Like the dagger, she must carry the memory of her sister close.
It did begin to rain shortly after they were out on the road. It made the roads, never very good, that much worse and the journey that much more miserable.
To be sure, the guards had been banished to the exterior of the coach, poor souls. Inside, no one spoke. Father seemed lost in his thoughts and Annista half hoped he would call for the coachman, Marc, to turn around, having changed his mind.
She did not want to go through with this.
Bonnie sat with her hands tightly folded in her lap, absolutely silent. Cowed by the presence of the master, no doubt. Other than an involuntaryoofwhen a wheel hit a rut or stone in the road, or an occasional groan, the miles were passed in silence.
Before noon, the rain changed to snow and a wind came up, slowing them still farther. Father swore. No one fell asleep.
They passed through a small village that Father, speaking at last, said belonged to Kallan. Peering out, Annista saw nothing but huddled cottages she barely remembered from her last visit, snow-covered and looking as miserable as she felt. But she kept her nose near the window, and not long after, they turned in at a narrow drive. The carriage slid through ruts filled with slush and slowed still more.
She’d been here before, of course. But other than finding the place dark and a bit forbidding, she’d paid very little attention, focusing on her sister and, then, her distress over Robena’s appearance. Now, Father would leave her here. Abandon her.
She sucked in a breath and leaned out between the folds of leather that covered the window. Built of dark stone, the house retained the look of the ancient keep it had no doubt been—just like their own house back home. From the color of the stone, she could see that the central portion was the oldest. A tower stood at each corner and out from them spread newer wings.
It was more a fortress than a home. Robena had been trapped here until her death. Annista shivered involuntarily.
“Daughter,” Father said and motioned her back into her seat.
The coach stopped. Father pushed forward, claiming the right to exit first. Then Annista, with poor, terrified Bonnie after her.
Annista never knew whether it was an omen foreshadowing the troubles to come, but she stepped out into a full-blown storm. The snow now fell so thickly she could barely glimpse anything beyond the house itself, and the wind cast her clothing all around her. She held to her father’s arm once he helped her down. Someone called—a male voice—and they all hurried up a flight of stone steps so worn they dipped in the middle.
Inside, at least, the wind ceased to badger her, though it did not feel much warmer, despite a large fire burning at the far end of the room. A kind of entry hall this was—perhaps the great hall in days gone by—with a lofty ceiling and stone walls.
“Robert, my friend!”
A large man embraced Father—Neilan MacKallan, to be sure—and they slapped one another on the back like the old friends they were.
“How was your journey? No’ helped by this foul weather, I will wager. Come in, come in.”
They went up another flight of stairs, these equally worn. Above the entry hall ran a gallery open on one side, fenced by a blackened oak balustrade. There, Earl Neilan gave orders for Bonnie, along with Annista’s bags, to be taken off to her chamber. Bonnie sent Annista an agonized look and went.
Annista and her father were ushered into a chamber at the top of the stairs.
Faint warmth met Annista as she entered, not nearly enough. When she’d been here before, the only time they’d visited Robena, it had been summer and she remembered this room as pleasant. It did not seem so now, with snow and wind rattling the mullioned panes of the windows and a dire draft sweeping across the floor.
Annista could scarce make herself step in.
A woman waited there—Lady MacKallan it was. No one else.
Annista’s beleaguered nerves eased just a mite. A swift sweep of the chamber assured her that nay, Evan was not there. Lady MacKallan hurried forward to greet them.
A pretty woman she was, her red hair well streaked by silver and her brown eyes soft. Something quick and clever hovered in her face.
She seized both Annista’s hands. “Come in, come in, my dear. My, how cold ye be! Come nearer to the fire.”
Annista did so, stepping carefully across the worn wooden floor. The fire, in a large hearth, struggled to burn.
“We are so grateful ye ha’ come.”
Annista looked up to meet Mistress MacKallan’s eyes once again.
“I wished to tell ye—I am grieved over your sister’s death. Sorry for your loss.”
Then why did ye fail to help her?Annista ached to speak those words, to shout them.Why did ye no’ protect her from the beast she was forced to wed?
