Chapter Nine

" I t wasna fully awful," Peigi said.

Raina sent her an incredulous look. "Wasn't it?"

They sat at the high table with one empty chair between them. While Raina had her elbows on the table and her chin in her hand, Peigi was draped wearily in her chair, bleary-eyed and limp.

It was late in the evening, the hall vacant and dimly lit. Less than half of the candles in the overhead chandeliers still burned, the others having been reduced to dark stubs, some having gone out hours ago. Trestle tables sat in disarray, benches were scattered, one turned on its side. The floor was an unholy mess, littered with dropped food and spilled ale. Even hours later, the chamber smelled atrocious, of grease and smoke and the stench of too many bodies crammed into the large space.

In Raina's mind, the first night of supper inside the great hall had been an unmitigated disaster. Despite their best efforts and staggering the de Graham army's arrival, the hall simply wasn't fully prepared to host so large a number of people. The overcrowding and lack of plentiful benches made it difficult for all to find a seat, which had led to confusion and frustration. In spite of what seemed thorough planning with Cook's assistance, the amount of food prepared had been insufficient and those assigned to the second hour had received significantly less, prompting a bit of justified grumbling. The kitchen staff had been overwhelmed by the sheer volume of food to prepare, causing delays, sending out several dishes either burnt or cold. Though the lads previously employed by Lochlan were still in service for another few days, many of the new servers, the lasses from the village, were terribly inexperienced, spilling food and ale and contributing to the disarray. One of the lasses, while pouring ale from a pitcher, had knocked over a tabletop candle, which had met with grease on the table, causing a small and brief fire in the center of the hall, which had only added to the chaos.

Raina sighed now, overwhelmed by the scale of the event and all the issues that had risen.

Peigi chuckled lazily. "Guid news though, lass. It can only get better."

Lochlan's new housekeeper was far less troubled than Raina for how inept had been their first endeavor.

"God willing," Raina said. After a sigh, she imagined, "I suppose just as we sat and hammered out all these details, we only need to do so again, now better prepared, having an understanding about what to expect and what is required to serve so many."

Peigi nodded. "Saint's be weeping, lass, but that was a lot of food."

"But not enough."

"Aye, we'll make a list, what more we need," Peigi said.

"We need more of everything," Raina presumed. "Servers, kitchen staff, supplies—we need more kettles and cauldrons, and almost every other kitchen utensil." She grimaced and turned her face toward Peigi again. "Are you already regretting taking on the role? "

"Nae one bit," Peigi said without hesitation. "I love a guid challenge."

Smiling wearily, Raina realized she did, too. There was plenty of room for improvement, a better way to do it, she knew. Change would not come overnight, she understood, but she looked forward to proving to herself that she was capable. Scarcely had she been given any role or task, and she was determined not to fail at this one. If she intended to break free from the meaningless life she lived and pursue something better, she knew she had to give it her all.

A moment later, the door to the hall opened and half a dozen men stepped inside. Raina's gaze fixed on Torsten straight away as he stepped into the hall with Gilles, Aonghas, and a few others.

Torsten, normally so immaculate in appearance was unaccountably...unkempt. His breacan was nowhere to be seen; he wore only a tunic and breeches, the shirt billowing and full around him, not confined by either his plaid or his belt, the latter which he held in his hand, the scabbard and sword gleaming a bit in the soft light. His boots were caked in mud, the dirt crusted well above his ankles.

It was the first time she had ever seen him so ragged and untidy.

The men with him, which included two MacQueen men, Colin and Dugald, were just as disheveled. Gilles looked as if he'd swum in mud, his breeches and tunic stained quite liberally. Only their hands were clean, leaving Raina to assume they'd washed at the well in the bailey.

He and the others paused just inside the door, taking in the cluttered but vacant hall .

Raina's annoyance flared as they crossed the hall. All evening she'd watched the door for Torsten's expected arrival. She'd given him notice that supper would be served tonight. She'd fully expected that as laird, he should have bothered to come.

"Och and we missed it," Gilles said. "But mayhap the mistress is benevolent, and the kitchens might still offer some scraps."

Peigi snorted. "Mistress is benevolent, aye," she said, "but she's nae sorceress, canna snap her fingers and make a feast rise from the crumbs that remain, canna raise even a paltry dry trencher at this hour."

Several brows lifted at this pronouncement, that there was no food.

Understanding they would find no sustenance here at this hour, Colin and Dugald turned and took their leave.

Torsten and his men continued forward.

"It would have been nice if you'd been here," Raina announced to Torsten.

Torsten paused in front of the table where Peigi and Raina sat so wearily. His brows slanted downward. "One of the rivers was blocked, the storm three days past having downed several trees. There was nae water getting to the pasture—"

"And that will still be there tomorrow," she interrupted. "You should have been here tonight. These are your people now. They needed to see you, to hear from you."

His jaw tightened, and he met her gaze with a steely one of his own. "What would ye have me do, Raina? Stand here and give a speech while the cattle thirst?"

"Bah," she scoffed. "Hardly would they have perished overnight, I suspect. That issue could have waited. These people have been through enough upheaval. They need reassurance, a sense of stability. You should have stood before them and spoken of your new rule and the future of Lochlan, to put their minds at ease."

His eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer to her, his voice low and commanding. "I am the laird, and I will lead as I see fit. The livestock are part of Lochlan's livelihood, and without them, there is nae future for anyone here."

She met his intensity with her own, refusing to back down. "You are their laird, yes. But leadership is sometimes about delegating, is it not? Others could have been addressing the trouble at the river while you showed your people that you care, that you are here for them in times of peace as well as crisis. Tonight was about unity, about forging a bond between the MacQueens and the de Grahams."

Torsten's expression remained hard. "I will nae be lectured on leadership, especially nae by ye."

Though she was pleased to have spoken her peace, she sighed with resignation. "I didn't imagine you would be." She rose from the table and exited the hall, going to the kitchens, where no doubt there remained plenty of work to do.

The last face she saw belonged to Gilles. He winked boldly at her, she imagined with some pride for how she'd called out Torsten for what she perceived as his wrongdoing.

RAINA USED TO VISIT the weekly market in Montrose with her mother, a practice she enjoyed then and recalled with fondness now. After her mother was gone and before being sent to live with her aunt, she occasionally ventured there alone. Those solitary trips lacked the joy of wandering High Street with a companion, but they were still a welcome escape. Upon returning from her aunt's house, she resumed her visits almost every week, relishing the opportunity to leave Lochlan behind for a while—not so much the house itself, but the people in and around it.

Having driven Lochlan Hall's wagon many times, Raina asked the stablemaster to hitch up a team. Today, she was looking forward to the market with company once again, as Peigi, her new maid Helen, and Anne, who now worked in the kitchen as well, all intended to accompany her.

Josias, the stablemaster, shook his head at her request, and frankly, looked quite pleased to thwart her plans.

"Nae, milady," he said, his wild hair and perpetual scowl giving him an air of disgruntlement, which he was often pleased to visit upon Raina. "I dinna ken the laird would allow it."

Instantly bristling with annoyance—Josias regularly spouted some reason or another, almost weekly, as excuses why he wasn't sure he would or could ready the wagon for her—Raina managed to bite back the response that screamed in her head. She believed the surly stablemaster was either consumed with loathing for her or possessed an extreme inclination towards laziness. More than likely, both were the cause of his frequent opposition. Raina was regularly compelled to assert her dominance over the man.

"Josias, I will let you know when what you think eclipses what I know," she said, employing a firm tone. "Recall your station, sir," she reminded him tartly .

As was most often the case, he first subjected her to a lengthy and ugly perusal before shrugging, as if it meant no difference to him after all, before he ambled off deeper in the stables.

Rolling her eyes at the man, Raina exited the stables, finding Aonghas propped up against the rail overlooking the first stall and Torsten de Graham's large destrier.

"Fine man, that one," Aonghas quipped.

"Isn't he, though?" Raina returned, still annoyed.

"Where ye off to, Lady Raina?" He asked.

Raina was given pause, having some idea that he only pretended a particular nonchalance, but that he was actually, though mayhap not directed to, spying on her for his laird.

Drawing in a breath of fortitude, she told him, "Headed to the market in Montrose, sir, as I do regularly." She didn't tell him—didn't think he needed to know—that on this day, she had an actual purpose. Whereas her previous trips to Montrose were mostly made to escape Lochlan, she and Peigi had discussed purchasing more kitchen supplies, cauldrons and kettles, and baskets and porcelain ware, things that were not made by anyone within Lochlan.

"But ye canna go alone," Aonghas said, a bit of a question in his voice.

"I am not. Three will accompany me." She wasn't sure why Aonghas should concern himself with who she traveled with, or even if she made the short journey alone.

When he nodded, seeming satisfied with this, Raina nodded as well and returned to the keep to collect her cloak and her coin purse, and Peigi and the lasses from where they were bustling in the kitchen, trying to finish a certain amount of work ere they departed .

It was another thirty minutes before she and the others were ready, but thankfully they found the wagon and a pair of docile palfreys waiting them in front of the stables. The courtyard was otherwise empty, neither Josias nor Aonghas having hung around.

Peigi sat beside Raina on the wagon seat, her robust frame taking up a little more than half the smooth wooden board. Helen and the lass, Anne, sat in the bed of the wagon. As one was more timid and quiet than the other, Raina didn't suppose she'd struggle too much to hear anything that might be said by either of them, expecting they wouldn't say too much to begin with. Peigi, no doubt, would direct and compose most of their conversation, as she normally did.

However, Helen did ask what the market was like, confessing she'd never been to Montrose.

"Used to be," Peigi said as they set off from Lochlan Hall, directing her conversation sideways so the lasses could hear her response, "the market was kent as spirited theatre. ?Twas occasionally a wild place to be. Vendors shouting their wares from every corner, street performers hollering out scenes, and och, the birds! Come from all around, screeching overhead, diving to steal scraps. ?Tis verra noisy. I expect we'll see everything from fresh produce to livestock, fabrics, and trinkets. Though it's nae only the goods that make it memorable. The people, aye, are oft a sight to behold. Farmers, merchants, travelers, plenty of monied folks in their finest garb—all gathered in one noisy, overcrowded, smelly spot."

Intrigued by Peigi's description, Anne and Helen came closer in the bed of the wagon, kneeling behind the bench seat, their hands on the wooden slats .

"It can get rowdy, though, and ye two stay close, eh?" Peigi continued, always and easily encouraged by an eager audience. "Fights are nae uncommon, and over the smallest of things—a slighted bargain, a stolen glance, the jostling. I've seen more than one man leave the market with a bloodied nose or a blackened eye. Sure and the constables're kept busy. But it's nae only the menfolk; I remember a time when two clacking hens nearly tore each other's hair out over a bolt of cloth. The market has a way of bringing out the best and worst in folks."

Raina, too, was familiar with how entertaining the market could be. She assured Helen and Anne, "There's still a great charm to it, a pulse of life that you won't see at Lochlan, that you can feel in your bones."

Anne grinned, her excitement palpable, not diminished by Peigi's cautionary speech. "?Tis said the pastries at the market are unlike any others. Is it true?"

Raina smiled. "Aye, they are. We'll make sure to get some."

Peigi chuckled. "Tell milady how fair and bonny she looks today and mayhap she'd put out the coin for ye."

Raina laughed at this along with the girls.

They drove along a fairly well-traveled road, the fields and woods flanking the familiar path, alive now with summer's bounty, green and vibrant.

It wasn't long before their journey was abruptly interrupted. The sound of hooves thundering up behind them made Raina turn. Torsten and several of his men were approaching at a gallop, their expressions grim.

Torsten pulled his horse up alongside the wagon. The lines around his mouth and the furrow of his brow made his displeasure unmistakable .

"What in God's name do ye think ye're doing, Raina?" he demanded gruffly.

Raina's heart sank. "We're... going to the market in Montrose." Was it only two nights ago that his gaze had sat softly upon her during and after the incident with the bat in their chamber? A fleeting moment, aye, but she could have sworn she'd glimpsed something other than this anger and distance in his blue eyes.

"With nae outriders?" He snapped. "With nae notice to anyone? There's a war on, woman. The roads are dangerous. Ye cannae just take off like this."

She straightened her back, meeting his glare with a steady gaze. "I've driven this wagon on this route many times before." She glared at Aonghas, next to Torsten. "And I did mention where I was going."

"Ye said ye had a guard, lass," Aonghas stated.

Raina gasped. "I said three others were going with me," she reminded him. It wasn't her fault he'd misunderstood her. "And here they are."

Torsten's eyes flashed with anger. "Turn the wagon around, now."

Raina bit her lip, frustration and defiance warring within her. "We're almost halfway there," she protested.

"Halfway to danger," Torsten retorted. "Turn around."

Unwilling to give in—an improved supper depended on it—she challenged further, "I'm not...anyone of import. Why would I be in danger?"

"Ye are someone," Torsten said furiously. "Ye are my wife! Jesu , never mind that ye're four bluidy females traipsing around the coast with nae one to protect ye, but my wife does nae take out the wayn, driving it herself for Chrissakes and blithely tramping across the moor."

"But I regularly go to market—"

"Nae more. Nae without an escort. Do ye understand me, wife?"

She conceded internally that Torsten possibly had a point, but the way he was speaking to her made her bristle. "I do not understand, husband. You're overreacting. And you're being boorish."

Impossibly, Torsten's face darkened even further, his fury no longer boiling only just beneath the surface. His anger was so fierce it seemed to ripple off him, charging the air around them with furious heat.

"Boorish?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, foreboding tone. "Ye think this is me being boorish?" His anger was so intense it was almost tangible as a mist, the quietness of his tone somehow more terrifying than if he had shouted. "Nae, wife," he continued. "Ye have yet to see me boorish. Turn the wagon around, now, or I will do it myself."

While he boiled and seethed, possibly trying to prevent himself from erupting further, and though she was taken aback by the intensity of his reaction, Raina dared to point out, "You're here now, and with a retinue. Mayhap you should accompany us to the market."

Appearing somewhat incredulous that she dared to defy him still, he ground out, "We dinna have time to—"

"And we won't have the kitchen in order nor be able to feed your army," Raina pressed on through clenched teeth, "unless we purchase more equipment and contract extra servants. And right now, you are wasting our time, of which we haven't much to spare."

Torsten's jaw worked as he glared at her, and Raina suspected his pride warred with the practical sense of her argument. The muscle in his cheek twitched as he struggled to keep his temper in check.

For a moment, it seemed he might again order her to turn back. But then, with a sharp intake of breath, he gave a curt nod. "Fine," he conceded through gritted teeth, his tone laced with barely contained frustration. "We'll accompany ye. But we've one hour to give and nae more."

Raina nodded, a large dose of relief mixed with a small sense of triumph. Torsten's eyes still flashed with anger, but she considered his concession, though begrudging, a small victory of sorts.

"Thank you, husband," she said softly, not daring to push her luck further. Certainly, she didn't advise him that the drive to Montrose, what remained in this direction and what would be needed to return home, would likely consume an hour all by itself.

TORSTEN RODE GRIMLY at the head of the small party, his blood still boiling from how he'd been manipulated by his wife. The audacity of her defiance, the way she'd stood up to him without lowering her gaze once, played over in his mind. Raina was recently fiery when she believed herself in the right, and though it infuriated him, it also intrigued him. He felt a reluctant respect for her boldness.

The trip to Montrose was tense, but possibly only for Torsten. While he and his men maintained a vigilance as they journeyed, Raina, Peigi, and two very young lasses in the back of the wagon, kept up a steady stream of conversation. The young girls, who Raina at one point addressed as Helen and Anne, talked about everything from the market itself, their necessary purchases, with Peigi announcing she had a firm mental list, and even the clear sky and mild air.

When they arrived at Montrose, the main road bustled with activity, the morning hours at a weekly market always busier than the afternoon, by Torsten's understanding, no matter where the venue. Stalls lined the High Street, vendors calling out their wares, and the air was filled with the scents of fresh bread, roasted meats, and the briny tang of the nearby sea. High Street was a crush of people, nearly every color of the rainbow represented in their garb. The vibrant atmosphere differed sharply with the grim mood that had followed Torsten from Lochlan Hall since Aonghas had approached him, asking Torsten whom he'd tasked to escort Raina to Montrose.

Raina, on the other hand, seemed to come alive inside the bustling market, as if she fed off the energy and cheer. Outside the walls of Lochlan Hall, where no one knew her and didn't harbor any ill will towards her, she was much less guarded. She and Peigi and the young lasses laughed often as they moved from stall to stall. Raina pointed out scenes and stalls and items that she didn't want either Helen or Anne to miss.

Torsten watched her, almost constantly, his anger over such an inexplicable indulgence slowly giving way to grudging admiration—and admittedly, a fascination with so many smiles, so freely come to life.

Walking along High Street with his men in tow, several paces behind Raina and her party, he watched as his wife alerted a woman, a stranger, to something attached to and following the woman's every move—a long strip of soiled fabric dragging under the hem of the woman's léine, likely torn from a stall or picked up in the street and attached to her shoe. Raina's gentle laugh and the woman's surprised reaction, slapping a hand to her cheek as a blush surfaced, roused a greater curiosity in him. There wasn't any need for Raina to have pointed out the fouled piece of fabric that trailed behind the woman.

The woman, who appeared to be a fishmonger's wife, looked initially perplexed and then embarrassed, possibly wondering how long she'd dragged that piece around. Quickly enough, she expressed her gratefulness to Raina, who helped her detach the fabric. It was an unexpected and unnecessary kindness, one that took him by surprise. The warmth of Raina's interaction, the genuine care she showed to a stranger, was something he hadn't expected to see from someone so bitterly rebuffed at Lochlan.

Against his will, seemingly unable to resist, he continued to watch Raina as she moved through the market with a grace and confidence he hadn't seen before. She interacted with her companions, the vendors, and other market-goers easily, her smile genuine and seen frequently. It was a noticeable departure from the wary, guarded woman who lived within the walls of Lochlan Hall. Undeniably, Torsten's frustration for having been coerced to accompany her to Montrose ebbed slightly as he observed her. He still didn't fully trust her, and his anger was far from gone, but he realized now that his wife was more complex than he'd given her credit for, a complexity that he found fascinating.

As they continued through the market, Torsten expected that his men remained watchful, their eyes scanning the crowd for any potential threats, since he, again and again, found his gaze drifting back to Raina, intrigued by this lively woman with the easy smile.

ANY FOOL COULD SEE that the dragon from Lochlan Hall was enchanted by his wife.

Several people, including more than one fool, were indeed watching. One of them was a figure obscured by shadows, keeping beneath the overhang of a market stall's thatched canopy. The hood of his cloak covered his head, concealing watchful brown eyes.

Eyes narrowed with growing derision, Donald MacQueen had been shocked to discover his own sister among the crowd at Montrose's market. More astonishing still, to realize that she was accompanied by Torsten de Graham himself.

Her husband, Donald had learned in the last few days.

News flowed like ale at a tavern inside a market town, he'd learned long ago. Merchants and travelers, drawn to Montrose by its commerce and strategic location, brought tidings from distant lands and neighboring villages. Facts and rumors swirled through the air, whispered in hushed tones over barrels of salted fish or proclaimed with authority over bolts of wool.

But Donald hadn't learned anything here in Montrose that he hadn't discovered for himself in the last few days, since he'd returned home, or rather had attempted and expected to return home.

Having been unsure of what he might find at Lochlan after so long an absence, he'd been compelled to send ahead a few scouts when he'd reached Saunt Ceerus. They'd been gone for an infuriating number of hours, and Donald's impatience had quickly evolved to boiling rage when he'd been told that only two days prior, Torsten de Graham and his massive army had taken Lochlan Hall—quite effortlessly, not one life lost.

And worse, while his father lay dying in the same house, his sister had been compelled to wed Torsten de Graham.

Refusing to blame himself for the seizure of Lochlan or his sister, Donald did not dwell too long on the truth, that he might have found his way home sooner, months ago in fact, plenty of time to have prevented the capture of Lochlan. Ah, but that the young lasses in and around Newmiln, where he'd spent some time recovering from wounds at Methven, had proven far and above his ability to resist.

Och, but that had been the other surprise, delivered by the scouts who'd happened upon a pair of cowherds chasing down an errant bull outside one of the MacQueen pastures: Donald MacQueen was presumed dead, lost at the battle of Methven. He didn't wonder how that might have happened. He had lay dying after the devastation of Methven and only his men, returned and searching for MacQueen bodies to bury, had saved him.

His army, or the bulk of it, had been assumed under Acheson's banner, as commanded by Edward I. Donald had only recently regained them, or what had remained of them. He'd been well aware that neither Longshanks nor his commanders had much use for Donald MacQueen, save that they were pleased to add several hundred hungry fighters to their rosters. But now, with the death of Longshanks, Donald had begun to ingratiate himself to his son, supporting the young Edward's outrageous reliance upon Piers Gaveston, even going so far as to suggest to the new king that he make Gaveston an earl. While Gaveston was a monstrous bone of contention between Edward II and England's nobles and subjects, Edward had desperately seized upon Donald's support as if it mattered what a Scottish landholder might think.

And it had been enough to return the MacQueen army to him.

Sadly, the army was not large enough to defeat de Grahams greater force.

He needed another way to retake Lochlan Hall.

Now, hidden in Montrose, he clenched his fists in simmering anger as he observed his sister, Raina. Far from abused or terrified, she appeared at ease, happy even as she wandered from stall to stall with three other females, one of whom he recognized as Peigi MacGregor.

True, the newly married couple did not speak to each other, not that Donald observed, but damn if there was not a surfeit of covert glances directed at the other.

It enraged Donald to see his sister steal glances at Torsten de Graham, her demeanor cautious yet curious, not filled with even a hint of dread or fright. He stood at quite a distance, but Donald would have sworn that his sister's expression softened each time it settled on de Graham.

Raina's fair complexion flushed slightly on a few occasions when she found her husband's gaze already upon her. Wedded to the enemy, it appeared she had forgotten their family's honor, or simply didn't care that she belittled it.

Considering her more closely, as he'd not seen her in years, Donald supposed that she was fetching, beyond that mayhap. While he recalled a wide-eyed young girl with only passable looks—those oddly slanted eyes!—and entirely too much confidence in her own limited abilities, she appeared now to have caught up with herself, maturing into a woman with undeniable grace and uncommon beauty. Donald and Torsten de Graham were not the only ones staring at her.

Her auburn hair caught in a gentle breeze that played with the strands around her face. She wore a simple linen gown, the color of heather, cinched at the waist with a braided leather belt. Donald watched, his lip curling, as Torsten de Graham at one point very noticeably examined the sway of Raina's hips as she moved.

Seeing Torsten's gaze return again and again to Raina, Donald's anger soared at the same time it dawned on him that de Graham was smitten with Raina.

Ah, and here was the means by which to retake Lochlan Hall, he mused, his mood improving drastically.

Raina was Torsten's weakness. Donald was certain of it, and he would use it to reclaim what was rightfully his.