Chapter Six

A fter Gilles had brought forth the coins, he, Raina, and Rory then proceeded down to the beach, where the fishery bustled same as it had yesterday, as if no great calamity had occurred less than twenty-four hours ago in the sand.

The table and chair were still there, both tipped over and separated by twenty feet. Raina righted them, not sure if the siege had toppled them or if the sea had. She dragged the table back to where it had sat yesterday, and Gilles set down the coins. Rory laid the ledger on the table.

While Raina dragged the chair through the sand, Gilles moved the table further back, close to the cliff.

"Dinna mind me, lass," he said. "These auld knees will give me grief if I stand too long."

He'd positioned the crude and lightweight table at the base of the cliff, where a shelf of red sandstone made a suitable seat, and promptly sat down.

"And where does this come from anyhow?" Gilles asked of the table, tapping his palm against it.

"It's kept in storage in a chamber near the kitchen," she replied.

"And how does it come down? Goes up and down every week?"

Raina nodded. "I carry it. "

Gilles's frown was swift and severe. "Do ye jest? Ye carry it, haul it down that treacherous decline?"

Raina glanced at Rory, who was frowning as well. "Yes. It's...not very difficult." But then, it wasn't exactly easy. "I cannot sit in the sand nor stand while—"

"And ye go back up and bring down the chair?" Gilles was astounded.

Raina nodded but didn't tell him that she had to trek up and down a third time, every week, to bring down the ledger and coins.

"Nae. Nae," Gilles protested. "And ye're done with that. Going forward, they'll come to the hall and ye'll—"

"But... I like being at the beach," Raina informed him. She couldn't have this taken away from her. It was one of the few solaces she knew at Lochlan, the sea itself a reminder of the world's vastness and the freedom that lay just beyond her reach.

Mayhap Gilles read her anxious mien. His face twisted with a bit of displeasure, but he did relent.

"Fine, but ye're nae to be dragging this around nae more," he said sternly, tapping his forefinger on the table. "I'll assign a few lads to carry the table and chair each week."

Raina smiled with delight. "Thank you."

She sat down then and looked out beyond the sand, drawing in a deep breath of salty air. The North Sea stretched out before her, a vast expanse of churning, steel-gray water under a sky dappled with clouds. Small waves crashed against the shore in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic pattern, their frothy crests glinting in the pale sunlight. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries mingling with the sound of the surf, and a cool breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed .

The knarr and currachs bobbed gently in the shallows, their black water-stained hulls contrasting with the muted tones of the sea and sky. The fisherfolk moved about, tending to their nets and gear, half of them preparing to take out the currachs, their voices carried to her ears by the wind.

"And what now?" Gilles asked, drawing her gaze to him. "Why are they nae coming?"

"Oh," Raina responded. "Well, I normally don't arrive this early. I like to come at the end of the day, and I wait for them to conclude their work day."

"Wait? Nae, we willna be doing that either," he said. He waved an impatient hand at Rory. "Round ?em up. If they want to be paid, they best get it now or they'll go without."

Rory went off immediately while Raina tried to protest this. "But I—"

"Nae buts," he said. The ledge upon which he sat was a little higher than her chair, which had sunk into the sand when she sat. He put both palms onto the table and leaned down toward her, his gaze sharp. "Ye are Lady Raina, wife now to Torsten de Graham, and they," he said, pointing one hand toward the people on the beach, "owe their livelihood to ye and Lochlan. They might wait on ye, but ye dinna wait on them. Remember that."

Raina nodded obediently.

The sea's salty breeze tugged at her hair and skirts as the fisherfolk began to form a queue, their faces stern, likely displeased to have been called from their labors. Raina greeted the first fisherman with a curt nod, her expression impassive as she collected a small scrap of paper from him.

"Robert," she acknowledged, perusing the paper and the scratch upon it .

"Mm," the man replied indifferently.

"And what's that?" Gilles wanted to know.

Raina tipped the piece of vellum toward him, so that he could see it contained only a name and a number. "Their supervisor, Kenneth, keeps track of their hours. They would have been given this the night before last."

Gilles nodded, and Raina carried on, recording Robert's hours in the ledger and using a separate sheet of vellum to calculate his wages based on the numbers she already had regarding how many pounds of fish they'd hauled in the week prior.

Raina dipped the quill into the ink once more and recorded his name and the amount due in the ledger, then counted out the appropriate coins. "Here you are," she said, handing him the money without further acknowledgment.

Gilles stood nearby, his keen eyes observing the proceedings. After a few more fishermen had come and gone, he cleared his throat and addressed the queue.

"From now on, each of ye state yer name as ye approach," he commanded, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves. "I want to ken who's who."

The next fisherman, a stocky man with a bushy beard, stepped forward and did as instructed, announcing his name. "Wedast."

Raina recorded the name in the ledger and handed him his pay, her demeanor unchanged. "Thank you," she said mechanically.

As the queue continued to move, Raina fell into the usual rhythm of the task. Each fisherman stepped up, stated his name, received his pay, and exchanged minimal or no words with her. The atmosphere was tense, the fisherfolk's resentment palpable. Gilles observed quietly, occasionally nodding in approval but mostly silent.

"Charles," said the next man, a tall, lanky fellow who barely glanced at her.

Raina made the entry and gave him his coins, her smile forced. "Good day."

The process continued, Nell being the next in line. She and all the fishermen maintained a cold distance, and Raina reciprocated in kind. Gilles, true to his word, made an effort to remember each name and face, occasionally asking a question or two, his tone congenial.

"How's the catch been this week, Duncan?" he asked one of the men, a broad-shouldered fisherman with a sullen expression.

"Better than last, sir," Duncan replied tersely. "The herring are plentiful."

Gilles nodded, his approval muted. "Guid."

Duncan stared down at Raina then, a sneer turning his mouth down. "Hope ye got what ye deserve in the marriage bed last night."

Gilles pulled himself up off the shelf of the cliff and approached the man. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he asked in a low growl, "What did ye say?"

Instilled with neither fear nor shame, Duncan stood eye to eye with Gilles and repeated his lewd remark, this time brazenly enunciating each word.

Raina's brow knit when Gilles tossed back his head and roared with laughter. Her heart dropped from her chest to her belly. Duncan chortled along with him, and several others joined in as well. She clamped her trembling lips together, feeling the sting of humiliation and isolation. Though she forced herself to remain composed, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

In the next moment and without warning, Gilles's laughter stopped unexpectedly, and his fist shot out, connecting solidly with Duncan's jaw. The force of the blow sent Duncan staggering back, his sneering chortle abruptly silenced. The other men fell quiet, the echo of the impact lingering in the air.

"Never—ever—speak to her in that manner again," Gilles growled, his eyes blazing with anger. "I'll tolerate nae disrespect—that's yer laird's wife, Lady Raina to ye." He straightened and addressed the people still in line. "Any of ye imagine ye can cross that line and nae suffer for it, be warned ?tis nae so. Ye'll be dealing with me."

Duncan rubbed his jaw and glared at Gilles.

"And I'm waiting on ye to acknowledge this and make yer apology to Lady Raina," Gilles instructed, his voice as cold as ice.

Getting to his feet, showing more embarrassment to have been knocked down by a man almost twice his age, Duncan nodded at Gilles and muttered a grudging and lackluster, "My apologies," to Raina.

Gilles nodded once, then turned back to Raina. "Continue," he said, his voice softer now, "but cut his pay in half and continue to do so until ye hear from me that he's discovered half a brain and has learned how to conduct himself in yer presence."

Raina, though shaken, gave a tight nod, her eyes avoiding Duncan's. She resumed her task, her hands shaking slightly as she recorded the reduced disbursement in the ledger.

After that, Gilles stood protectively in front of the table now, arms crossed over his chest and glaring at each man who approached. Rory had moved closer from the end of the line, wearing an equally unpleasant expression.

When all was done and the last man had been paid, Gilles narrowed his eyes at Raina. "I kent ye said ye favored the beach," he clipped.

Raising her chin, Raina defended her remark. "I very much enjoy the beach and the sea, but much less so the people."

Rory stepped closer to the table, his frown as harsh as Gilles's. "Why dinna they like ye?"

Raina moved the ribbon to the center of the ledger and closed the book. "Haven't you heard?" She questioned Rory with an infuriated smirk. "I've killed three men, have I not?"

There was more to it, she knew, so much more to their hatred. More rubbish, more maddening for the origins of it.

It began with a dreadful storm that struck the village six years ago, shortly after her mother had died. Lightning had struck the thatched roof of the cattle barns, causing a fire that decimated half their stock and razed half the homes nearby. In the chaos, a young girl, Clara, had gone missing, and despite exhaustive searches, no trace of the girl was ever found.

Some villagers, in their grief and desperation, began whispering about seeing Raina lingering near the outskirts of the village that very night. They claimed she was chanting softly to herself, her eyes glinting eerily in the flickering light of the burning hall. Others swore they saw her clutching a peculiar talisman, muttering words they couldn't comprehend.

Despite Raina's protestations and the fact that she was abed all that night—sadly, with none to support her alibi— the suspicion took root. Clara's disappearance became linked to Raina's presence, and soon, accusations of witchcraft spread like wildfire through the village. Even now, years later, the memory of that tragic night continued to fuel the villagers' animosity towards her, painting her as a witch responsible for their misfortunes, those on that night and any since.

The death of three suitors certainly had not endeared her to them, had only fueled the gross supposition that she was indeed a witch.

Regarding those most recent rumors, she informed them, "Your laird believes it and I'm sure he plans to hold it against me, among other crimes for which I am not responsible."

"Bluidy hell," Gilles grumbled. Heaving a large sigh, he instructed Rory to take the table back up to the keep.

While Raina packed into the basket the much lighter purse of coins, the journal, ink, and quill, Gilles watched her through narrowed eyes. Rory lifted the table over his head when it was empty and marched away, making the chore look easy.

Gilles picked up the chair, meaning to lug it back to the keep, but didn't move immediately.

Measuring her with a probing stare, his green eyes darkened with intention, he said to her, "Aye, and take it from someone who kens yer new husband, lass, better and longer than any. Ye stand yer ground with him," he counseled. "He's nae without honor, nae without fairness. But aye, he'll walk all over ye if ye show weakness. He has nae respect for that."

"Ye want me to adjust my character to soothe my new husband?" Raina challenged. "The one I didn't want?"

He harrumphed at this, not unpleasantly, but as if to convey that he took her point.

"Ye endured quite a few shocks yesterday, lass, by my reckoning. Suffered a mighty army overtaking yer home. Unexpectedly wed—to one ye dinna want —and mayhap ye learned a thing or two about yer sire ye'd rather nae have kent. Ah, but ye dinna weep. Ye went resolutely toward what ye imagine is yer doom—the wedding. All day long, nae blatting, nae bawling. So aye, I dinna ken I'm suggesting ye become a different person. I only suggest that ye needn't be afraid to be who ye are." He raised a brow at her, seeming to hope she understood. And then he hoisted the chair over his shoulder, using only one hand to secure it. "Och, he looks like he'll bite—yer husband, that is—but I promise ye he willna. Breathe fire, he will, he is the dragon after all. But he willna bite his wife. He's nae made like that."

Only because he seemed so compassionate, almost as she expected a father might behave—but what did she know about kindhearted fathers?—she almost dared to ask if she behaved so, more resolutely, toward the peasants and the fisherfolk, if she might generate less animosity. But she knew the answer already. She'd attempted many times over the years to sway their unfair beliefs about her: ignoring them, reasoning with them, growing imperious, and becoming resigned. Their opinions had never changed. She remained, since returning to Lochlan Hall, merely resigned.

Gilles narrowed his eyes at her, measuring her thoughtfully. "Peacekeeper, are ye? Never wanting to stir the pot or make waves? Ye'd rather mend fences than swing axes," he guessed.

She nodded stiffly, knowing she disliked confrontation and all manner of conflict, that she'd learned that any and all machinations to change what was thrust upon her went unnoticed, unheeded.

"Make the waves, lass," Gilles sagely advised, "lest ye drown in someone else's sea. "

With that, he turned and began the climb toward the keep.

Raina followed, a wee bemused by Gilles's perception, no less than she was touched by his consideration.

Make waves lest she drown in someone else's sea , she mused.

SHE'D KEPT A LOW PROFILE throughout the afternoon, partly driven by an unconscious desire to avoid her husband. With no official duties within the keep, Raina often found herself slipping away. Today, after returning from the beach with a slight but noticeable spring in her step—thanks to the unexpected kindness from Gilles and, to some extent, Rory—she paid a visit to her father. Though he could no longer speak, his disdain for her was palpable, likely a delayed reaction to her being forced to wed Torsten de Graham. She refused to let his scorn affect her.

Sadly, though buoyed by her improved mood, she found herself at a loss for how to channel her energy. Eventually, she did what she knew best: she sought refuge within the keep, retreating to her mother's former solar. There, she spent the day engrossed in an embroidery panel, meticulously stitching a scene of gulls soaring over the tumultuous sea.

Supposing that she was expected, and because her stomach had not met a substantial meal in almost thirty-six hours, Raina arrived in the little hall just before seven that evening. Torsten was already there, his back to the chamber, staring out the northern window.

"I would offer ye a chair," he said, "but I willna bother if ye mean again to leap from it and flee." His tone was edged with sarcasm, a reminder of the previous night's tension .

Raina stiffened, her hands clenching at her sides. "I did not flee," she replied, her voice cool. "I merely sought a more congenial atmosphere." Forcing and air of nonchalance, which she hoped masked the thudding of her heart and the quickening of her breath that his enigmatic presence provoked, she said lightly, "Perhaps you will resist provoking me, and we might be allowed to sup in relative peace."

Sweet Jesus , but she hoped that Gilles had not led her falsely.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Anything is possible, I suppose. Sit, then. Let us attempt to get through this meal with some semblance of civility."

Raina moved to the table and took her seat, keenly aware of his eyes on her. As she settled into the chair, she forced herself to meet his gaze, determined not to show any sign of weakness.

She hated that she felt like a child playing dress-up in his presence, hated that in the company of his imposing demeanor she felt wholly inadequate, as if there was reason for him to look down on her. His piercing eyes, dark and intense, seemed to see through her pretense of calmness, making her feel vulnerable and exposed.

More than anything, she despised herself for her inability to deny his indisputable handsomeness. His strong jaw, high cheekbones, and firm mouth all suggested a man accustomed to command and control, forming a striking fa?ade. Though loath to admit it, the more she saw of him, the more handsome he appeared. How could she find anything appealing in a man who had laid siege to her home, forcing her into this unwanted union by the king's decree? She despised him for what he had done, for the way he had disrupted her life. And yet, his presence was impossible to ignore, a blend of raw power and an enigmatic aura that both repelled and fascinated her.

Fairly quickly, she decided that she might almost enjoy sharing the boards with him. If he would say nothing, keep all his noxious and self-serving opinions to himself, if he would remain completely silent, she might actually enjoy simply being able to stare at him.

Crispin and Arthur arrived shortly after Torsten and Raina had seated themselves, the lads looking no more comfortable today than they had yesterday. Supper was laid before them, individual platters of the same fare presented to both ends of the table. Arthur removed the trays when they were done and Crispin remained a moment more, pouring wine from a pewter flagon into each of their goblets before he set the carafe in front of Torsten and took his leave.

"Why is the household staff made up entirely of lads?" Torsten asked when the door closed behind Crispin. "Why are there nae lasses? I've seen several in the village who could take on roles here inside the keep."

"I...I'm not sure," she said hesitantly, made nervous by the query. "It's been this way for years."

"Your father's edict?"

"I suppose so."

She did have an inkling, though, of what had prompted the removal of females from the keep. She remembered her father raging at her brother about his treatment of a young girl named Lori. There was another incident, shortly after her mother had passed, when a village lass, Barbara, had been brought into the hall, her face bruised, her lip bloody, and her father's hand heavy on her shoulder as he confronted Malcolm MacQueen. Barbara's father had accused Raina's brother, Donald, of assaulting his daughter and had demanded recompense that stormy night. Raina, barely more than a child herself, hadn't understood the true nature of the accusations. She had assumed it was a mere scuffle, a fight with fists provoked by either Donald's want to bully or Barbara's known barbed tongue, but not anything more sinister.

Within weeks of that incident, Barbara's father, Roland Pender, had left Lochlan Hall to join the MacQueen army. A few months later, the girl Clara, had gone missing.

Barbara had moved to Montrose, taking a position inside an inn.

Shortly after that, Donald had been sent away from Lochlan, accompanied by a dozen soldiers, part of the Hall's home guard. He'd been brought to his father's side, made to fight in the war against England.

Raina never allowed her thoughts on the matter to progress further than that, would not allow herself to put two and two together. Her brother, Donald, was not kind, not always pleasant, but he wasn't capable of pure evil. The idea that he could be responsible for such heinous acts was too abhorrent to entertain.

Whenever her mind began to wander down that dark path, she would immediately halt it, redirecting her focus to more palatable thoughts. It was easier to believe that the accusations were baseless, the result of misunderstandings or even malice. The villagers' gossip was just that—idle talk born of jealousy or spite. And the disappearance of Clara? Surely it had to be a coincidence, a tragic but unrelated event.

Raina had not seen Donald since he'd left to take part in the war many years ago. She'd been informed by her aunt that he was in residence at Lochlan almost two years ago, but Raina had not been permitted to return home to see him, and his stay had been brief, she'd learned.

"The lads need to be laboring in the fishery, learning that trade," Torsten said now, "and nae serving meals and scrubbing chamber pots. Some mayhap will be chosen to take up arms and will need to be trained in that regard." After another lengthy perusal in which she felt both undressed and lacking, he said, "I will leave it in your hands to correct this backward arrangement. Bring up lasses from the village to replace the lads. I'll allow a week for this to be implemented before the lads are removed from the keep."

Her reaction to this was, admittedly, conflicted.

She liked the idea of having, finally, something to do. But she disliked his authoritative manner, his want to disrupt the household and the methods that had been in place for years and seemed to work well.

"And get yourself a maid," Torsten said, spearing a hunk of venison with his eating knife. "Why have ye not?" He plopped the meat into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, awaiting her reply.

"I did not imagine any of the lads would have made a good candidate," she said. "And mayhap you've surmised already, but my father was—is," she corrected, since he lived yet, "frugal." An understatement, that, since Malcolm MacQueen was in fact miserly to a fault, and to the detriment of many.

Torsten scowled at this, his mien suggesting his disbelief. "Aside from the austerity of the great hall, the keep is well appointed." He waved his free hand around the little hall. "Plenty of coin spent here and in yer chamber. Yer léines were nae made locally, my guess, but are pricey imports." Tipping his knife to the flagon of wine. "Flemish? Or from Gascony?"

Though she bristled at his insinuation that she lied, she understood why the discrepancy may have advised him to believe as much. "Any precious and costly décor inside Lochlan are simply remnants from when my mother lived, and from a time when Lochlan Hall saw many important visitors. My léines—all of my wardrobe— were purchased, begrudgingly I'm sure, for my time in Glasgow."

"Ah, meant to snare a husband," he said. "And why do ye nae sup or use at all the great hall? Why does Lochlan nae open its doors to the peasants, at least to those in need?"

"That would be a costly endeavor, would require peat and kindling for the fires, someone to fetch it, would need a great many more servants, and more food and staples than my father would allow to be kept on hand. When my mother passed, many...gentler traditions passed with her."

"They labor for ye, those peasants, put coin in yer coffers to afford yer fine garb," he said. "Turn it around now. Bring in what ye need to host suppers for all. I've got an army of nearly four hundred, and they will need to be fed."

"I don't know—"

"Figure it out," he said coolly.

Raina glared at him. She'd wanted to convey to him several things. First, ?twas unlikely the peasants in the village would choose to willingly work inside the keep, certainly not under her direction. And next, she didn't believe for one second that they would choose to sup in the great hall.

"I will make that my life's mission," she said bitingly, spearing a morsel of beef onto her knife .

Torsten tilted his face at her from across the table, one brow raised presumably with some surprise at her tartness. A snort of a chuckle burst from him, the sound unpleasant. The smile that accompanied it, however, and though it was meanly given, was quite striking, making him appear more approachable, nearly human. But Raina didn't know if that were a good thing or not.