Chapter Three

U pon the precipice, the toes of his boots creeping over the edge of the crag, Torsten stood with his hands on his hips gazing down at the beach below. A dozen of his men were there, having returned with five fisherman, meaning to attend the fish that had been caught but not processed. There was no need for waste. They were ordered simply to process the fish as they would and store them in the ice house, one of two maintained by Lochlan Hall, he'd learned, the furthest one being at the north end near the donkey track that nearly half his army had used to approach the beach hours ago.

The sea was curiously calm under a sky that continued to threaten but thus far failed to produce any rain. The transport boat and the smaller currachs bobbed listlessly in the water, moored by anchors dropped to the sea floor.

Torsten's gaze fell on the table and overturned chair almost directly below him. He hadn't known it was her at the time, but that's where he had first seen Raina MacQueen, moments before he and his army had descended. He hadn't yet figured out what she'd been doing there—simply sitting and observing? Was she the MacQueen taskmaster, there to ensure the work was done efficiently and without theft, grumbling, or waste ?

He sighed gustily, and then filled his lungs with tangy sea air, his mind briefly recalled to an image of Meera Agnew, his betrothed, one of Malcolm MacQueen's victims.

He only recently discovered who was responsible for the craven attack at Alderlea that was now three years old. News hadn't caught up to Torsten in the field until almost a year had passed. Having returned to Alderlea at the first opportunity allowed by the war just this past winter, he'd spoken to her mother, who had wept through the entire tale, cursing her own inability to have stopped it, bemoaning the fact that she lived while her daughter was cold in the ground. The woman had lost her husband, daughter, and countless others in their clan on that day that MacQueen had passed through, vowing that he needed only grain and ale for his soldiers, and would take no more.

Torsten knew he hadn't been in love—though Meera Agnew had been breathtaking to look upon, she was occasionally petty and talked entirely too much—but he had accepted the decision of his elders, the mormaers out on Skye; it was time that he wed and ensured the de Graham name prevailed. He'd thought she'd have made a fine mistress to Glenbarra Brae. She'd been of a good family with strong ties to several other noble families, Carricks, Frasers, and Morays included. ?Twas a good match.

Or it would have been.

He'd wanted to kill MacQueen, that had been his intent when he beseeched Robert Bruce to give him the task of sacking Lochlan Hall and not any other capable knight. He'd dreamed of how he might do it, what method to employ, if he would make it slow or quick. But one look at the man this afternoon, before he'd taken his army down to the beach, had advised that a full and gratifying revenge would not be his. Putting the man out of his misery for whatever ailment had debilitated him, reducing him to a drooling mess, would have been an act of mercy, and Torsten would show none to any MacQueen. Ah, but Malcolm MacQueen's mind was still sharp, Torsten had gleaned that in his rheumy but fervid gaze. Malcolm MacQueen recalled his own wickedness, had recognized the places where he had wrought devastation; Torsten had seen the acknowledgement in his eyes. That had brought Torsten some degree of satisfaction, to let him know that it was his pleasure to have seized his castle and wed his daughter while he lay helpless, unable to do anything about it.

And yet, Torsten was brutally dissatisfied. He was now possessed of a vast keep upon the edge of the sea, had essentially vanquished his enemy without lifting a finger, had more than doubled his wealth for the income of Lochlan Hall, and he felt there was scarcely cause to rejoice. He'd also acquired bitter and suspect serfs; there was no farming, naught but selling beef and hides from the extensive cattle operation, and exporting fish, neither industry being familiar to Torsten at all; his enemy lay dying but not by his own hand; and he was now possessed of a wife who bore the name and shared blood with the man he hated almost most in the world; he would be tied to her until either he died or she died, a woman for whom he felt only disdain, for whatever role she'd played in her sire's nefarious deeds, here or afar.

Aye, it didn't quite quench his want of vengeance, felt utterly inadequate, and he feared he might live forever with regret and remorse and this tremendous fury, which on some days he believed might consume him from the inside out.

He debated returning to war, leaving a third of his own army here to build a palisade, to defend that which was now his, but knew that he could not yet. Robert Bruce had designs on Lochlan hall not only to have thwarted the intentions and enterprise of a treacherous Scotsman, but to appropriate for the duration of the war half of Lochlan Hall's cattle and fish to feed his growing Scots army. Torsten would abide for a while, at the king's command, to ascertain whether or not it was feasible. While King Robert didn't mind taking from the treacherous MacQueen, he dithered a wee bit about stealing earnings from innocent serfs or food out of their mouths. If it were discovered that Lochlan Hall could afford to contribute to provisions of the Scots army and feed its people, Torsten might then put people in place to manage it and get back to war, as he preferred.

Another sigh emerged before he turned from the cliff's edge and returned to the keep. He did not relish the task ahead, confronting his bride in her chamber, which he would now make his own.

Raina MacQueen's initial fright had given way to a meager defiance, easily quelled by threats to others, apparently even a fisherwoman she despised. Confronting her alone, as he would, might allow for greater boldness, with no one about to threaten to provoke either meekness or compliance.

Yet, while he didn't relish the encounter, he wanted it done, wanted rules laid down and expectations clearly outlined, leaving no room for rebellion.

Gilles was inside the hall when Torsten arrived, frowning down at the young lad to whom he was speaking. Several other de Graham officers milled about, waiting either for instructions or to give reports.

Torsten approached Gilles and the lad first, curious about the scowl on his captain's face .

"I'm wanting to ken where the trestle tables are," Gilles explained to Torsten, "and the lad tells me—he's Crispin, by the by— there are none. They dinna have meals in the hall. No one comes from the village to sup in the hall."

And now Torsten was frowning, staring down at the scruffy lad for an explanation.

"The lady takes her—" the lad began, addressing these comments to Torsten.

"Lady Raina," Torsten corrected automatically, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Aye, Lady Raina takes her meals in the little hall," said the lad, pointing a bony finger to the ceiling. "Abovestairs. milord, as mi—Lord Malcolm—did as well, at one time, before he fell ill."

"Someone poison the auld bastard?" Gilles asked with a harrumph.

Expecting that the scrawny lad with a mop of shaggy brown hair would have denied this anon, Torsten lifted a brow when the lad only shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.

"Are there none in need?" Torsten inquired. Glenbarra Brae was a healthy, thriving estate and still the folks in the village took their supper with their laird in the great hall so that they were not burdened with providing meals for their family, naught but their first meal of the day.

Again, the lad shrugged.

"Ye look as if ye could use a guid meal," Gilles remarked. "Ye work here, inside the hall?"

"Aye, sir. I tend the hearths and scrub the floors," the lad answered. "My brother, Nicol, works in the scullery, and my cousin, Arthur, serves the meals. Patrick, the wainwright's son, cleans the garderobe. "

Torsten and Gilles's brows knitted again, at the same time.

"All lads?" Gilles questioned. "Nae lasses?"

The lad swiped at his nose with the knuckle of his forefinger. "Nae, sir."

"Why nae?"

Again, the narrow shoulders lifted and dropped. "I dinna ken, sir."

"Lady Raina has maids, though," Torsten assumed.

"Nae, sir."

"The kitchen staff?" Gilles persisted.

"Fergus, Simon, Nicol, Arthur, and aye, sometimes I have chores there."

Torsten and Gilles exchanged curious glances.

"At what hour does Lady Raina take her supper in the little hall?" Torsten asked.

"Seven, sir."

"And she takes dinner at midday?"

"Nae, sir."

More befuddled than concerned, Torsten excused the lad. He would learn more, possibly, from his wife.

"Half-arse backwards," was Gilles opinion, given as he watched the lad scurry away, his soft leather shoes silent upon the timber floor. "Those lads would be better served learning a trade, or down at the beach, fishing, boatin'."

"And where, I wonder," Torsten mused, "are they keeping all the lasses?"

"'Course, we'll need to bring in more for the kitchen," Gilles suggested. "We've got four hundred hungry lads. I expect there'll be some shuffling, getting the kitchen set up to feed them. "

"I'll speak to the daughter this evening," Torsten said, adding that to his mental list of things to discuss.

"The daughter?" Gilles challenged. "Ye mean yer bride, dinya?"

"One and the same, Gilles," Torsten remarked curtly.

He then received a report from Gilles about the attitude of the villagers, including the fishermen, as perceived by the de Graham units who'd escorted them the half mile away to their homes.

"Sullen, confounded," Gilles related, "but nae yet any talk of resistance. We'll keep an eye on it."

Next, another soldier approached, giving an inventory of existing weaponry and armor stores.

For the next two hours, Torsten received report after report, demanding a comprehensive accounting of everything that comprised the MacQueen lands: the extent of the demesne, boundaries and percentage of forest, the number of structures and homes, the number of lochs and rivers, and even the irrigation methods already in place.

He would meet with the steward, Seòras, in the morning—provided the man had learned a bit of humble obedience before then—to discuss greater details, such as the livestock counts and conditions, trade routes and partnerships, and tax records and revenue streams. He wanted to know everything.

Later, when the deep, resonant toll of the castle bell echoed through the halls, marking the nineteenth hour of the day, Torsten excused his men, advising they were released for the day, those not on watch duty, and should seek food and ale in the camp .

Torsten ascended the stone steps to the second floor, and searched three different chambers ere he discovered the ‘little hall'. Unlike the expansive and austere great hall on the ground floor, this chamber exuded a sense of intimate luxury.

Richly woven tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of Saunt Ceerus life and ancient battles, their vibrant colors contrasting with the dark wood paneling—an enormous expense seen rarely outside of large or foreign cities. A large, intricately carved fireplace dominated one wall, its mantel decorated with fine silver candlesticks and a few delicate trinkets, evidence of the MacQueen's wealth. The room was warmly lit by several different groupings of candles, in trays and tabletop candelabras, shining softly upon the polished oak table that stood in the center.

Plush, high-backed chairs upholstered in deep burgundy velvet were arranged around the table, their cushions inviting and comfortable. The floor was covered with a thick, woolen rug, its colorful pattern adding to the sense of opulence. At the outer wall, heavy drapes of a coordinating burgundy fabric framed narrow windows, through which the fading light of evening streamed.

Torsten took in the luxurious surroundings, so ridiculously opposite the spartan conditions he and his men endured in the field.

Raina had not yet come—he wondered if indeed, she would at all.

He moved to a window, where the heavy drapes were pulled back by tassels of gold cord, allowing a clear view of the grounds below, from which the de Graham's had approached today. Presently, his army's tents were spread out in neat rows of tens across the flat grasslands. The men were busy with their evening preparations, setting up small fires and cooking their meals. Smoke from the fires curled into the twilight sky. The orderly arrangement of tents and the disciplined movements of his soldiers spoke to the rigor and efficiency he demanded.

As Torsten's army had advanced on Lochlan Hall, they had not done so without careful consideration of their sustenance. While there were no dedicated cooks among his men, the strategy for feeding the force was well-practiced. Foraging parties had been dispatched to gather food from the surrounding countryside along the way, returning with livestock, grains, and whatever provisions could be spared by the local peasantry, or stolen from any enemy or supporters of their enemy they happened upon. They would survive a few more days dining as if they marched still, until the kitchens could be staffed to feed his large entourage.

At the sound of the door creaking, Torsten turned from the window, nearly amused by a fantastic thought that flashed in his mind, of his new bride lunging at his back with dagger in hand.

Clearly, she was startled by his presence, was his first observation, her slender figure and face arrested near the door, as if she debated whether to enter fully or quietly back away.

Next, he noticed the irrefutable change in her appearance.

Gone was the disheveled woman from the beach, replaced by a vision of quiet grace. She had changed into a fresh léine and kirtle, the fabric a deep, rich blue that complemented her fair skin. Her auburn hair was nearly dry and pulled back neatly from her face in a loose queue, the tail of it draped over one shoulder, gleaming like burnished copper in the soft light of the chamber.

Her amber eyes, though wary yet, were no longer frozen with dread; the dark fringe of lashes accentuated their feline slant. A subtle flush to her cheeks heightened her color, and her lips, no longer blue with cold or trembling with fear, were parted slightly, their shape softened and clarified, being rosy and full and shaped as a bow.

There wasn't anything done specifically, not that he could see, to enhance her features, no cheek or lip powder, no perfume, no elaborate hair style, and yet....

Torsten's gaze swept over her, taking in every detail. She was undeniably lovely, her beauty enhanced by the air of defiance that still clung to her. Despite the circumstances, she stood with a quiet dignity as she met his gaze and for a moment, Torsten felt a spark of something he couldn't quite name. Admiration, mayhap, respect for her tenacity possibly, or perhaps naught but a joy that she wasn't howling and weeping. But whatever it was, as quickly as it came, he pushed it aside, reminding himself of his purpose and the orders he was bound to fulfill.

Torsten cleared his throat.

"Come, bride," He invited in a level tone before she might have escaped. "We shall dine together and begin to learn about each other."

Though she did step further in to the large chamber, she favored him with a pointed glare. "I'm expected to believe you have interest in me as a person?" When he cocked his brow at her, she furthered, "That I'm not actually to remain but a pawn in your little scheme of revenge? Or worse, perhaps," she proposed. "With my father dying, I assume little joy would be known in killing him, and thus, you've decided that I will pay for his sins."

"Your father may deal dishonorably but I do nae." He paused and withdrew the chair at one end of the table. "I do nae kill or torment innocents—though your culpability in his numerous crimes remains to be seen. The denizens of Lochlan Hall dinna ken too highly of ye and I'm wondering why."

Ignoring what was nearly a question, and without advancing further, she challenged his statement. "Is it honorable to force a marriage upon a stranger, one you plan to harass and...and God knows what else?"

"Ye mistake me," he said through clenched teeth. "Wed we are by the king's command and nae by my choosing." –this wasn't precisely true, but in theory it was. He had requested the assignment.

She raked her gaze over him boldly, and with a surge of disbelief. "I'm expected to believe you are a pawn? I think not."

"Will ye sit, or shall we dine standing?" He wondered.

Her gaze darted around the chamber, as if she wished the table were longer and the chairs placed further apart, mayhap his in another room. With a huff and a tight jaw, she flounced into the chair he held for her.

Torsten took the seat opposite her, almost a dozen feet away. He expected that this would be one of the few, if not the only time he and she would dine privately as such, here in this little hall. He intended that the great hall should be open to his army daily—a huge undertaking but one that he would take pains to implement—as he would much prefer to sup in the company of his men, rather than his bride.

"Where is your father's army now?" He asked. "Who leads them?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea. My brother led them of course, but as you already know, he is presumed dead—"

"Presumed? "

"He was reportedly felled at Methven, but we have received neither remains nor effects."

"?Twas a vast field of battle, stretched over many miles," he allowed. "His body likely was never recovered, is ash upon the earth if nae already food for scavengers." He frowned. "And since then, your father's army has not returned, not at all?"

"Not that I am aware of. I only returned to Lochlan Hall this past winter. I'd been gone—"

"Ah, yes, collecting bridegrooms and then condolences when they met their ends."

Stiffening in her seat, Raina glared at him. "Why do you hate someone you've never met before today? Are you so simple of mind that you believe all the sordid rumors you hear?" She tipped her head a bit to the right and goaded him yet more. "Are you so backwards in your thinking that you would hold against me the sins of my father?"

Torsten's lips curled into a smile that hinted at both restraint and menace, his eyes narrowing slightly as he regarded her with a mix of scarce amusement and something darker beneath the surface.

"I will advise ye, wife," he said slowly, "that going forward, ye never again take that tone with me."

"And I will advise you, husband," she responded without hesitation, "that until you refrain from treating me with such open hostility, you should expect the same."

He scoffed mildly at her reprimand and subjected her to a lengthy and thorough perusal, quite pleased when she wilted a bit under his scrutiny. She was bonny, he could not deny, so much so that it was no surprise that she'd managed to rack up one suitor after another. "What was your scheme, by the way?" He asked with seeming indifference. "Were ye being sold? Your sire collecting coin, selling ye to the highest bidder? They were men of means, your intended. Were ye sent to town to entrap them, tease them, entice them, until they were throwing money at your father? Until they met their verra convenient ends?"

Raina gasped, stricken by what he insinuated, the slight color in her high cheeks flushing red.

Torsten's brow lifted. "Struck a nerve, have I? Hit too close to the mark? The game is played and done, Raina. Nae more fools to be swindled, nae more coin to earn."

"Again, you don't truly intend to get to know me," she said haughtily. "You only mean to denigrate and harass me."

She pushed back her chair and made to stand.

"Ye may nae take yer leave," he told her.

Proud and angry, she rose to her feet, clearly about to challenge him.

At that precise moment, the heavy oak door swung open with a creak, admitting two skinny lads. They entered the room, each balancing a covered tray laden with food, which they promptly brought to the table.

The two lads approached the table with careful steps, their eyes cast down in deference—or with a desire not to trip— and placed the covered trays on the bare table. With a synchronized motion, they lifted the lids from the platters. On one tray, steaming venison pie enclosed in a golden crust, its savory aroma wafting through the room. Beside it, a bowl of roasted vegetables, still glistening with butter. On the other tray, a selection of freshly baked bread, warm and fragrant, accompanied by a bowl of butter and a variety of cheeses, their rich scents mingling enticingly .

"Good evening, sir," Raina said, a glint of superiority in her gaze as she used the presence of the lads to escape him.

And while the lads' bewildered gazes darted between Torsten and Raina, she slipped quietly from the chamber.

"Thank ye, lads," he said politely, his jaw clenched, dismissing them, deciding that he much preferred to dine alone.