Torment tore at his soul. She couldn't be dead, not when he had held her so tight. There was no evidence that her spirit had passed from her body. She looked as if she had simply fallen asleep.
"My mother smelled roses."
Ciara's broken voice drew his gaze. She wiped at the tears that hovered in her eyes.
"They say when one sees the face of God, life's fondest memory is their last remembrance." Her face contorted in grief and she bowed her head. "When we were bairns, Valerie's mother made the bread for the village."
The tortured hush of her voice tore at his heart. When she raised her eyes, he felt the pain she bore.
"'Twas a special honor for us to be allowed to help." She blew her nose then met his gaze. "Valerie loved the smell of fresh baked bread."
She choked on a sob, then fled from the room, leaving Alastair alone with his wife. He looked down at her peaceful face and knew too late that, in his own way, he had loved her.
He held her close and buried his face against her throat. Grief tore through his body and cleaved his soul. His tears dampened her still-warm flesh. He would give anything for another of her smiles, or to stare into her beautiful eyes.
Slowly, he regained control over himself. This is not what Valerie wanted. She would frown at him for displaying such weakness over a lifeless body.
With care, he eased her against her pillows and climbed off the bed. He adjusted the covers over her and smoothed her hair.
On the bedside table, he noticed the rose Valerie often clutched in her sleep. He retrieved the small bloom and placed it in her palm. His hand closed her fingers around the paper rose. Alastair kissed her hand, then laid it to rest across her belly.
Reluctantly, he turned away and approached the windows. Darkness greeted him. Through the night sky, stars shone like jewels.
"God," he whispered, his voice raw. "Take good care of Valerie. Her soul is so pure. Your angels will weep from her virtue."
Alastair MacDonell, laird of his clan, bowed his head and cried.
Chapter Seven
With a heart numbed by grief, Ciara walked through the snow, oblivious to the large flakes that clung to her hair or the chill that permeated her body. Clutched in her hand, she held a bouquet of tiny white roses she had made during the tenure of her visit. These were Valerie's favorites of all Ciara's creations.
Ahead of her, MacDonell clansmen ferried a litter that held Valerie's shroud-encased body and rested atop the softest of fur pelts. The path they followed wound along the side of the mountain, between crofts Ciara never knew were there.
MacDonell followed the men, his head bent in grief. The lonely cry of bagpipes echoed through the trees and bemoaned the sadness nestled in Ciara's heart. Through the branches, the wind stirred and wept along with the mourners.
At the crest of the mountain, a clearing came into view. The spot overlooked the loch and distant peaks of the isles barely visible through the falling snow.
The men paused beside a gap in the earth. 'Twas then Ciara noticed the dirt-strewn snow. Someone had toiled many hours to dig a grave in the frozen earth.
With care, the men settled the litter on the ground and stepped aside. Ciara stood beside the grave that beckoned her one true friend. A lump lodged in her throat and tears stung her eyes.
Across the void that waited for Valerie, MacDonell knelt beside his wife. A shroud embraced her lifeless body, with naught but her sleeping face exposed. The clan gathered round in the silent morn to bid farewell to the laird's wife.
The frosted air echoed the chill nestled deep in Ciara's soul. Would Valerie continue to live if Ciara had not acted out of fear and attempted to leave?
With care, MacDonell tucked a folded piece of his tartan and his clan badge inside the shroud. Then he raised his head. Across the expanse of a grave, his grief-filled gaze locked on hers. A shiver licked her spine. 'Twas plain he wished her to take Valerie's place.
Ciara bowed her head. If only that were possible! Tears filled her eyes. She closed them tightly and forced away the sting. When Valerie had passed, Ciara came very close to showing her weakness to MacDonell. That, she knew, would be a mistake.
A deep breath of frigid air filled her lungs and gave her the courage to raise her head. MacDonell leaned over Valerie and placed a tender kiss upon her brow. The sorrow etched upon his face tugged at her breast.
His hands trembled as he folded the shroud over his wife's sleeping face. Still he knelt in the dirt-strewn snow, reluctant to rise, the signal for his men to lower his wife into the ground.
Ciara bit her lip and blinked away the fat flakes of snow that clung to her lashes.
Without a word, Torquil stepped forward and placed a large hand on MacDonell's shoulder. Melancholy twisted Ciara's heart as she watched MacDonell nod and rise to his feet.
Two clansmen approached Valerie and, with care, lifted her shrouded body and placed her in the shallow grave. MacDonell bent and gathered soil in his hand. At the edge of the grave, he allowed the dirt to sift between his fingers and dust the body of his wife.
Ciara's legs felt as weak as a newborn colt, yet somehow she managed to move forward. She knelt upon the cold ground and placed her bouquet on top of the dirt-dusted shroud.
Again, tears stung her eyes. Life was so unfair. Valerie deserved a longer existence than this. Ciara's ragged breath made frosty clouds in the air. She did her best to regain her composure, then dared a look at MacDonell. The condemning darkness of his eyes made her shiver.
He blamed her for this.
With a heavy heart, Ciara climbed to her feet. She turned from the gathering and walked away. Hollowness nestled in the area where her heart used to reside. The death of her friend so soon after her mother's was a great burden. The two people Ciara cared for most in her life were no more than memories.
The snowfall intensified as Ciara approached the keep. She paused and stared at the house of stone that loomed on the horizon. 'Twas such a bleak, cold and foreboding sight. Yet, behind those walls her friend had found happiness.
Ciara knew that no joy would be found behind those walls as long as she was present. MacDonell would kill her, or her him, before a month passed.
Valerie was wrong to place such a heavy burden on them. On her. But, if she chose to flee and ignore a dying wish, Ciara would be condemned to the bowels of hell.
She glanced over her shoulder at those who drifted back to their homes. Through the flakes that tumbled from the heavens, she found MacDonell watching her. Ciara shivered and turned away.
No matter what Ciara chose to do, she would find herself in hell -- be it in the present with MacDonell, or in the hereafter.
Any way she looked at it, Ciara knew she was doomed.
* * *
Alastair sat alone in the darkness of the chamber where Valerie had died, the same space they had shared in their brief time as man and wife. He still felt her in his arms. The echo of her dying breath thundered through his brain.
He had not deserved her, and now she was dead.
In the stillness of the night, a thud disturbed the peace. He frowned and glanced toward the door. A scrape reverberated through the air, followed by another thud and a groan. Alastair pushed himself out of the chair and eased open the door.
Through the wavering light of torches that sputtered in rings embedded in the wall, a cloaked figure, bent at the waist, labored over an unseen object. Curiosity lured him into the hall.
The figure struggled for breath, cursed in French, then stood.
Alastair knew then that the creature was Ciara. She sighed and stepped around the object before her. The sight of her trunk caused his heart to sink. Did the witch plan to leave and ignore Valerie's wish?
Ciara grasped the handle at the opposite end of the trunk and pulled. As if sensing his presence, she lifted her head and paused. Fear flashed across her face as she slowly stood away from the trunk.
Irritation seeped into Alastair's veins. He stepped to the opposite e
nd of the trunk and met her worried gaze.
She bit her lower lip and averted her gaze. "I did not mean to disturb you."
The whisper heightened his anger. "'Tis clear you meant to sneak away." Her gaze flashed to his. "Does the dying wish of your best friend mean so little to you?"
Ciara sighed and rubbed her brow. "MacDonell, surely you see the folly in Valerie's request." Her hand drifted back to her side. "Do you wish to fulfill the plea?"
He shook his head. "Nay." The relief that eased the lines of worry from her face irritated him even more. "Yet fulfill it I shall. Valerie asked little of me in our time together. I will not turn my back on her now."
Her hands trembled and she stepped away from the trunk. "'Tis madness. Much as I loved Valerie, I cannot carry through her demand."
Alastair stepped around the trunk. "Would you care to place a wager on that?"
The witch trembled and backed away from him. "MacDonell, you cannot mean to see this through. We despise one another."
He shrugged and continued his progression. "It matters not to me. Many marriages are arranged. Valerie beseeched us to wed, with half the clan as witness to her plea. I will not disgrace her memory to save myself from the clutches of a shrew."
Her back hit the wall. Through the dim light, Alastair saw the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The witch was frightened out of her mind. Good.
Ciara moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, yet did not avert her gaze. "I will not give my consent."
Alastair rested an arm against the wall and leaned close to her ear. "Aye, you will." The fingers of his free hand stroked the pulse that beat in her throat. Beneath his touch, she flinched and closed her eyes. "I will share with you a bit of wisdom, woman. Do all in your power to please me." His hand fit perfectly around her throat. Her eyes snapped open and stared into his. "I have buried one wife. It will not distress me to bury another."
He eased his hold on her and pushed himself away from the wall. Respite flooded Ciara's face and he felt certain if he had not been present, she would have slid to the floor.
"I would prefer not to force the issue, and give myself time to grieve for Valerie. Yet, if you attempt departure again, I will drag you by the hair through the village until we find the nearest priest. Do I make myself clear, woman?"
A nod was her only reply. Alastair felt certain he had won that match. He turned and his gaze fell upon her trunk.
"Och, aye, I nearly forgot," he said, turning a glance on her from over his shoulder. "Torquil will be placed in charge of you. I can assure you that his tolerance of you will be far less than mine. Do not test him."
Alastair turned and walked away. He was no fool. The match may have gone to him, but the battle was far from over.
* * *
Ciara felt each nerve in her body scream in protest over what transpired in the hall. She should have fled the keep when she had the chance, her trunk be damned. But, she could not leave behind her mother's gift. It seemed dying wishes were doomed to condemn Ciara, no matter which way she turned.
She paused before the window and stared out at the snow-covered earth. What the devil was she to do? MacDonell would kill her if she dared to deny Valerie's request. And, should she honor her friend's wish, he would kill her soon after.
Her gaze drifted to the ground below and her heart sank. Should she try that means of escape, the distance of the fall would break her neck.
Anger mixed with trepidation in her belly. Her only hope was to get a message to her clan. If any could stop MacDonell in his quest, 'twould be her brothers.
Ciara approached the table and lifted the missive she composed. The words contained spoke of Valerie's death and of her friend's dying request. Her brothers would come for her once they read this.
Her ploy would work if she could convince MacDonell to dispatch a messenger. Her decision made, she folded the parchment and applied her seal. Surely he would not deny her request.
Her hands trembled as she approached the door. Now was not the time for her courage to take flight and abandon her. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
The grizzled face of Torquil met her gaze. Ciara swallowed hard at the menacing glare fixed on her. With a determination she did not feel, she held out the missive.
"I wish this to be dispatched to my clan."
Torquil grunted and gave her a look she was certain had slew many small children.
"I simply inform them of Valerie's passing."
Dark, narrow eyes slithered over her. She wondered if it would make him feel more at ease to know she disliked him, too.
A disgruntled sigh escaped his whiskered lips. He snatched the missive from her hand and frowned. "I make nae promises."
"I asked for none," Ciara said and pushed the door closed. She fell against the barrier and willed her pulse to calm. MacDonell would dispatch the missive. He had to.
With certainty, she pushed herself away from the door and approached her trunk. From the confines she withdrew strips of paper, smooth twigs of various sizes, and her precious paint. If she set her mind to creating more roses, 'twould ease the burden of her wait.
Ciara assembled her items on the table, then gathered water to mix the paint. She poured a small amount into wooden bowls and set the pitcher aside.
Her door crashed open. Terror sped through her heart. She spun around and stared into the enraged face of MacDonell.
"I warned you not to test my patience, woman!"
The bark of his voice made her jump. She scrambled away from the table and put as much distance as possible between herself and this deadly laird.
"Did you think I would blindly believe your excuse and not read the words?" He lifted the parchment she had given to Torquil. It crumpled beneath his fingers.
Ciara's heart thumped hard against her ribs. In all her life, she had never been more frightened than she was now.
He tossed the missive across the room, his gaze fixed on her. "You leave me no choice, woman. I will have your consent now."
She wished she could meld into the cool stones pressed against her back. Her hands scraped the wall to hide her fear.
MacDonell slowly approached, like a panther moving in for the kill. Ciara slid along the wall until the corner trapped her.
"Consent to be my bride."
His whispered command did naught to conceal the fury in his heart. Unable to reply, Ciara shook her head.
MacDonell paused, as if he did not trust himself. "Verra well, have it your way." He called for Torquil who lurked in the doorway. "Remove her trunk and all things that could possibly give her pleasure."
"Dare not!" she cried and ran for the table.
MacDonell caught her easily around the waist and held her captive in his grasp. "Give your consent and your things will be returned."
Ciara struggled against him. "Go to the devil, MacDonell."
"I feel as if I already have."
Helpless, Ciara watched the giant gather her things from the table and toss them with little care into her trunk. He picked up the flasks that held her dry paint and started to toss them as well.
"Take care," she said, swallowing hard when MacDonell tightened his hold. "The paint is dear to purchase."
Torquil gazed upon them and MacDonell slowly nodded. The silent signal was heeded, for the giant did not spill her things. When the last of her precious items were inside, Torquil closed the lid and, with little effort, hoisted it onto his back and left the room.
MacDonell released her. Ciara stumbled from his grasp and turned her anger on him.
"How dare you treat me like a prisoner? You have no right."
"I have every right. The condition you find yourself in is your doing, not mine." He moved toward the door and withdrew a key. "I will return each day and ask for your consent."
Ciara crossed her arms over her chest. "You will waste your breath."
A brief, tense silence filled the air. Finally, MacDonell sighed. "We shall see whose will is
the strongest. You will remain locked in this room with naught but your thoughts for comfort. During the long hours ahead, think of Valerie and all you promised her."
The door closed and the echo of a key turning in the lock rang through the room. Stunned, Ciara lowered herself to a chair and rested her head in her hands.
What was she to do now? Her brothers knew she was here from the message she sent them from France. Yet, as far as they were concerned, she spent the time tending to Valerie.
Tears stung her eyes when she realized no one would come to help her. Beyond the barrier lurked a man determined to carry through his wife's last wish.
To make matters worse, he now wanted her consent. Could the MacDonell possess honor?
Ciara closed her eyes and pushed aside her thoughts. Honor among ruffians was laughable. Yet, naught about her present situation deserved merriment.
Her hell had begun.
Chapter Eight
Ciara fought the madness that threatened to seep into her brain. A fortnight passed with her pacing the floor, debating her chances of surviving a leap from the windows.
Each day, MacDonell appeared long enough to ask for her consent. Each day, he left without it.
Torquil, her gruff and uncommunicative watchman, brought her meals and stood as silent sentry while she ate. Aside from his moody presence, Ciara remained alone.
In the lonely hours between dusk and dawn, Ciara's thoughts were consumed with Valerie. Loyalty to her friend placed her in this condemnable position. Now, there appeared to be no way out. MacDonell would not admit defeat. Through isolation and the threat of madness, he would gain what he wished.
Ciara lay on her bed and stared into nothingness. Guilt gnawed at her breast until she felt raw. She had made a promise, yet if she honored the vow, the result would be the opposite of what Valerie intended. Ciara would destroy herself and MacDonell.
She closed her eyes and pushed all thoughts from her mind. While the ruse of carrying through Valerie's wish was horrendous, what more could she do? Ciara had no more resistance to offer.
The grate of a key in the lock echoed through the room, yet she did not turn her gaze. 'Twould be MacDonell again.
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