A Perfect Knight For Love (22 page)

She moved toward it, ignoring the entire left side of the room . . . and that bed.

“My lady?”

One of the servants who’d opened the door bustled past her and dropped a curtsey, stopping Amalie’s progress as much with her action as the title. It was the first time Amalie actually heard it and registered what it meant. Her pulse rose along with her brows, but nobody knew of that. Nobody must ever know. She felt so out-of-sorts and odd. Small. Insignificant. Vulnerable. Weak.

The woman addressing her only added to the impression.

She was robust-looking: large and healthy. She could probably heft the hip bath single-handedly. It wasn’t impossible to imagine her wielding a battle-ax thing alongside her Highland man, in a fight against the hated English. It was entirely likely her ancestors had done so. Amalie quickly quashed the imaginings. If she accepted Thayne as her husband, then she had to accept being the lady of his keep. And that included instructing maids. Neither of which was happening if she looked to be cowering in fear of them. Amalie swallowed, heard her ears pop, and then tipped her head in reply.

“Would you be preferring the bath first? Or a bit of sup?”

“What is your . . . name?” Amalie paused before the last word to clear her throat. She had to get more control of her voice. She sounded like a frightened and insecure child.

“Maves.”

The woman bobbed another curtsey. The other maidservant reached her side and did the same.

“How long have you worked at the castle, Maves?”

“All my life, my lady.”

My lady.
The title came across her tongue so easily! Amalie’s father wouldn’t believe this. Neither would his household and any of her acquaintances.

“Who is this with you?” Amalie gestured to the other maid.

“Beth.”

“Beth,” Amalie repeated with another nod.

“And that there is Elinore. And beside her is Yvette.”

The woman pointed toward the two like-dressed women near the tub. Thayne kept a French maid in his household? That was odd . . . considering the way he spoke of them. Amalie filled in the blanks. It was entirely likely the duchess had inserted the woman into his household without his knowledge or permission. He detested anything about the French, and it was clear Yvette returned the derision. It was evident even before the slight curtsey she gave. This woman wasn’t friendly and she wasn’t welcoming. From across the span of room Amalie felt and saw all of it, the pinched lips in a thin face, dark eyes, and blank look. The other three had open smiles, causing the other to look more dour and ill-tempered. All of which was going to see her dismissed the moment Amalie gained insight into the situation.

And authority over her household.

But before she could contemplate anything further, a knock came at the door and Sean opened them both, allowing a large, imposing MacGowan man to enter, leading more manservants in, all burdened with steaming buckets of water. She watched them troop across the chamber and pour water into her bath, putting so much steamed moisture in the air she could smell it. Sense it. Feel it. Her skin itched with days of travel grime covered by clothing of the same. She knew it would be heavenly.

“I’d . . . like to bathe first,” Amalie finally replied.

“Excellent. Elinore! Adjust the screen.”

The men left the chamber in the same silence they’d entered while the carved wooden screen was curved about the tub, creating a bit of privacy. Amalie had just taken a step in that direction when the tall lanky form of Thayne’s man, Pellin, arrived, loaded with a platter of roasted meat, while another man followed at his heels with what looked and smelled like freshly baked bread and thick sliced cheese. Another brought a pot of stew, while the last carried a wine decanter and two thick glass goblets.

Amalie still stood at the first fireplace and its furniture enclosure, and she turned to watch them place the food on the table, arrange a table setting, and pour the wine. An entire day of little more than old, dry oat cakes made her belly rumble with hunger and her mouth water. Pellin bowed to her, touching a finger to his forehead as he did so, before leading his men back out, almost as silently as the others. Or the loud ringing in her ears was drowning all of it out. She watched Sean follow them out, pulling the doors shut behind him.

“I . . . think I’d rather eat first,” Amalie remarked. Maves giggled, as did Beth and Elinore.

She was at the table and pulling out a chair before seeing her own unwashed hand reaching for the bread. Amalie grimaced. She wouldn’t turn into a barely civilized barbarian like her husband. Not even if he starved her. She’d bathe first. She sighed and turned back to her bath.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll bathe. But we’ll make it quick.”

Three of them bobbed and giggled and after thirty some-odd steps she reached the bath enclosure. The screened-off area captured the moisture and warmth and glow of the fireplace, making it immeasurably smaller and intimate. Almost safe-feeling. And then it got filled with energy and bustling women. The moment she reached it, Elinore reached up and unfastened the plaid cloaking her. Two of them clicked tongues over her appearance, although nobody said anything. It was Maves directing Amalie to a stool, bending her out over the bath water while Beth worked at her tangled braid. The woman was gentle and expert. Amalie could hardly feel fingers at work, until the fastenings of her gown slid open. She was just shrugging out of the sleeves when a knock came to the doors again, and Maves bid them enter.

Amalie peeked through cutwork in the screen while Sean directed three men bearing the governess’s trunks to a spot beside the bed. The trunks looked tiny and ill-kempt and pathetic. Everyone had stopped to watch and wait until the men exited again and Sean did the same door closure. It was strangely comforting to know he stood on the other side of the door. Amalie didn’t ponder why. She was just grateful.

And then Yvette went over to the trunks to unpack. Amalie almost stopped her, before realizing it didn’t matter. She’d started this journey in the guise of governess and she had no choice but to see it through, regardless of personal sacrifice and where it took her. Besides, she already knew Miss Carsten’s wardrobe was bound to gain the French woman’s censure. Amalie didn’t need to watch it. So, she turned away and tried not to let the thought of Yvette’s spying bother her.

Then she forgot the woman’s attitude and curiosity as the others motioned her to dunk her head into water that had been warmed just for her. She’d been right. It
was
absolute heaven.

Amalie contemplated the fire at length, sipping occasionally at her second goblet of wine, moving it to the lip of the tub before she dropped it. The glass was well-cut and highly polished, possibly of Venetian manufacture. She studied the firelight reflecting through the wine. This goblet was thick. Heavy. Nearly as much as her eyelids. It was just so easy to lean back against the tub rim and watch the fire. Feel the heat. Enjoy the effects of wine on an empty belly. She sighed.

Her mass of wet hair had been washed, towel-dried, combed through, re-plaited, and piled atop her head, held in place by a large ribbon while she soaked, cocooned in such warmth and luxury, she nearly cried at the emotion it evoked.

“My lady?”

Elinore and Maves moved into her field of vision, holding a large towel between them that had been hanging beside the f ireplace, getting warmed. That reminded her. And damned her. She’d been so sure a Scot castle would be primitive, coarse, outdated, barbaric, and cold. Thayne probably deserved an apology, which was all well and good. He still wasn’t getting one.

“Your sup awaits, my lady.”

Amalie rose, once again gaining the same odd silence her nakedness had first wrought. She tried to ignore it but knew she blushed. She’d heard it all before from her maids at Ellincourt what seemed a lifetime ago. She was considered a pure beauty, as perfectly formed as a Grecian statue. At least that’s what everyone spoke of. She’d lost weight due to her father’s punishment and then the horrid experience of the journey, but she was still womanly, curved in all the right places, with a waist easily spanned by a man’s hands. She didn’t need corseting to fit the latest fashions.

Amalie stepped out of the water. She supposed if she had to be held prisoner in a Highland castle, she could have done much worse. The towel was thick. Warm. Both maids rubbed briskly until her skin glowed, and then Yvette held out one of Miss Carsten’s gray-shaded robes. Amalie shook her head.

“Is there nothing else?” she asked.

“Nothing clean, madame.”

Amalie sighed again. It felt sacrilegious to don a garment fit for the charity ward in such richly appointed chambers.

“Now, Yvette, you just step aside. His Lordship has all sorts of robes available. You just wait right there, my lady. And doona’ concern yourself. I’ll fetch one for you. His Lordship should’ve given us time to prepare proper. ’Tis clearly his fault. He dinna’ give anyone warning afore taking a bride. We’ll find you something and I’ll order the castle seamstress to visit on the morrow. She’ll bring her materials and trimmings. You’ll see. She’ll have a wardrobe fashioned afore you can decide which colors and materials you like best. You just watch.”

Amalie silently toasted Maves and her authoritative ways as the woman went right around Yvette in the direction of the bed area. Then Amalie tipped the goblet and finished off her glass. The castle stocked excellent wine, the match to any she’d consumed previously. Or better. It was probably French. She made a face at the empty goblet and then looked at the length of red, green, and black plaid Maves carried around the screen to her.

Amalie unwound the towel and within moments, was covered from chin to floor in such soft combed wool, it felt akin to silk. Warm silk. There was nothing else. No chemise, no belt, and nothing for her feet. Good thing the robe was large enough to encircle her twice, but that didn’t help the fact she had to traverse a span of cold polished floor to reach her sup.

There was nothing else for it. Amalie gathered handfuls of the material and sprinted. The maids probably thought her a hoyden. No doubt they’d laugh or hold her in disdain to the other servants. She didn’t care at the moment. She was too hungry.

The furniture wasn’t just massive. They’d crafted it for giants. Amalie climbed up into a chair, and sat perched at the front of it before any of her maids reached her. Her toes didn’t reach the floor, but she felt the chill rising from it before Beth helped her loop the robe up beneath her, making a lump of material to sit atop as well as covering and warming her feet. And then she faced a mountain of meat, bread, and cheese placed at her breast level. She’d need a couple of pillows for a boost if she ate here often, she decided, and then set to work on Pellin’s feast.

It wasn’t long before she finished, wiped her fingers on the delicately embroidered napkin beside her plate, and sighed in defeat. She couldn’t hold another bite. She could barely keep her eyes open. Amalie scooted to the back of her chair, well within the encircling carved wood arms, propped her head on an arm and yawned. She heard the activity as the tub got drained bucket by bucket and then removed. She kept forcing eyelids open as unseen hands removed the feast from the table, leaving the wine decanter and the other glass. She had to stay awake. She couldn’t talk sensibly to Thayne about their marriage, otherwise.

She should seek an annulment. She should. And before this farce went any further. They couldn’t stay married. It wasn’t possible. They were complete opposites. He was a Highland barbarian. She was a gently-reared Englishwoman. He expected obedience without argue, and she needed a mate who didn’t resort to force. If only she didn’t feel so wonderful . . . much too comfortable and warm. Perfect.

And then Thayne was there.

Chapter 16

“That chair’s too big for you.”

Amalie lifted her head and blinked. Thayne was wearing another kilt affair, although this one was in a brighter hue. Or something. Beneath it he wore a broadcloth shirt, with a cascade of ruffles down the front. He’d pulled his hair back into a queue that still looked wet, if the shine was an indicator. And he’d shaved. Her heart palpitated unreasonably and fully.

“’Tis almost too large for me.”

“Why . . . did you craft it . . . then?”

Her voice had a little girl stammer to it. Amalie grimaced as she scooted to the edge of the chair and then dropped to the floor, her toes flinching at the chill. The fire had been banked behind her, making it colder than before. It was also dark. She hadn’t noted that. She did now. What torches had been lit were out, all except the doorway and the far side of the room. Over by his bed. They’d created an oasis of light with candles. Highlighting. Beckoning. Amalie gulped and slid along the table from him.

“I had large forebears. One of the MacGowan chieftains needed chairs that size to prevent them breaking. Where are you going?”

He’d gestured to the rest of the chairs before reacting to her shuffle around the table.

“You . . . shouldn’t be here.”

He grinned. Her heart flinched, then surged, then retracted with a painful beat. All of it suffusing her frame with flush. If she wasn’t using one hand to hold her robe together and the other to lift the front, she’d have moved one to her chest.

“’Tis my chamber,” Thayne remarked.

He’d no right to look like he did. No right to kidnap her and then keep her. He’d no right to own a chamber like this! Or be as wealthy and powerful as he was. And he had absolutely no right to withhold all of that information like he had!

“Then . . .
I
shouldn’t be here.”

The last word was lost in a mad dash to the door, crossing what felt like leagues of floor, leaping onto each step and crossing it, and then she was at the big wooden doors. Amalie dropped the robe to alternately push and then pull at the handles without effect. She might as well try and move trees. She was forced to stop and look at why. He had the double doors blocked with a bolt across them the width of a body but easily three times as long. Or perhaps four. Amalie narrowed her eyes and swiveled, although the robe at her ankles didn’t make the move fully, creating a twist of plaid about her legs that defined the limbs. She’d fix it but she needed her other hand to hold the robe about her and all her attention on the man coming toward her. Thayne hadn’t chased her. He didn’t need to. He’d locked her in. He had a slight limp to every other step as he came toward her. She started speaking before he reached the bottom of the stairs.