The vehemence in her voice and the spark of hatred in her dark eyes startled Flora.
Of course it must be difficult, she realized. Hector had taken the castle by force, and the woman was still obviously loyal to Lachlan. Flora was Hector’s half-sister, so of course the woman would assume Flora would side with Hector.
She started to assure her otherwise but stopped. What could she say? That she was married to the laird but had left him? She hardly thought that would endear her to the woman. By coming here, shehadchosen Hector over Lachlan and forsaken her duty to her husband. The realization took her aback. Lachlan’s accusation that she had no concept of duty and responsibility that had originally fallen on deaf ears, she now acknowledged might hold some truth. For the first time, she felt a shadow of doubt about leaving her husband.
Mairi had turned her gaze, but there was something in the woman’s expression that bothered her. She wore the look of a beaten dog backed into a corner, wounded but ready to bite to defend herself. And what was more, it was clear she perceived Flora as a threat. The animosity she felt toward Hector had obviously spread to his sister.
Instead of trying to make further conversation, Flora studied her surroundings. The place was deathly quiet. Almost like a tomb. A stark contrast to the bustling liveliness and happy countenances of Drimnin. The few servants they did encounter cast their eyes down as soon as they saw her. Almost as if they were scared.
It was unsettling.
As was the state of the keep itself. Much like Drimnin, Breacachadh was a simple tower house construction with a turnpike stair on the southeast corner overlooking the sea. But there the similarities ended. Breacachadh was of much sturdier construction, with thick stone walls, a substantial curtain wall, and a parapet for added defense.
Moreover, she could tell that at one point Breacachadh would have been a very fine home. The rooms were large and richly appointed. Fine carpets were strewn across the wood floors, though mud and muck had turned portions black. The furnishings were much richer as well, carved chairs with velvet cushions, large wooden tables, and cabinets. Tapestries and paintings lined the walls, and fine iron sconces lit the corridors.
It had been easy to make excuses for the signs of destruction along the countryside as they’d ridden to Breacachadh Castle to the south, blaming it on weather, but the woebegone faces of the castle inhabitants—and the condition of the castle itself—were not so easily dismissed.
She knew Lachlan too well to believe he would do this, which left only one person who could be responsible for the pall that seemed to hang over the place.
Hector was already eating when she arrived, having not bothered to wait for her. She turned to thank Mairi, but she’d already disappeared. Flora took the seat beside him and had barely sat down before he started to question her.
“You slept well?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said.
She felt his eyes on her face. “You don’t look much like her.”
“Mother?”
He nodded.
“No.” A faint smile played upon her lips as she thought of her reaction upon seeing Rory. She studied Hector a little closer, noticing for the first time the dark green of his eyes and the shape of his mouth. Though his hair was mostly gray, she could still see the familiar streaks of dark brown. “But you do.” And a little of her unease faded with the realization. After her initial impression of the castle and the servants, the connection with her mother seemed somehow reassuring. Hector was her brother.
He seemed surprised by the observation and then shrugged. “Perhaps. Though I hadn’t seen her in years.”
“What happened to cause the rift between you?”
He eyed her carefully over the rim of his goblet. “She never told you?”
Flora shook her head.
“Not long after my father died, she married a man whom I despised.”
Like Lachlan,she realized with a flicker of apprehension. Flora recalled what she knew of her mother’s husbands. Only one made sense. “John MacIan of Ardnamurchan?”
Hector’s gaze flared. “Yes.”
“But he was murdered,” she blurted. Something she’d overheard once as a child but hadn’t understood at the time came back to her. “Most foully,” she finished.
Hector’s face grew dark, and he looked at her sharply. “He was an enemy to Duart. An ally of the MacDonalds. Even after the marriage he refused to join us against them. He got what he deserved.”
The flash of earlier warmth for her brother vanished, and her unease returned full force. “You killed him?”
His own mother’s husband? Surely there had to be an explanation.
“He overstepped his bounds, thinking to marry my mother. And she wanted to soil the Macleans with MacIan blood—I couldn’t let that happen. So when the opportunity arose, when I had him in my power, I took advantage of the situation.”
He seemed to want her to understand. Hiding the revulsion she was feeling, she asked, “What opportunity?”
