn't think about her. Hell, there was scarcely an hour that he did not entertain some thought of Raina. And this, despite the dreary and worrying five months passed entrenched with Robert Bruce's royal army.

Securing Lochlan Hall, as Torsten had been directed, was part of Robert Bruce's strategic plan. After the death of Edward I, Bruce aimed to capitalize on Edward II's apparent reluctance to continue his father's aggressive policies against Scotland. Bruce pursued daring campaigns to rally support and reclaim territories held by English forces .

However, Bruce's participation was minimal due to a severe illness, confining him to his tent and often necessitating transport by litter. His brother, Edward Bruce, frequently commanded the army in his stead, while the troops, a defiant eight hundred, prayed for the king's recovery.

Torsten and his seasoned warriors played a crucial role in Bruce's raiding tactics and strikes against English strongholds, disrupting supply lines and communications between places like Carlisle and Ayr. Throughout the autumn and mild winter, they engaged in battles at locations such as Strathbogie and Slioch. Despite being outnumbered, these engagements highlighted Bruce's tactical brilliance and the faithful spirit of his followers. Although Bruce's illness often prevented him from leading in action, he remained decisive in his directives, with his brother, Torsten, and loyal knights, Robert Boyd and Alexander de Lindsey, maintaining their faith in him.

Still, winter campaigns were long and grueling, exacerbated by relentless cold and dwindling resources. As late winter approached, the challenges once again raised doubts about the pursuit of Scottish independence—not in terms of their dedication, but in light of the king's ongoing illness. Although, Torsten admitted, albeit reluctantly, that perhaps there was a slight faltering in his commitment as well. Aye, he was deeply troubled by the inexplicable shift within himself; his heart no longer burned with the same ferocity for the fight as it once had.

On a quiet night at the end of February, Torsten and Gilles and a few others sat round their campfire, hidden deep in the fastnesses of Ayr, keeping their own council. It was during these moments of enforced idleness that thoughts of Raina intruded most persistently .

Leaning his back against the trunk of a birch tree, he sat, using part of his plaid as a cushion between himself and the icy ground. He stared into the flickering flames of the small fire and pictured Raina's smile. More often than not, this was the image he brought to mind. True, he often imagined her in the throes of passion, but even then she was smiling.

"Night after night, ye make nae sound," Gilles said, interrupting Torsten's pleasant reverie. "Ye just stare into the flames and...what? I've nae ever see ye so pensive, nae in all the years I've ken ye."

Torsten shrugged and frowned, admitting only, "Everything is... I dinna ken, it's different now." Nearly worrisome.

Gilles gaped in response before he harrumphed loudly. "Of course it's different now," he stated heatedly. "Ye have someone waiting for ye—though I dinna blame her if she's nae, nae after the way ye closed her out. And what was that? Aye, nae for me to meddle in, but damnation, she could nae have made herself any more transparent, what she felt for ye. Christ, but ye trampled all over that, did ye nae? Ye with yer cold demeanor. That farewell ye gave her at the gate dripped with ice colder than any we've seen this winter. And I'm left to wonder if ye're more fond of battle than of a woman, able to resist those brown eyes of hers and the way she sets 'em on ye, all earnest and hopeful."

Stunned by the vehemence of Gilles's argument, it took a minute for Torsten to figure out how the conversation had taken such a drastic turn.

"I meant it's different now, with the king unwell. It raises regrettable questions of what if and what next. "

Across the fire, huddled deep in his plaid, Gilles shrank a bit. "Och," he said, his tone mild now, as sheepish as Torsten had ever heard his captain. "I kent ye meant it's different for another reason."

"Aye, ye made that verra clear," Torsten said crossly.

A long moment of silence passed before Gilles scowled and directed his gaze at Torsten. "But why did ye do that? Why were ye so cool to her after we recovered her from the fiend, her brother? Jesu , that was awful, watching her shrivel up a wee bit each day. I ken it was nae heading in that direction before she was abducted. I kent ye was falling in love with her and why nae? There's nae one damn thing about her that would scare ye off. In fact, I—"

" Jesu , Gilles, cease," Torsten growled.

""Aye, I will. Nae my matter to mind anyhow. I just wonder what changed yer—"

"I canna be in love with her," Torsten snapped, in part with some hope simply to shut him up. "Christ, Gilles, she was used as a pawn. It made me weak. I have an army to command, and canna afford to rule by my heart and nae my head. Love dinna have any place in...Shite, the men need a leader they can depend on, not one distracted by his emotions."

Another pause before Gilles persisted. "So...ye were in love with her?" He asked, treading carefully.

Were? Torsten thought. Am. Will always be.

"Leave it alone, Gilles," Torsten said.

"By the saints, but you two are entertaining," said a voice from the shadows. "And this conversation is fascinating."

Simultaneously, Torsten and Gilles—and the others nearby who were no doubt equally engrossed in the vexing conversation—swiveled their heads to find the king encroaching upon their camp .

The king's presence commanded immediate attention. Despite his frailty, his regal bearing was evident. Aye, his once robust frame had thinned, and his face was lined with pain and fatigue, but his eyes burned with his invincible spirit.

Torsten and his men rose swiftly to their feet, briefly bowing their heads.

Robert Bruce waved his hand to dismiss the formality and stepped closer to the fire. Having endured months of winter campaigning and the unfortunate illness, the king appeared in weather-beaten attire, a sturdy woolen cloak, now faded and patched, draped over a simple yet durable tunic and breeches of rough-spun fabric. His boots, once polished and fine, were now caked with mud and scuffed from the harsh terrain. A weathered belt was cinched at his waist, adorned only with the essentials of survival—a dagger and a pouch for provisions. His hair, once neatly trimmed, now fell unkempt, windswept and graying at the temples. He was, despite all this, a remarkable figure, with eyes that glistened with intelligence and a devotion to his cause.

"You've served us well, Torsten," the king began, his voice weakened but resolute, carrying over a loud pop in the crackling fire. "It's time you return to Lochlan Hall and see to your new wife, loved or not."

As Torsten frowned with surprise, pondering the king's unexpected command—and ready to do bodily harm to Gilles for his interference!—Robert Bruce stood by the fire, his gaze entrapped by the glowing flames.

"I, myself, was given cause to wonder," the king said after a thoughtful pause, "what had brought about the transformation in you. I recalled Torsten de Graham as a stalwart and commanding presence, resolute in every decision and unyielding in adversity. Yet now, there is a discernible shift—a depth of introspection and hesitation that I had not seen before. Turmoil lives within and now I understand its source."

Gilles's harrumph did not go unnoticed. Torsten seriously intended to throttle him.

"Aye, I should have guessed it might be a woman—even better, a wife," said the king. "And now you think that caring, that loving someone, makes you weak. That it exposes a chink in your armor for your enemies to exploit."

Torsten's jaw clenched, but he said nothing, though he supposed his silence served as an acknowledgment. Instead he imagined himself skinning Gilles alive.

"May I?" The king requested, indicating an empty seat, a short and standing log.

"Please do, sire," Gilles invited.

The king sat and drew his cloak about him. "When they captured my wife, my sister, my daughter... I felt the same. I raged against the vulnerability, the pain of it. I blamed my love for them, thinking it was my undoing."

He paused, letting the words sink in. Torsten finally looked up, meeting Bruce's steady gaze across the fire.

"But I learned something, de Graham," Bruce said, his voice softer now. "Love doesn't weaken us. It makes us stronger. Stronger than any armor or sword. Fighting for glory, conquest, duty, or honor—all have their limits. But fighting for those you love, for what awaits you at home, gives you boundless strength." Surrounded by the de Grahams, apt pupils in the moment, the king lifted his hand from inside his cloak, using it to highlight his speech. "Loving deeply isn't a weakness; it's your greatest strength. You distance yourself now to protect her—and yourself, you believe—but true protection comes from letting love fortify you. Let it guide your sword, steady your hand, and ignite your heart. Only then will you be truly invincible. And I need you invincible, de Graham. Go home. Go to Lochlan, where apparently a lovely young wife waits eagerly. Let yourself love her," he said, and grinned, "or as Gilles says, if she'll allow it. Love is not the enemy. Fear is." He paused before adding, "And then come back to me. By then I shall be of sound body and ready to harry Buchan as I've been meaning to do."

While Torsten digested this—and aye, suffered a wee bit of shame to be schooled in so basic a human function by a man, king or no, who was several years younger than him—Gilles suffered no qualms about his meddling, but daringly persisted with it, now directed at the king.

"Why do ye nae pursue the freedom of yer own wife?" He asked.

King Robert smiled grimly. "I expect I'll hear about it from her, brave lass that she is. But nae, and you understand why. ?Tis exactly what Edward—the son now, and all of England—wants, hopes. I haven't the resources presently. Aye, we can take these castles and harass this region, having these hundreds of men, can keep on with this irregular warfare. But a march to England would require ten times that." He frowned a bit and became reflective. "I cannot risk that it wouldn't lead to harsher treatment or even execution. I've resolved that I need to be cautious and consider the potential repercussions. My best efforts at the moment are employing diplomatic channels and political pressure to negotiate the release of my kin."

Not yet willing to give up his position with the king, knowing the royal army, such as it was at the moment, would be drastically reduced without the de Grahams, Torsten attempted to put off his leave-taking. "I can abide here for now, sire, and return to Lochlan when you are returned to robust health."

Robert Bruce shook his head. "Nae, sir. By then I'll want to move and fight again. Go now, as we idle. Spring will break soon; this bothersome ailment shall depart as the snows melt, I trow." He turned and fixed his steady brown-eyed gaze on Torsten. "I do not ever doubt your physical courage, but I need you to address the mental aspect of it. Go home and discover the heart of it in your wife."

Torsten had learned over the last year that best practice when disagreeing with the king was to challenge once and then accept his king's decision, and so he pressed no more.

Robert Bruce, renowned for his perseverance and ambition but not generally his wit, rose from the log and clapped his hands, announcing, "And that will be all tonight for lessons in gentle humanity. Good evening, sirs."

Torsten and his men rose to their feet once more and did not resume their seats until the king had disappeared into the shadows whence he'd come.

When Torsten sat, he glared at Gilles, who smirked irreverently at him.

"Aye, and ye're welcome," Gilles said, his impudence unmatched. "Least now, we can spend what remains of the winter nice and warm at Lochlan. And mayhap ye winna mess it up this time."

"I'm going to take you out to sea when we get home," Torsten vowed, his voice a low growl, "and leave you there—and in worse shape than Samuel was left. "

Gilles chuckled in response. "Aye, I imagine ye will. And home, is it now?"

Torsten was given pause. Home .

Aye, Lochlan was home.

Because Raina was there.

As the camp settled into quiet and the night's chill deepened, Torsten found himself grappling with this stunning realization and more thoughts of Raina. The prospect of returning to her brought a slow, unexpected pleasure, a warmth that fought against the winter's cold. He couldn't deny the way his heart quickened at the thought of seeing her again, of hearing her voice, of simply being near her.

But alongside this excitement was a persistent doubt. Was he truly capable of love? Could a warrior, hardened by years of battle, truly open his heart to another?

Whenever he thought of her, a soft, tender ache spread through him. It was more than mere attraction or duty. It was a longing—one he'd steadfastly tried to ignore—a deep-seated desire to be with her, to protect her, to share his life with her. Could it be that this was love? The way she lingered in his thoughts, the way her smile brightened even his darkest days, the way he yearned to hold her close and know her kiss again.

He remembered the way she looked at him, her eyes full of hope and affection, even after all the pain she had endured, plenty of it wrought by him. She had touched something inside him, something he had thought long buried under the weight of his responsibilities and the brutality of war. She made him feel alive in a way he hadn't felt in years .

This yearning, this passion, this untiring need to be with her, to cherish her, to make her smile—if this was not love, what else could it be?

Any resolve to embrace these feelings did not happen immediately, did not in a moment displace his long-standing determination to ignore what he felt. But over the next few days as he guided his army toward Lochlan—winter marches were always slower than any other time of year owing to the shorter days and harsher conditions—Torsten decided he would go home to Raina not merely as a soldier returning from war, but as a man willing to open his heart.

For the first time in a long while, the future seemed bright, filled with possibilities.

He would see her soon. He would make things right.