Page 2 of Ruining a Highland Healer
Valora turned, eyes blazing as she pinned her father with her gaze.
“She’s barely nineteen years o’ age!”
“An’ that’s precisely the age when most noble daughters marry. She’ll go tae the ball in yer stead. An’ she’ll smile. She’ll charm them. An’ one o’ them will wed her, I’ll make sure o’ it.”
Valora’s breath was caught in her throat, in that knot that formed there rapidly, making it impossible to talk, to swallow, to draw in any air. The world seemed to narrow down to a point, panic gripping her at the thought that Althea would be the one to endure this.
“She’s nae ready,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “Ye cannae dae this tae her.”
“She will be, if ye arenae.”
Silence stretched between them, long and cold and suffocating. He turned from her, already pouring a fresh cup of wine from the pitcher on his desk, dismissing her as easily as he would a gnat.
“I’ll give ye until morning,” he said. “Tae decide which o’ ye will dae her duty.”
Valora’s voice cracked through the air. “She’s nae yers tae trade.”
Her father looked up slowly, bringing the cup to his lips. He took a sip, then another, leaving Valora suspended in the silence between them.
“Och aye, she is,” he said. “An’ so are ye, fer that matter.”
When she left the room moments later, she didn’t slam the door. She walked calmly, her face a mask, even as her stomach twisted in knots. That night, she sat on the edge of her sister’s bed, watching Althea sleep by candlelight, the soft rise and fall of her breath the only thing anchoring Valora to reason.
He would do it. She knew her father too well to doubt it. So, when morning came, Valora stood outside his study with her head held high and her answer ready.
“I’ll go,” she said, before he could speak. “I’ll attend the ball. But only if ye promise tae leave Althea in peace fer at least two more years.”
He smiled over his goblet. “Good lass. That is the right thing tae dae, an’ ye ken it. Just make sure ye impress someone at that ball or there will be more balls fer Althea tae attend.”
Valora gritted her teeth to keep herself from responding. She would have to do as her father said or she would risk Althea’s happiness, her safety. That was something she could not allow.
She would attend the ball. She would smile, if she could find it within her. But she wasn’t going to do it for him.
She was doing it for the only soul in that castle who had ever loved her without condition. She would wear the gown. She would bow and exchange pleasantries. She would step into the fire if she had to, because no one would take Althea in her place.
Not while Valora still had breath to fight.
CHAPTER ONE
Near Inverness, September 1691
The last time Valora MacNeacail had felt hope seemed so distant now that the memory was untethered from herself, as though it belonged to someone else. Life happened, a ceaseless sweeping tide, the waves of color swirling madly around her as young girls were taken to the dance floor by men, some of them twice their age, others too young. And just like her, none of those girls had a choice.
Abandoning herself to her fate, Valora looked around in search of anyone she knew. Her plan backfired, though, as a man approached her. Valora couldn’t place his face nor did she recognize his clan colors, or the red and black sigil he proudly displayed on his chest.
All she knew was that he seemed much older than her twenty-five years and that his smile, though friendly at first glance, never quite reached his eyes. They were an icy blue, the kind thatseemed to peer right through her, and Valora felt an unpleasant shiver run down her spine.
He had been drinking; Valora could smell the sour stench of alcohol on his breath and she was that he moved slowly, his limbs heavy with wine. When he bowed, he did so clumsily, with an unsteadiness that betrayed his condition.
"Laird Alban Keith," the man said, introducing himself in a slurred voice. Valora took a good look at him from head to toe, her eyes narrowing as she noted his features—those eyes, the coal black hair that he wore slicked back to perfection, the sharp, angular features of his face. He was a striking man, but Valora wouldn’t call him handsome. There was something about him, something unquantifiable that gave him an odd appearance. Perhaps it was only the drink, or perhaps it was something else, something much more sinister.
"May I have this dance?"
She wanted to refuse so badly. However, with a stiff nod, she gave Laird Keith permission to pull her into the next dance, one hand taking hers as the other settled on the small of her back.
The touch was far from welcome. Valora remained stiff and straight-backed, every muscle in her body rigid as Laird Keith led her around the dance floor. The hands on her waist were firm, almost possessive. Valora tried her best to stop herself from recoiling, which was far from an easy task, but with her father’s presence behind her, she could be nothing short of perfect. Enduring this was the only way to ensure that her sisterwould be spared a similar fate, and Valora would doanythingto keep her sister safe and happy.
Laird Keith spun her around the room with the ease of someone who was well-practiced in the art of dance, but combined with the clumsiness of someone close to a drunken stupor. Valora followed his lead as best she could, wincing quietly every time they bumped into another pair of dancers and offering them apologetic smiles.
