Chapter Seven

" L ochlan ain't right. Nae one thing ?tis as expected. Forget the auld man dying in the bed, with eyes that see and ken but with nae voice—ghost in the making is what he is."

That had been Gilles's impression more than an hour ago, ere Torsten had come to the bedchamber.

"Ye should ken," Gilles had continued, "they hate her. The fishermen, that is. I had to shut one up with my fist— Jesu , the way they glare at her, and the bile spewed from that one's mouth. She barely says two words, and what's she done to earn their enmity? Says they believe she personally kilt those men, the ones she was meant to marry." He snorted his disbelief. "Dinna let anything happen to ye—they'll have her tied to a stake and torches lit ere ye're cold and nae because they like ye ."

Just as Torsten had been wondering why Gilles thought he might care, his captain had begun to tick off on his fingers other things at Lochlan that disturbed him.

"The keep is a tomb," he'd said. "Those scrawny lads serving and scrubbing is nae right, nae natural. Kitchen's a mess—have ye seen it? Supplies are haphazardly stored, half of them going bad before they're used, is my understanding. Garden plot too small for so large a keep, and nae maintained properly. The stables are nae better, everything in disarray, horses gaunt, stalls unclean—I wouldna put my auld wife in one of them and ye ken she and I ne'er did see eye to eye." He tapped his thumb lastly. "And dinna get me started on how they treat her—and what do I ken? here but two days—but it inna right, I can assure ye that."

"As ye seem to be so concerned for her well-being and how she's received, I'll put ye in charge of her. If the peasants despise her as ye say, she'll need an escort as she attempts to staff the keep properly. Make sure—bluidy hell, dinna shake yer head. I've just given ye—"

"Ye want to make changes and aye, that's reasonable, but she'll need to do that herself. I'll set a pair of lads on her, aye, but they'll keep their distance. She needs to do this herself. Ye dinna want a wife who canna—"

"I dinna want a wife at all," Torsten had reminded him, maddened by Gilles's concern for Raina. "And I dinna care how she gets on or that her day might be comprised of petty squabbles."

" Jesu , ye're a cold-hearted bastard."

He'd have punished severely any other person who had dared to speak to him in that manner.

"And ye're getting soft in yer auld age," Torsten had returned. "This is nae home, nae where we're meant to be. I've a duty to the king, half of it accomplished already. As soon as I ken everything I need to about Lochlan, we'll be gone."

"And what? Ye're going to abandon her? Ride off to war, ne'er see her again?"

"What do I owe her?"

"Bluidy hell, lad, ye took vows with her."

"At the king's command!" Torsten had reminded him heatedly.

Gilles had stood down, his shoulders sinking a bit as his expression became one of gape-jawed, scornful wonder. "Ye canna be so dense, can ye? She's young, and just committed the rest of her life to ye—nae of her own will, either!—and ye want to abandon her, and what's she got all her life? Nae husband, nae bairns—‘cause I ken ye've nae bedded her; she's nae wearing a look of horror—nae anything but this wretched place and the scorn of many."

"God's bluid, but I'll nae be making bairns with the daughter of—"

"Christ Almighty, ye're..." he stopped, shaking his head. After exhaling a huge sigh, he waved his hand. "Mayhap it dinna matter. War'll kill ye soon enough—surprised it hasn't gotten ye yet. She'll be free, a widow then, mayhap allowed to make her own choices."

"Why the bluidy hell do ye care so much what becomes of her?"

"Because ye dinna!" Gilles had hissed. "Nae one does, by the looks of things. Talk to the fishermen, listen to their enmity. Speak with the herders and the folks in the village—Aonghas did. She is universally hated and ye're gonna tell me that's warranted? They call her a witch but dinna give a reason for it. Ye look at those calf eyes of hers, see how she startles at almost every noise, how bluidy meek she has made herself, her courage so swiftly wrecked in the face of fury, and ye ken the hatred is merited? I kent we protected the innocent, womenfolk and bairns."

" Jesu ," Torsten had seethed, "she's nae Deirdre."

"Ye leave my daughter out of this. It's got nae anything to do with her."

"Are ye sure?" Torsten had pressed, knowing full well that Gilles lived with it, mountains of guilt and remorse, for not having been there when Deirdre had been slain by the farrier's son after she'd rejected his suit.

Torsten sat now in the bedchamber he shared with Raina, settled in one of the overstuffed chairs near the hearth, where he'd built a small fire as there had been none—evidence of Malcolm MacQueen's lasting influence and obsessive frugality? His pulse still pounded with annoyance for his conversation with Gilles, and his captain's misplaced concern for Raina MacQueen.

Raina de Graham, he reminded himself.

Killer of Men .

Suspected witch as well, it seemed.

To be fair, he did agree with Gilles in one regard, that as his wife, she should be accorded respect, no matter what the peasants thought of her. He would keep an eye on that matter, be a little more attuned to the nuances of lady and peasants but didn't imagine he would do anything about it. He simply didn't care enough.

He didn't mind watching her from across the chamber now as she slept, but he wouldn't let himself care. Not for Malcolm MacQueen's daughter. She was a complication he hadn't wanted, a forced alliance he resented. Yet, as he continued to observe her, he couldn't deny a growing fascination, a reluctant interest stirred against his better judgment.

Her face, serene in slumber, was highlighted by the small but mean scar high on her cheekbone, the soft firelight casting subtle shadows that emphasized its jagged edges, making the mark all the more intriguing. He had a mild curiosity about its origin, a tale he hadn't yet uncovered.

Her delicate features contrasted sharply with the defiance he had witnessed in her eyes. Little of it had come to life, however. As Gilles had said, she put forth only brief instances, quickly frustrated, of courage. The fragility of her appearance was neither a scheme nor emphasized to evoke pity; she was simply weak. Frightened and cowed, every emotion visible on her frequently bloodless face, every ambition of defiance readily thwarted by his threats and her fear.

His jaw tight, he noted the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, her face devoid of any sorrow or fright, soft and unguarded in sleep.

He didn't want to be attracted to his wife but could not deny what was obvious: she was bonny.

She did not braid her hair as he was aware many women did overnight, did not employ any head covering to keep her locks free of tangles. ?Twas a glorious mane of hair, loose and unrestrained, spilling over the pillow, glinting with gold in the firelight.

Her lips garnered much of his attention, soft and slightly parted, hinting at the vulnerability she hadn't yet hid from him. Full and inviting, the shape delicate and perfectly curved, Torsten allowed himself to imagine they would be warm and supple to the touch, yielding under his kiss. There was an innocence there, an untouched quality that seemed at odds with a woman who in her waking hours was known as the Killer of Men .

Beguiled by her presently, and infuriated that he allowed himself to be so, he focused on her traits that he found unappealing. Though her physical appearance was undeniably tempting, he couldn't ignore her meek acceptance of her fate, which troubled him. Had he been given a choice, he'd have selected a wife who matched his courage, honor, and authority—a partner better suited to govern two houses alongside him .

He would do best to avoid her, steer clear of any temptation. Another week or so, he could abandon this chamber and claim his own. By rights, that should be the one in which her father lay dying. Despite what he portrayed and what many believed, he was not so heartless as to cast her father from either his bed or his chamber before he succumbed to whatever was killing him. However, Torsten understood another truth, that if Raina MacQueen were not in residence, he would not have hesitated to have Malcolm MacQueen removed from the keep.

Or hastened to his grave.

PEIGI MACGREGOR WAS a tall woman with a robust build refined by years of hard work. Born and raised in Lochlan's village, she was the daughter of a fisherman and a seamstress, having learned the trade of both parents from an early age. Her mother had died when she was young, leaving Peigi to help raise her three younger siblings, the youthful responsibility—Raina's mother had long ago said—having been the foundation for Peigi's resiliency and fierce independence.

With hair the color of golden straw that was ever tied back with a leather thong and eyes that didn't know if they wanted to be blue or green but were always sharp, her face was strong and weathered by the sea and sun. Raina guessed her to be of an age with her mother, though the freckles across her nose and cheeks sometimes made her appear younger. A few small scars dotted and carved her complexion, remnants of various mishaps over the years. Despite what was a rugged appearance, there was a certain warmth to Peigi MacGregor, frequent hints of softness in her broad, gap-toothed smile. She'd married young, to Hamish MacGregor and gave him three sons, the oldest nearly two decades ago, all of which labored in Lochlan's livestock farming and tannery operations. A daughter, born years ago, had succumbed to childbed fever; Raina's mother had said she'd buried her daughter in the morning and had carried on that day with all her chores, burying her grief in her labors.

Known for her blunt honesty and practical outlook on life, Peigi didn't mince words and had little patience for deceit or pretense. Certainly her straightforwardness often came across as brutal—Raina herself had winced a time or two in Peigi's company for her sometimes pitiless clarity—but those who knew her understood that she meant well and that her honesty came from a place of care and concern, and to a lesser degree, from her conviction that she knew better than most.

She was, in many regards, Raina's ideal, what she often imagined she might have been if she'd not been born the daughter of Malcolm MacQueen, and what she sometimes imagined there was still time to be—fierce and unrepentant.

She valued Peigi as a person not only for her pragmatic mindset and for how deeply she cared for her family, but also because despite the general disdain for Raina in the village, Peigi accepted her without judgment. She was one of the few who did so, having little tolerance, she'd said, for superstitious rubbish. Instead, she had always treated Raina with a level of respect and kindness that was otherwise unknown to Lochlan.

"I choose to form my opinions based on fact and by what I see for myself," Peigi had said to Raina several months ago, "and nae any wild imaginings."

Replaying in her head the words she'd imagined were needed to request Peigi's help, Raina hesitated as she approached Peigi at the narrow stretch of river where the waters flowed towards the sea, where the woman was busy laundering her family's clothes.

A dozen articles of clothing were draped over thistle and rock along the riverbank, and a large unwashed pile remained next to Peigi, where she sat on her knees, scrubbing what appeared to be one of her own kirtles with practiced efficiency. The river's clear waters swirled around smooth stones, its surface shimmering with hints of silver as they reflected the sunlight filtering through the sparse clouds.

The silhouette of the keep was behind Raina, and to her left, beyond the estuary of brackish water, where the freshwater met the saltwater, the vast expanse of the North Sea stretched to the horizon, its waves rolling in with a steady rhythm that was only slightly muted at this distance.

Peigi glanced up as Raina approached, her expression not so much softening as fixing on Raina with an acute curiosity. Her face scrunched up, which effectively bared her teeth. Hands roughened by decades of hard work, she continued scrubbing as she greeted Raina.

"Och, the new bride," she said, her voice slightly raspy—from years of sea air and stern words, Raina had always imagined. "Ye dinna look nae worse for wear."

Raina couldn't help the small wince that came, reminded of the greatest turmoil in her life presently.

"Might I trouble you for a moment of your time?" Raina asked.

Peigi paused in her scrubbing, sighing, possibly with some irritation at being interrupted. Leaving the kirtle to sit among the rocks in the shallows, Peigi sat back on her heels and wiped her hands in the lap of her apron .

"Aye, and what brings ye out today?"

"I need your guidance," she began, choosing her words carefully. "Torsten has asked—my husband, that is... has made it clear that the lads working inside the keep are not being employed to the best of their ability. He requests not only that they be replaced—they will fill other roles, he assures me—but that Lochlan Hall be properly staffed." Expecting Peigi to be as befuddled as she was, Raina added with no small amount of incredulity, "He wants the hall open each evening, so that all of Lochlan might sup together, any who would desire to, or need to."

Peigi's brow furrowed slightly, but she showed no other reaction. "Aye, and that's a long time coming, eh, lass? "?Boot time ye took yer place as mistress of Lochlan." She snorted a small laugh. "Mayhap marriage agrees with ye, even if the dragon does nae." She laughed at her own words, slapping her thigh once.

The dragon, Raina assumed, was Torsten de Graham, whose banners and crest were emblazoned with several depictions of the dreaded beast.

Peigi climbed to her feet and brushed off her skirts a bit. "And what guidance do ye need?" She shrugged. "Plenty of lasses with ample idle time but nae occupation."

"Yes, I imagine there are," Raina acknowledged. "However I would expect a cool reception, if any door were not slammed outright in my face if I merely went round seeking a substantial workforce for inside the keep."

Peigi nodded. "I imagine the same. And if ye're asking me to do yer bidding, take time away from my own work to make sure yers is suitably—"

"No, no, not that," Raina protested, shaking her head. "I only ask if you can imagine a better way to go about it. I thought to post something, listing the positions that would need filling—which would be, as you must imagine, everything from the housekeeper, a lady's maid, right down to scullery and bedchamber maids. But then I...I'm not sure anyone outside the keep can read."

"Nae, I'm sure they canna. But housekeeper, ye say?"

Raina nodded. There was none, hadn't been one since Margaret Thwally had departed shortly after Raina's mother had died, refusing to work in Malcolm Macqueen's household, with his new austerity rules, and no Lisbeth MacQueen to serve as buffer as she had for years.

Raina was reminded that everything had changed, everything had fallen apart after her mother had died.

"Making all the rules? All the decisions?" Peigi questioned further. "The housekeeper?"

"Within reason, yes," Raina supposed. "I expect that...my husband will want that I take on a leadership role."

"Fine, and I'll do it," Peigi announced, swinging her gaze around to her laundry, items cleaned, those still drying, and all that had yet to be washed.

"You'll do...what?" Raina wondered, hoping she meant to assist in finding candidates to fill the roles but curious as to how she might go about it. Strongarm them, was Raina's guess.

"Take the job," Peigi said, frowning at Raina as if she'd been perfectly clear.

"Take the job? Which job?"

"Housekeeper," Peigi said tartly, her gaze extending beyond Raina, scanning the trees that flanked the river .

Raina's eyes widened. Never had she imagined, not for one second had such a fantastic idea entered her mind, that Peigi herself might assume a role.

"You want to be Lochlan's housekeeper?"

"Lass, are we nae having the same conversation? Ye come asking for help and I'm saying I'm agreeable—"

"Peigi, I'm thrilled," Raina cut in before the woman's dander got up. "I just never imagined that you would be interested. I've never seen you but when you're working, always about some chore taking care of your house and your sons—"

"Aye, and make nae mistake, I'll be taking advantage of it," Peigi freely admitted. "Sure and the work'll get done, but I'll be adding my house's laundry to the keep's weekly washing, and I'll be bringing my hungry lads round each night to sup in the hall. And dinna ken I'll allow ye to sit back and only watch. Past time, I'm sure, ye learned how to maintain the keep."

Smiling, her shock and gladness huge, Raina lifted her hands and clapped them together. "I cannot believe this. This is perfect. They'll come work for you—they'll come by the—"

"Nae," Peigi cut in, pointing her finger at Raina. "They'll work for ye, and be paid by ye, by Lochlan. Ye'll be the queen and I yer general," She smiled large, revealing once more the vast gap between her two front teeth.

"I cannot thank you enough, Peigi. This is...this is everything. So generous of you."

"?Tis nae strictly for ye, lass, though I ken ye canna do it without me. My bones are creakin', my lads nae help to their auld mam. I'm looking to make my life kinder. Ye ken I'm a hard worker but I'll nae mind having a few hours each week meeting with the lady of the keep," she said, winking boldly at Raina, "discussing menus or some such things, mayhap with our feet up."

Raina laughed outright at Peigi's boldness, and covered her mouth with her hands, so tickled with her sudden good fortune. Oh, what she could learn from her! And to have a friend, such as she was, inside the walls of Lochlan!

"Christ, and a lady's maid for ye—that'll be Helen," Peigi said next, already considering others who might join them. "She's too young, of course, but biddable yet, trainable even, and her mam dinna put much stock into the rumors of yer witchcraft so she'll allow it. We'll get her out from under her da's heavy hand. Paying guid wages? Dinna tell me ye're offering naught but room and a day's meal; we've got that already."

"I'm not sure, actually. Torsten only said to hire servants. I might suppose hire means paid." She shrugged. "And why should they not be? If the fisherfolk and those involved in the beef production and the leather trade are compensated, why should the household servants not be?"

"That's right, and ye tell him that when he balks about it," Peigi agreed. She squinted against the sun, one eye nearly closed, and considered Raina. "What's he like? Ye're nae dead, nae bruised, nae running and crying. Decent sort, is he?"

Her unexpected query gave Raina pause. She'd learned one steadfast lesson from her mother, a principle she often pondered, wondering how her mother had pulled it off: Lisbeth MacQueen never uttered a disparaging word about her husband, not to anyone, not ever. Despite Raina's certainty that her mother harbored disdain for Malcolm MacQueen, demonstrated by countless heated arguments within the keep, her mother remained steadfastly silent on the matter of her husband .

"My frame of reference is shallow and narrow, Peigi," she said after a moment. "I will let you form your own opinion."

"Hmm," Peigi murmured, narrowing her eyes a bit. "Aye, for the best. Ye're too sheltered to ken a true dragon from a pretender." She glanced around again, squinting once more into the trees beyond Raina. "Ye ken ye're being followed—dinna turn around, ye daft girl," she chastised sharply when Raina nearly did just that. "Aye, at least two, mayhap more. Dragon's minions, my guess. I hear he's got plenty to spare. But now I wonder, does he distrust ye or does he protect ye?"

It was Raina's turn to snort. "Your guess, Peigi, is likely more astute than mine."

"Aye, and we'll find out. C'mon, then," she said, beckoning Raina forward. "Help me get these back to the house and we'll make the rounds, collecting lasses as we go."

Unable to recall the last time she'd been imbued with so much hope and what seemed like actual good fortune, Raina happily began folding and stacking all the MacGregor garments left out to dry while Peigi wrung out the water from the kirtle and picked up the unwashed pile of clothes.

They spent the next hour going from cottage to cottage, Peigi knowing the names of every person in the village, and how many able and age-appropriate daughters they had.

If they resisted, Peigi would either nudge them gently or outright shame them.

"Ye want yer lass to learn to provide for herself, do you nae?" She said to one anxious mother.

"Lady Raina insists that we give instruction weekly," she invented for the benefit of another. "All these girls will learn the seamstress trade, and ye ken there's nae better than me to teach them."

"What?" She'd frowned brutally at another parent, who was busy eyeing Raina nervously. "Ye want yer daughter to continue with her slovenly ways, nae help to ye—aye, I've seen her, watching ye work dawn till dusk, and she nae lifting a finger. If she were mine, I've have tanned her hide long ago, but this'll do just as well, a little humility forced down her throat, answering to me now and ye ken I'll get the work out of her."

In fairly short order, they'd culled seven young women from the village to begin working at the keep. As they moved on to another cottage, Raina marveled to Peigi, "I can't believe they are all so agreeable. Or rather, how adept you are at refuting their reservations."

"Forthright is what it needs," Peigi said blithely, seemingly to enjoy herself. "Ye canna dance around unpleasant truths."

"I am not...I am not strong, not like that." She was pretty sure strong was the word she wanted. Forceful would have been too harsh.

"Ye are nae," Peigi agreed swiftly enough to cause offense. "Or rather ye might be, if ye're yer mother's daughter, but aye, I guess he beat it outta ye, dinna he?"

He , Raina imagined, was her father. And yes, it had proven difficult, nearly impossible at times to challenge her father's authority and edicts. Absently, she touched the thumb size scar on her cheek, which she'd worn for almost ten years now, one of several reminders of a time she'd done just that, tried to stand up to her father.

As they exited the small and tidy home of Johann, who had just committed her daughter, Lorna, to a position inside the keep, they were advised of riders coming, the clomp of shod hooves sounding down the lane.

Raina's heart skipped a beat as she saw Torsten de Graham leading a small group of soldiers through the village. She couldn't deny how magnificent he looked atop his large destrier. His powerful frame sat with effortless command, his broad shoulders and straight posture remarkable, while his chiseled features were set grimly. The sun glinted off the gray hair of his bare head, and his cloak billowed behind him, adding to the striking image.

Raina's breath caught when his piercing blue gaze found her, immobilizing her with the intensity of his stare.

"The dragon comes," Peigi murmured softly as she and Raina stopped.

Reining in upon the lane, a dozen feet between them, Torsten inclined his head at Raina.

"Good day, sir," she said. "This is Peigi MacGregor," she introduced. "She has agreed to assume the role of housekeeper inside the keep."

Torsten pulled his gaze from Raina and turned it upon Peigi. Recalling how she'd withered under the fierce scrutiny of that blue-eyed gaze at their first meeting, Raina turned to see how Peigi fared.

No withering here; Peigi was a fine match to Torsten, fearlessly subjecting him to the same thorough examination as he did her.

"The new laird," Peigi mused. "Here's hoping ye're some improvement over the auld one."

Torsten's rigid expression did not lessen, though he did purse his lips a bit while he continued to measure her. "And we'll hope as well that ye ken what yer about, managing a keep the size of Lochlan."

"Can only be an improvement," Peigi shrugged indifferently, "since the position's been vacant for nigh on a decade."

"Hm," was Torsten's response, his eyes narrowing a bit before he nodded at the pair and said, "I'll leave ye to it."

"Nae one for small talk, is he?" Peigi said to Raina when Torsten and his retinue had moved on. "At least he's easy on the eyes." She turned to Raina, elbowing her lightly and grinning. "I wager that made the bedding a bit more palatable."

Raina averted her eyes while her cheeks pinkened.

" Jesu , he's nae bedded ye?" Peigi guessed.

"No," Raina reluctantly admitted, her voice steady. "He said he wasn't interested."

Fisting her hands on her hips, Peigi looked Raina up and down. "Aye, that dinna surprise me after all. Bonny ye are, lass, but all that simpering and downcast gazing willna win his interest. And it does remain, wife or nae, ye are the enemy."

Raina's eyes widened. "I don't want his interest," she blurted, nearly aghast, before she thought better of it.

Peigi dropped her hands and took a step closer to Raina. "Aye, ye do, lass," she assured Raina gravely. "Ye need it. He'll nae be here long—the stench of war is all around him. He revels in it, loves it, will seek it out. And if ye dinna give him a bairn, he'll nae ever have cause to return. If ye dinna have a bairn," she repeated, pointing a finger to highlight her speech, "before the war makes him dead—and it will; it takes everyone—ye'll be cast out by whomever Robert Bruce next sends to Lochlan. Secure yer place by giving him a son, who'll one day be laird of Lochlan."

"I don't think I can—"

"Ye can and ye must. Bringing him round will be the easy part," she said and then turned, directing her gaze to the group of riders moving away. "Nae, mayhap the easy part will be making the bairns. He's got the look about him, one who kens his way around a woman's body. Ten marks—which ye ken I've no business wagering—says he'll make ye very happy in the bedchamber."

Raina's eyes somehow widened more, both dismayed and rapt with curiosity by the very idea.

"Bring him around? How? He can scarcely stand to look at me."

"Possibly, but that's got nothing to do with ye. Mayhap he's peeved about the edict from the king that forced him to wed ye, mayhap for whose daughter ye are, but I guarantee ye, lass, he'll change his tune if ye change yers. He'll nae find a bonnier lass within a score of miles of Lochlan, that much I ken. We'll get yer hands dirty," she said with a laugh, "taking care of that big house, and we'll get yer mind dirty as well, taking care of that big man."