Page 23 of The Lady's Guide to a Highlander’s Heart
But, from behind, the wolfhound whined again and scrabbled his paws at Flora’s back.
With a shuddering sigh, she loosened her grip upon the dagger, drawing back the tip.
She couldn’t do it!
Ragnall Dalreagh deserved to die, but it wouldn’t be at her hand. Somewhere along the way, what had seemed straightforward had ceased to be so.
It was over.
She would leave Castle Balmore and attempt to find her peace elsewhere. The nuns at Inverness would take her in, perhaps.
Though she was cowardly and ashamed by her lack of resolution, there was solace in knowing that her soul would be in no danger. She might perform penance for the wickedness she’d already perpetrated.
It ought to have brought relief, but a terrible hollowness rushed in to fill the place where her hatred had been—the fire that had burned within her these two years.
Though 'twas foolish, a powerful yearning came upon her to touch his cheek. The laird had brought her to his bed for one reason alone. Tender feelings had no place here—yet they crept around her heart and held it captive.
A single tear welled and ran down her nose.
If only Ragnall had been patient, waiting for his leadership of the clan. He might have made a worthy husband. A man she could have loved. The man who would have fathered her children.
Now, all was in ruin, for though she was too weak to avenge her father, she had resolution enough to know that she couldn’t remain under Ragnall’s roof.
Leaving was the only answer.
With the back of her hand, she pushed the tear away.
The next moment, her wrist was wrenched back and the dirk fell from her grip. The laird, his eyes awake and blazing dark, loomed above her, pinning her to the bed with his weight, and the dagger pricked Flora’s throat.
Chapter 10
Near dawn, December 25
“Ye mean tae murder me?”The voice that had been husky with desire was now cold as the ice upon the loch, and the dirk Flora had secreted was held to her own throat. “There be many who might wish me dead, but what have I done tae offend ye, a simple dairy maid?”
Flora dared not move, for the sharp point of the dagger touched the very place she’d intended as her own mark. Ragnall need only increase his pressure a wee bit more and her blood would paint the blade.
“Do ye nae recognize me?” Though she trembled inside, she met his fierce gaze. “’Tis I, the daughter o' the man ye killed heartlessly, though he trusted ye with all he held dear.”
Shock passed over his features, with disbelief hard on its heels, anger following close behind. For the merest moment, Flora felt the dirk press harder to her skin and she gave a strangled cry, but the pressure eased almost immediately.
“If I wished tae silence ye, ma bare hands about yer throat would be sufficient, but I’m nae murderer o' women, nae matter what ye believe." He tossed the dirk hard away, so that it skittered across the floor.
"The lass betrothed tae me is dead these two winters long and the truth o' her father’s death along with her.” He fingered her hair, regret creasing his brow, but his voice remained hard. “Ye have the look of her, I admit, but ’tis impossible that ye be her. The lass was nae more than a child when she was bound tae me, and with a mouse-like way about her. She wouldnae have survived without the comforts she’d been raised with.”
“Think ye so little o' the Dalreagh blood?” Flora’s anger flared. “A child I was, but not without friends, and I’ve had two long years tae become the woman ye see now. I steeled myself tae avenge ma father’s murder, vowing tae have satisfaction with the same blade as killed him. Look if ye dinnae trust me. The carving on the hilt will prove ma tale, and ma own claim tae the name Flora Dalreagh. Ma disguise was a simple one, but good enough tae fool ye.”
Ragnall drew back a little, clearly unsure of his conviction, and Flora felt the cool air pass between them. They were both naked still, and Ragnall’s thigh lay between hers. His hand rested upon her shoulder—the same hand that had cradled her throughout their lovemaking.
He seemed to consider all she’d said and a flicker of something like respect entered his eyes. “If it be ye, Flora, I dinnae ken what to believe. Ye appeared a devoted daughter but people do terrible things in sudden anger, and a betrothal is not always of a woman’s choosing.” A sorrowful look overtook him. “I deterred the men from searching, saying that I wouldnae risk them tae the mountains’ winter and, when there was nae sighting nor word of ye, I believed ye dead, as everyone did. I told them if ye were guilty, ye had paid yer due.”
“Kill ma father?” Flora pushed against his chest, attempting to put more space between them. “’Tis a neat tale tae direct the blame at me, when the sin lies on yer own head. Ye be both cunning and clever, I admit, Ragnall, but there be no honour in ye! Only cruel ambition, and ye should be ashamed.”
She bit back a whimper against his hurting fingers upon her shoulder.
“Perhaps ye speak true of yer innocence, but ye have bold-faced cheek tae act the blameless maid when I wake tae find ye with a blade at ma neck. Dinnae avow tae be incapable o' murder when ye were about tae cast me tae ma maker!”
Flora gave an exasperated cry. “Would that I were capable! Ye would be lying insensible at this moment, yer lifeblood atoning for that taken. ’Tis ma own lack of courage that leaves ye alive. I’ve betrayed ma father’s memory in failing tae dispatch ye, and that shortcoming I’ll carry with me tae ma dying day.”
