Chapter Five

N ot surprisingly, what little sleep she had was neither deep nor restful. She was awake when the sun rose, watching the chamber evolve slowly from blackness to pre-dawn gray before the sun, rising in the east outside her window, casting its soft and pale light throughout the room.

She was fairly certain her new husband hadn't moved at all through the night, being yet on his side, one broad shoulder and arm visible above the blankets. A long scar of mottled red and white made a jagged line along his arm, from the back of his shoulder almost to his elbow. It sat like a rope upon his flesh, appearing to have either been gruesome in origin or poorly stitched, one portion of it as thick as her thumb.

She moved her head slowly on the pillow and stared at the back of his head, more than only a little curious about how short he kept his hair. The line of hair along his neck was perfectly straight, showcasing the precision of the cut. The hair at the nape of his neck was mostly black, clipped extremely close to the skin, the same way it was around his ears. Higher up on his head, the gray hair took over, growing in thick locks that were kept just a touch longer. Raina wasn't sure why she expected that his hair would have been or should have been coarse and wiry—save that it would match his demeanor—but it appeared silky and soft .

A curiosity, at any rate, as she knew few men who kept their hair shorn so close to their heads.

She was advised of his waking by the way he stretched his bare arm toward the ceiling, luxuriating in a lengthy morning stretch. Her lips parted, fascinated by the play of muscles in his upper arm and forearm, as they shifted and danced and stiffened as he flexed. Naught but a moment later, he threw back the furs and blankets and sat up, putting his feet on the floor. For a moment, he only sat, his face turned toward the end of the bed and beyond, unmoving as he stared out the window.

Raina's gaze traveled over the expanse of his broad back, noting the powerful muscles rippling beneath his skin as he lifted his left arm to scratch the skin over his left shoulder. His shoulders were wide and strong, leading to a well-defined back that tapered down to a narrow waist. The morning light highlighted the ridges and valleys of his toned body, giving him a statuesque appearance. Scattered across his back were other unmistakable marks of battle—old scars from sword slashes and arrow wounds, some pale and faded with time, others newer and still slightly pink. Raina found herself reluctantly entranced by the sheer strength and masculinity radiating from him, every inch of his frame exuding a raw, primal power.

Unbidden, her mind drifted into a hazy reverie, imagining what it would be like to be shielded by such a powerful and imposing figure. To be under his care, enveloped in his strength and protection, rather than under his thumb and regarded with disdain.

Shaking herself mentally against any pointless hope or wish, she thought again of what he'd said yesterday, what he'd accused her father of, horrific assaults and depraved murder. As shocking as it had been, Raina hadn't been able to muster an instant and certain denial—she had some idea, improving daily, of what her father was capable of.

Hadn't she always imagined how brutal her father would be in war? Hadn't she known pity for any man, woman, village, or army that was unfortunate enough to cross his path?

Understanding that she, now wed to this angry man, would likely pay for her father's sins, Raina was rather surprised that she hadn't been mistreated or abused thus far. But she hadn't time to dwell upon Torsten de Graham's character, what had prevented him from doing so. He stood then, revealing that he hadn't slept naked beside her but wore his braies yet, and before Raina could wrench her gaze away and close her eyes to feign sleep, he turned, his dark-eyed gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat.

Apparently, yesterday's gruff and severe countenance was not only the result of the siege, confronting his enemy, and being compelled by the king to wed a woman he obviously loathed; but instead the cold indifference and unyielding resolve were simply facets of his natural demeanor. Raina shuddered despite the weight and warmth of the bedcoverings.

Of course there was no morning greeting.

"Rise, wife," he said, moving the neatly piled stack of his clothing onto the bed. "We shall break our fast together, and with the steward. I aim to learn more about the administration of Lochlan Hall." He shook out his tunic and lifted it over his head, pulling it down around over his shoulders and torso, concealing all the glory of his bare chest and lean abdomen.

Teeth clenched, Raina nodded. And while he dressed there at the side of the bed, Raina slipped out from beneath the blankets, her cheeks pinkening instantly as she imagined his seething gaze fixed on her back as she approached the tall, two door cupboard. Not meaning to dally, she plucked out the first léine her hands touched, a simple bliaut of light green wool, the narrow sleeves richly embroidered. With her back to the chamber and Torsten de Graham, she pulled that over her head and took her time lacing up the darker green silk ribbons at each side.

A knock sounded at the door, startling Raina despite the fact that the same tentative rap came at this time every morning. She waited, since the lad Crispin normally entered soon after knocking, though today he did not.

"Enter," called Torsten.

The door was pushed open with a narrow foot, the lad's hands filled with an ewer of water, which he brought every morning. ?Twas the only service Raina was allowed, an edict of her father which Seòras had asserted should remain. Crispin delivered water to rinse her face and teeth. Sometime later in the day, he would empty the chamber pot, though Raina rarely employed it, preferring to use the garderobe at the end of the hall.

She turned but briefly to acknowledge the lad's presence, inclining her head. She tried to imagine what he saw or thought—the newly wedded couple risen and dressing, not a word exchanged. Raina's movements were careful and deliberate, as if any sudden action might shatter the fragile silence she much preferred. Surely, the lad could not be oblivious to the tension in the air, the palpable strain that hung over the chamber like a dark cloud.

The stain of a blush remained on her cheeks, guessing that any person she encountered today might regard her differently, imagining that her new husband had asserted his rights in the marriage bed last night.

"Thank you, Crispin," she said as the lad scurried to exit the chamber. Another fleeting glance showed him backing out, pulling the door closed, his gaze darting curiously between husband and wife.

To her relief, Torsten departed only a moment later, saying naught but that she should not tarry.

When he was gone, she drooped a bit, relaxing her shoulders, the anxious rigidity difficult to maintain. Dropping her head to her chest, she prayed for strength and peace.

She made quick work of her morning toilette, washing her face and hands and scrubbing her teeth before combing out her hair. Although she didn't miss the matronly and unfriendly maids at her aunt's house, who barely let her do anything for herself, since returning home, she faced the challenge of managing her own hair. It was thick and long, and combing through the tangles was quite a chore. With few duties inside Lochlan Hall, Raina usually had the luxury of taking her time. However, today she feared that she should not keep her husband waiting too long. Finding a green silk ribbon that matched the laces of her bliaut, she gathered her long, thick hair and secured it neatly at her nape, allowing the length of it to cascade down her back.

When she was done, she walked down the passageway to the little hall, surprised to enter and find it empty, devoid of even the lone setting that normally sat at one end of the table. With her hand on the door, she stared for a moment, nonplussed, until she became aware of noise drifting upward from below.

She approached the open gallery on the second floor, peering over the edge to survey the scene below. The great hall stretched out beneath her, the space presently filled with bustling activity, as she'd never seen it before.

Straightaway, her eyes found Torsten, seated in her father's chair, and surrounded by several de Graham soldiers, some also sitting at the table, others standing before it. Voices overlapped in serious discussion, the sound easily carrying in so cavernous a chamber.

She hesitated at the gallery's edge, biting her lip, wanting very badly to run the other way. Gathering her courage, she descended the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest with each step. As she reached the ground floor, her steps slowed, and she swallowed hard before crossing the length of the hall.

Torsten's gaze met hers when she was halfway across, his expression unreadable. He nodded at whatever the man directly in front of him was saying, the man using his hands often and animatedly in his speech.

Approaching nervously, she moved towards the high table, and then around to the back side. Slowly, conversations ceased or were abandoned, her presence gradually drawing attention, and she felt the eyes of many upon her.

She tried to smile at the group in general but feared it came off as naught but a stiff grimace.

Torsten stood and held out the chair next to his, in which Raina had never once sat, the chair having been vacant since her mother had passed. Having received scant courtesy from him thus far, the kindness rather surprised her, but she did not acknowledge it in any way. She was here because he'd said that she should be; if he'd not requested her presence—it hadn't quite been an imperious command, she allowed—she would have made herself scarce, unavailable, mayhap all day long .

Though he returned to the front of his chair, he did not immediately sit beside her.

"Lady Raina," he said, "allow me to introduce to you the officers of my army." He pointed first to the man at her right, a man as unkempt as Torsten de Graham was tidy, quite a bit older than Torsten himself, with flowing chestnut hair, liberally streaked with white, and what seemed kind green eyes. "Gilles MacPherson, captain of the de Graham militia and master-at-arms."

"How do you do?" She greeted him.

"Well enough," said the man. "And pleased to ken ye, lass."

As his smile seemed genuine, Raina found herself returning it easily, appreciating the warmth in his demeanor.

"This is Aonghas MacCoinnich," Torsten gestured to the man on his left, who stood with an air of authority and readiness, "our logistics officer. He ensures our supplies are well-managed and our troops well-fed."

Eòghann nodded at Raina, his expression serious yet respectful.

Torsten moved along, introducing each man: Rory MacLeod and a very young man named Thomas were the army's scouts; Eòghann Cameron, a stout man with a thick beard and a serious expression, was de Graham's engineer; Uilleam Stewart, tall and lean, with sharp features and a meticulous air about him—the young man who had hurried her along from the beach to her wedding yesterday—was the quartermaster; and James MacGilchrist, of average height, with striking blue eyes that seemed to miss nothing and an anxious air about him, held two roles, intelligence and intendance officer—Raina might imagine what the former was, but she hadn't any idea about the latter role .

Each man nodded politely at her. Thomas, possibly the youngest of the officers, repeated Gilles's greeting, saying he was pleased to meet her.

"I am woefully ignorant of all the necessary duties inside an army," she said, her gaze moving around the group of men, "but I imagine I will begin to understand more as time goes on."

As was her husband, these men should be counted as her enemy, but as none of them had yet to exhibit any of their commander's hostility, she had no cause to be rude or cool to them. She meant to give them the benefit of the doubt, hoping none would prove to be as cold as Torsten de Graham.

Torsten finally sat, and just now Raina realized that several platters of food sat before the new laird of Lochlan Hall. It seemed a grander selection than she'd ever been served.

The spread included fresh-baked bread with butter and preserves and honey, slices of cured ham and smoked fish, and a selection of cheeses. A bowl of berries soaked in cream and pitchers of ale accompanied the meal. Used trenchers, earthenware bowls, and wooden cups were scattered about the table, hardly having any remains.

Talk resumed around her while Raina stared with curiosity at the elaborate fare—elaborate by Lochlan's previous standards for the morning meal—but soon enough her attention was drawn to the conversation around her.

"Twenty-eight fishermen," James MacGilchrist was saying, "but three nae able-bodied at this time, and two to three who only work as needed. One lass involved there. They work four or five days a week, dependent upon the weather, the sea, and the bounty. "

Torsten frowned at Raina. "Why does the lass partake in the fishing?"

Raina cleared her throat. "Nell's husband died, and she was allowed to take his place in the fishery. She...she has small children and no other kin to speak of." She shrugged, having divulged all that she knew about Nell's circumstance.

Torsten's gaze remained fixed on her, his brow furrowed. "And what were you doing yesterday down at the beach with the ledger and coins?"

"I oversee the distribution of wages," Raina replied evenly. "Each week, the fishermen and Nell receive payment for their catch. It's my responsibility to calculate their earnings based on the weight of the fish caught and a share of that divided by the hours worked," she said, finding it difficult to meet his gaze steadily. Several times, her gaze darted away from him, so unnerved by the probing quality of his stare. "This ensures they receive fair compensation for their labor, consistently."

This responsibility was Raina's sole domain, her only opportunity to contribute, granted solely because of her skill with numbers. Also though, her father had insisted that only a MacQueen should handle wage disbursement, a tactic to foster loyalty and gratitude among the workers—"so that they know to whom they owe their allegiance and to whom they are indebted," her father had once said. Despite appreciating Seòras's support beside her, Raina often felt his presence was more about her father's distrust, as if she might be suspected of mishandling or pilfering funds if left unattended.

Torsten's scowl deepened. "And what happens in winter or during bad weather? Are they not compensated fairly for their time, even if the fish catch is low?"

Understanding his concern, Raina explained patiently, "There is a minimum wage based on hours worked, ensuring they have some income even during lean weeks. A good haul adds to their earnings, while a poor week still guarantees them compensation, albeit less generously." She couldn't deny, however, that the minimum amount was often insufficient for the fisherfolk, many of whom struggled to support their families.

With that explained and presumably comprehended, Torsten introduced another subject, asking James what he'd learned about the trade network in place in Aberdeen.

"Excuse me," Raina cut in quietly. "I'm sorry," she said when Torsten turned yet another implacable scowl her way. "But might I be allowed to continue? I mean, I did not have a chance to begin paying the wages yesterday...and I, well, I imagine they will need their income."

"Aye," Torsten allowed after only a moment's hesitation. "Gilles and Rory will escort ye down there this morn."

Again he tried to instigate the next matter of business.

Raina held up her hand to forestall him. This he did not like at all, as evidenced by the tension that tightened his jaw and the impatient flicker in his eyes. His posture grew more rigid, and he drew in a sharp breath, clearly signaling his disapproval of being halted once more. Despite his silent rebuke, Raina pressed on, rather pleased by the sudden boldness that helped her do so.

"Apologies, but it is Seòras's practice to accompany me—"

"The steward?" Torsten clarified, and one of his men chuckled. "Nae. He'll nae be going anywhere until he adheres his loyalties to de Graham and Robert Bruce."

"Oh," she said, not knowing at this moment how she felt about that, either Torsten's rigidity or Seòras's apparent stubbornness. "And what has happened to the pouch of coins and the ledger that I had brought down to the beach yesterday?" she asked. "I assume you have...claimed the coins?"

"Lochlan Hall belongs to me," he said coolly, "and thus the coin is mine, attained by the king's command and nae stolen. But aye, the purse was put into safekeeping. Gilles will present it when ye're ready to trek down to the beach."

Though his response felt like a rebuke, Raina nodded and murmured, "Thank you."

That was all she wanted for now.

For the next hour, she listened without speaking, more interested in how Torsten de Graham communicated with his officers and how he reacted to items that were presented as concerns rather than the issues themselves, some of which detailed the inner workings of Lochlan but which she knew very little about.

For a while she stared with longing at the plentiful fare sitting before her, her stomach gnawing at her because she'd walked out on supper last night. There were no clean bowls or unused trenchers on the table, and it took her many minutes to work up the courage to reach for a crust of bread, shrinking back into the oversized chair to nibble upon it. When neither Torsten nor any of his men took issue with this, Raina helped herself to a generous slice of cured ham.

Mostly, she stared straight ahead, over the heads of Rory and Uilleam who stood directly in front of the table and was revisited by a series of thoughts she'd had before.

She kept waiting for things to get better, kept hope alive even as it was foiled again and again. Her mother died, and she'd thought she'd grow closer to her father, believing he might find solace in their shared grief. Instead, he became even harsher and grew more distant.

When she was sent to her aunt's house, she thought it would be an improvement over Lochlan Hall, hoping her aunt might be warm and nurturing like her mother. But her father's sister was as cold and indifferent as her brother, her keep more an austere tomb than home.

Upon returning to Lochlan, she expected the peasants' dislike of her to have lessened, imagining they'd have forgotten about the implausible reasons behind their hatred. But their disdain was as sharp as ever, and her father's illness had only made him more tyrannical before he'd lost the ability to speak, had not softened him as she had hoped.

Hope was ridiculous, she decided. She refused to entertain it any more. This was her life now, married to this cold-blooded man, stuck at Lochlan Hall all her days. Mayhap Torsten was right; she'd better get used to it. Every glimmer of hope she had clung to had been snuffed out, leaving her with nothing but the harsh reality of this new and dreadful situation.

Gilles interrupted her reverie, his words advising her that their meeting had concluded.

"I've a bit of time to spare now, lass," he said. "Let's take care of yer chore on the beach."