Chapter Four

S he'd escaped just in time, her eyes bulging wide. She clamped her hand over her mouth to contain the squeal of dismay that threatened to erupt and scurried down the corridor, mounting the twisting stairs. She bypassed the third floor and her own chamber and climbed to the fourth floor, where she might be assured of privacy. Not that she imagined for one moment that Torsten de Graham would bemoan her departure or give chase—unless he meant only to exert his authority over her.

Actually, upon further reflection, she guessed that he might do just that, simply to prove that he could, that he controlled her, that he could bend her will to his own, regardless of her wishes or intentions.

Softly opening the door of a chamber used primarily for storage, she slipped inside among old, covered furniture and stacked chests, the chamber gloomy and gray, the shutters closed over the lone window. She sank against the back of the door, her mind swirling with Torsten's unsettling words.

He was utterly repulsive, deliberately provocative, and frankly made her former suitors seem saintly by comparison. But that, strangely enough, was not why she'd wanted so badly to escape the little hall.

For the first time, Raina found herself entertaining a chilling thought: could her father have been involved in the deaths of her previous suitors? Torsten's words cut deep, stirring doubts that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness.

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?

But...no, it wasn't possible.

Was it?

Sweet Mother of God, had her father anything to do with the death of three men to whom he'd betrothed her? Men from whom he had indeed collected land, gold, and cattle, promising the title to Lochlan Hall upon their wedding?

How had she never imagined this before? She was fully aware how cold and calculating her father could be, how his ambition for wealth and status overshadowed any idea of impropriety—but murder? The thought that he might have orchestrated the deaths of her suitors for his own gain seemed beyond comprehension. But no, one had died in his sleep, his advanced years and surely not the hand of her father at work. Another had perished along with many others inside Dundee when some diseased fever had stricken the town, though in truth, it was known that many more had battled the fever and survived. Raina supposed that the pieces could be made to fit neatly together to support either scenario, three men dying by various causes without assistance from another living soul or three men hastened to their deaths at the behest of one man, her father. The very idea of the latter left her with a sickening sense of doubt and betrayal.

Horrifically, there was more, Torsten's other accusations against her father .

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.

She swallowed hard, scarcely able to believe that, despite knowing her father's wickedness, her understanding of his known faults and crimes might have barely scratched the surface of the evil he'd actually perpetrated.

Briefly, Raina considered whether asking her sire directly would uncover the truth. He was dying and presently uncommunicative, but might the truth be revealed in his still-sharp gaze?

Drained by these unsettling thoughts, Raina succumbed to exhaustion and dropped into the nearest covered chair, a cloud of dust briefly swirling around her. The entire day had been a tumultuous series of harrowing events, unsettling revelations, and unwelcome surprises—not least of which was her marriage to such an unyielding, unkind, and cold man who apparently intended that his role as husband should in part be played with an aim to torment her.

Staring blindly at a pile of rolled and forgotten tapestries, likely decades older than she was, Raina covered her cheeks with her hand and wondered what would become of her, and of Lochlan Hall under the grip of so formidable a man. Mayhap naught would change, she supposed after some thought on the matter; her father ruled with an iron fist and had for many years. Perhaps Torsten de Graham would only continue to lord over Lochlan Hall and its people as Malcolm MacQueen had, with the same oppressive authority, the same unyielding governance, and little regard for the health and happiness of his people. Or his daughter .

Her mind buzzed with what that would mean for her. In truth, and though she resented what it said about her, with her father's failing health—and his expected death—she had been looking forward to freedom from oppression. How sad, though, that she'd actually anticipated her father's demise, longing for the day when she might be free of his iron rule.

Nothing to look forward to now.

Now, with Torsten de Graham as her husband, she feared she had traded one tyrant for another. The hope she had clung to seemed more distant than ever, overshadowed by the presence of a man who frightened her to her core.

It's not supposed to be like this , she thought with bitter melancholy. Swiftly, she chastised herself for such selfishness. True, her life was joyless, but she lived and breathed yet while so many others did not, lost to war, disease, accidents, and aye, even murder. Annoyed at her own despondency, she was reminded of something her mother had said to her, more than once: Forge your own path; create—don't wait—for your heart's desire.

She had tried, truly she had. Yet, every attempt to carve out a life of her own had been thwarted, leaving her feeling more imprisoned than ever. Her father's ruthless schemes, the untimely—and now suspect— deaths of her betrotheds, and now this forced marriage to Torsten de Graham, each step she took toward freedom seemed to bring her back to the same cage. Perhaps she'd been too vague in her ambitions. She'd not ever defined her heart's desire , had never imagined a certain wish or idea, had only ever known that she didn't want this , her life.

Emotionally drained and lulled by the quiet solitude of the storage chamber, Raina soon fell asleep there in the dusty, shrouded chair.

She stirred awake, momentarily confused by the sudden intrusion of light, until she recalled her location and understood that someone had come into the chamber holding a candle. Groggy, blinking rapidly, fright enveloped her instantly and was not relieved when she realized Torsten de Graham had come. He held in his hand a simple metal candlestick, the wide base of the holder catching the drips from the tallow candle. The candle had burned low, and she was caused to wonder if he'd searched at length for her, or if he'd stood watching her sleep for some time.

The flickering candle held waist high cast an eerie glow, illuminating his broad figure. Shadows danced across his angular features, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and deepening the hollows of his cheekbones. His furrowed brow indicated his current mood, or again his displeasure.

Having been slouched in sleep, Raina put her elbows on the arm of the chair and straightened a bit, watching him warily.

"?Tis late," he said, his voice surprisingly soft and low, without the hard edge to which she'd already grown accustomed. "We should find our chamber."

Raina blanched. The implications of his words hit her with a cold, visceral horror. This man, whose existence she had only just learned of today, was now her husband by the decree of fate and war. The expectation that their union would be consummated tonight sent a shiver of revulsion down her spine. She felt exposed and vulnerable in the dim light of the candle, her gaze darting between his face and the dancing shadows that seemed to mock her fear.

Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the chair's arms. Though she shriveled inside, she pushed herself to her feet and without meeting his gaze, walked around him and out of the chamber. His presence loomed heavy and oppressive behind her as he followed, his footsteps echoing ominously along the corridor and down the winding spiral stairs.

Her chamber was situated a considerable distance from her father's bedchamber, located at the opposite end of the second floor. At the door, she paused and drew in a deep, fortifying breath before pushing it open and stepping inside.

Going directly to a small bedside table, Raina brought to life a flame in a candle there, her motions slow and stiff. When she could delay it no more, she turned and faced her husband, finding that he was not looking at her but taking stock of her bedchamber.

The walls were stone, softened by hangings of fine cloth in deep hues of burgundy and gold. A substantial, finely detailed pine bed dominated the room, draped with sumptuous furs and embroidered linens. Heavy velvet curtains framed the window overlooking the North Sea, now shrouded in darkness, its distant roar barely audible through the thick stone walls. A long chest sat at the end of the bed and a tall closet stood against an interior wall, both of which stored her clothing, linens, and small personal items, mostly mementos of her mother. A wooden table, adorned with a plain white cloth, held a small mirror, her combs, and other toiletries. In front of the hearth, two overstuffed cushioned chairs sat, angled toward each other, rarely employed, atop a thick wool rug exactly the color of dark wine.

Fleetingly, Raina stared longingly just beyond where Torsten stood, at the closed door.

When he was done perusing the chamber, he turned his gaze to her .

"I won't lie with you," she said, stiffening her spine. Her heart thudded in her chest. "Husband or no, you've shown me no—"

"I have nae interest in beddin' ye," he said frostily, "but we will share a chamber for a while."

Relief was confounded by the inexplicable offense taken at his cruel dismissal.

Though he apparently desired nothing from her, she yearned for clarification. "No interest on this night?" She questioned in a brittle manner. "Or do you intend that our marriage never be consummated?"

He'd walked forward, setting down the candle holder on the small, cloth-covered table, extinguishing the flame with his thumb and forefinger. When he turned, his rigid countenance was inscrutable.

From across the bed, he began to remove his belt, on which his scabbard and sword hung.

Raina swallowed thickly.

His eyes narrowed, he remarked, "Ye just expressed your own unwillingness. Why do ye question mine?"

"I don't," she was quick to assure him, her frown swift. "It's just that I would rather—I don't want to live with... with that hanging over my head."

He didn't say it, but she imagined that pride compelled him to sleep in her chamber. Certainly, the tyrant wouldn't want his troops supposing he hadn't the stomach for rape.

Steeling herself, she dared to ask, "What else should I know about... your expectations? About this sham of a marriage. Will I be a prisoner? What is allowed or prohibited? "

He sighed as he looped the belt around the post at the head of the bed, which apparently would be his side going forward, or for a while .

"Maintain the keep as ye have," he said brusquely. "Dinna leave the keep or bailey without permission from either myself, or Gilles, or Rory."

"I don't know who either Gilles or—"

"Ye will meet them soon enough."

"The peasants have their freedom and yet I am a prisoner?"

"Ye are free inside the keep to carry on as ye have, as chatelaine—"

"But I—"

"Do whatever it is that occupies your time," he said dismissively, unpinning the dragon's head brooch from his chest, laying it upon the bedside table. Next, he doffed his plaid, his long fingers gripping the gathered section at his shoulder and drawing it down and away.

Raina watched, her eyes affixed to his hands. Thoughts raced through her mind like startled birds. She noticed the scars etched into the weathered skin of his hands, evidence of battles fought and hardships endured. Strong and tanned, his hands deftly removed layers of armor and clothing as though shedding the weight of his responsibilities. She sensed a chilling reminder of his power—those hands, she presumed, wielded a sword that had often brought death, mayhap meted out justice with ruthless efficiency, or committed sins she dared not imagine.

Recalling their conversation, she stammered, "I don't... that is, there is nothing to occupy my time."

"Ye fancy yerself above manual labor?"

"I do not. I simply haven't—"

"Ye will labor," he assured her darkly, "nae less than any man or woman inside Lochlan. Dinna ken ye are above it."

Rather than explain to him that she hadn't been allowed a significant role in running the household as should have been expected of the daughter of the house, that her efforts had for months been met with inflexible resistance and icy resentment, Raina took issue with Torsten de Graham's method of communication. "Is this how it will be? I will rarely be allowed to actually finish a sentence or question?"

"I dinna suffer idle, pointless chatter," he said, "and nor do I plan to entertain haivering or demands."

"You are so quick to judge," she remarked with annoyance, "but don't allow a person to challenge your erroneous beliefs or views."

He shrugged as if he were scarcely bothered by his own error or her opinion of it.

Raina gave up. Not entirely out of fear or the threat of his chilling attitude, but rather out of sheer exasperation. He embodied something beyond arrogance—something higher, greater, more damaging, and altogether uglier. A sinking realization crept over her: he was a man who did not care to understand, who had already decided she was beneath his regard. Faced with such obstinacy, she knew any attempt to reason with him would be futile, leaving her feeling adrift in the riotous sea that was, sadly, her marriage and her future.

But then she hated herself for how meekly she'd gone along with everything thus far. Her resolve strengthened as she faced Torsten across the dimly lit chamber, her eyes blazing. "I will not share a bed with you," she declared, her voice wavering only slightly. "I've endured enough intrusion today. "

Torsten's eyes narrowed, his features darkening with displeasure. "Do ye think yer defiance will change anything?"

"I don't even know you!" She challenged. "You are a stranger to me."

"I could bed ye now," he growled, his voice low and threatening. "I promise we'd nae be strangers by the time I was done."

Her jaw clenched at the same time her stomach flipped and she had to fight hard to resist the urge to flinch under his gaze. "I won't," she stated firmly, her hands balling into fists at her sides.

"Aye, ye will share this bed," he said, his tone infuriating for how certain and sure he sounded. He paused at the far side of the bed, his hands on the hem of his tunic. "Ken this, bride," he said, "I care nae more for ye than I do for a speck of dust on the hearth. What frightens ye, pleases ye, riles ye, it dinna matter to me. Whether ye ken joy or sorrow, I dinna care."

His response came as no surprise, not really, not after what she'd been shown of his character today.

Her eyes narrowed with her own contempt. Her chin quivered and her chest expanded with hatred, and she allowed it to rise and blossom and engulf her, so easily done—

—and then so swiftly dispersed and deflated, forgotten, hatred gone in a flash as her husband of half a day lifted his linen tunic over his head, exposing his naked torso.

Raina had all she could do to keep her eyes from widening.

She hadn't thought about it, about him half naked, but she supposed now that if she had, she might have expected that beneath the immaculate clothes, and the quilted leather brigandine and proud tartan, he would appear smaller, weaker, as if stripped of the imposing armor, he was not half the man his outer appearance suggested .

Not so. Despite being well into his third decade as she believed, Torsten de Graham was incredibly fit.

More than that, actually.

Despite the flush that crawled up her neck and warmed her cheeks, she couldn't drag her gaze away from him. Broad shouldered and with flesh taut with what seemed a youthful vigor, he was perfectly sculpted, his skin bronzed like the fishermen who often labored shirtless upon the beach and in the boats. A smattering of black and silver hair covered his chest, short and silky in the glow of the candle. The muscles of his arms were defined with great detail, bunched, corded, veined, rippling even with the simple task of folding his tunic.

There was nothing soft about him, which was fitting, she supposed; his chiseled torso was equally matched to his severe demeanor, both unyielding.

Uncharitably, she imagined that pillaging, plunder, and murder kept him in fine physical form.

Sadly, it did not occur to her to avert her gaze until after he'd caught her staring.

Her cheeks flamed brighter and hotter at the slowly evolving, knowing smirk he showed her, a silent acknowledgment of her observation.

Raising a brow, he began to untie the laces at the waistband of his breeches.

Horrified—both with her own mortification and for what might come next—Raina promptly spun around, presenting him with her back.

A softly uttered snort of derision answered, and Raina closed her eyes against...everything: him, his sneering contempt, the fact that she was married to him, her life, this humiliating moment, everything. Her head dropped to her chest while she composed herself.

Drawing in a deep breath, bemoaning the fact that there was no privacy screen in her chamber, and neither was there a small, connected anteroom in which she might change, Raina snuffed out the candle on the table beside what she now considered her side of the bed. Her fingers trembled slightly as she began to disrobe, bending to doff her short boots and hose and peeling off her léine. Thankfully, as she'd been denied a maid at Lochlan Hall, she was accustomed to undressing without assistance.

Reminding herself that her new husband hated her and that he had no designs on her as a mate, she didn't fret overmuch about the gray light of the darkened room, which might be enough for him to see her outline, but naught much else before she slipped under the sumptuous covers garbed in her shift.

Her bed at her aunt's house near Glasgow had been a short and narrow fixture, not quite large enough for even her small frame. She supposed she should be grateful for the breadth of her bed here at Lochlan Hall, for the fact that it was large enough that there was no reason that any part of her should ever come into contact with any part of him.

Still, this was the first time she had ever shared a bed—with anyone. She couldn't even recall that her mother had ever snuggled beside her when tucking her in or while comforting her after a night terror. Her nerves were frayed, and anxiety gnawed at her, increasing dramatically when she held her breath, wondering if he were completely naked now. Though they lay on opposite sides of the bed, the vast expanse offered little comfort. Her heart pounded, the unfamiliarity of it all unsettling her deeply .

For a long moment as she lay there, frozen, Raina reflected with growing self-contempt on her acquiescence throughout the day. How easily she'd gone along with everything! True, she'd shown some defiance at each astonishing event—the invasion, her wedding, sharing a table and now a bed with this stranger—but overall, she had failed miserably, too effortlessly beaten into submission each time.

Perhaps what she considered her own stalwart courage was an illusion. Over the years, she had perfected the art of playing a stoic role, never revealing emotions, which had in the last decade mostly been negative. She'd become adept at nodding in compliance to her father while keeping her chin high and her opposition to herself, having learned that it was simply easier to go along with his disagreeable plans.

Distractedly, she touched her forefinger to the scar on her cheek, a remnant from long ago of what her opposition could earn her. What she had once possessed in great quantities—courage and boldness—had been reduced over the years. All that remained, she feared, was a dispirited expression coupled with an embarrassingly small willingness to resist.

A spare glance to her left showed the outline of her husband's bare shoulder above the bedcoverings. He'd turned on his side, his back to her.

Raina tried to steady her heart rate and her breathing.

After an anxious quarter hour, where she lay stiffly on her back, having not moved a muscle, Torsten jerked around and spoke, his voice cutting through the silence, "Bluidy hell, woman. I trow I can hear your nerves splintering. Settle now, for Chrissakes, so that I might ken some peace."

He wanted peace?

He wanted peace!

Mayhap he also heard her teeth grinding with her renewed rage.

"And dinna think to escape this bed," he continued, his sharp tone lessened, but only minimally. "I may nae have designs on ye tonight, but we are bound together, like it or nae. Ye'd best accept it and learn to live with it."

"Go to hell," she muttered, summoning a wee bit of that neglected courage for how callous he was. "Or perhaps consider sleeping with one eye open, lest the Killer of Men strikes again."

He laughed at this, the sound unpleasant, sneering. "I ken ye're neither brave enough nor strong enough to see it done," he said and turned his back to her as if to prove he feared no reprisal from her.

Raina squeezed her eyes shut, the sorrowful truth of his words settling heavily in her mind.

She'd been brought low before—often—in her life but never had she felt so utterly adrift and alone.

I need to fix this. I can't live like this for the rest of my life.

This can't be it.