Amanda Scott (18 page)

Kintail was not in the hall. A few men-at-arms were there, but not many, for before meals, they tended to congregate in the
garrison hall below. One man stirred up the fire, while another dumped a stack of peat into a basket nearby. Two others were
casting dice at one of several trestle tables where most members of the household would sit.

“Be there aught we can do for ye, mistress?” the one stirring the fire asked.

“The laird,” Molly said, “do you know where I might find him?”

“Aye, he’s above,” the man said, gesturing with a thumb toward the ceiling. “Third level, door on the left.”

Thanking him, she hurried to the stairs and up them, knowing that the bell would sound for supper at any moment and preferring
to ask Kintail about watching the court proceedings without having to do so in front of the entire household. As she stepped
through the archway onto the third landing, she heard a shout of masculine laughter from behind the arched oak door on the
left.

Believing that Kintail and Sir Patrick must be inside together, she grimaced at the thought of trying to persuade the former
while the latter stood by and grinned mockingly at them or, worse, added his masculine—and doubtless disapproving—opinion
to the conversation.

She had learned that Sir Patrick was seldom serious. Moreover, he flirted with her outrageously. At first, she had wondered
if he had notions of trying to persuade Kintail to allow him to marry her, but she had quickly seen that Sir Patrick flirted
with anyone in skirts, even with his temperamental sister-in-law.

The day after Molly’s arrival, Mauri had responded to his passing pat on her backside by throwing a wet rag at him, catching
him full in the face with it. But the gesture had barely fazed Patrick. With a shout of delighted laughter, he had deftly
caught the towel and flung it back at her, his aim as true as hers had been.

These memories flashed through Molly’s mind in a blink as she rapped firmly on the door.

“Enter.” There was lingering laughter in Kintail’s voice, and as she pushed the door, he added with a chuckle, “Just look
at the wee fish I’ve caught, Patrick.”

The shriek and the splash that accompanied his words stopped Molly in her tracks, but it was too late. She stared in shock
at the scene she had interrupted.

His hair full of suds, Kintail sat in a large tub in what clearly was his bedchamber, with a fully clothed, very wet young
female sprawled atop him.

The room was not much larger than Molly’s. A high, curtained bed took up the space along the far wall, and with the washstand
flanking a window embrasure at her left, and chests and a wardrobe occupying the wall to her right, little room remained for
the tub. It sat in front of the doorway a few feet from her, with puddles surrounding it and the large water pail beside it.

Both occupants of the tub stared back at her in dismay, for although her entrance had caught the female with her back to the
door, she had twisted about to look over a shoulder. She appeared to be at least two years younger than Molly, and at first
glance seemed apprehensive, even frightened. But when she saw Molly, that apprehension turned to visible, albeit deeply blushing
relief.

“Who are you?” she asked faintly.

At the same time, Kintail snapped, “What the devil are you doing here? I thought you were Patrick, or I’d never have told
you to come in.”

Collecting her dignity with an effort, Molly said quietly, “I know that, sir, and I beg your pardon. It never occurred to
me that he was sending me to your bedchamber, and not having a clear notion yet of which rooms are where, I—”

“Patrick
sent you here? By heaven, I’ll throttle him! Stay where you are, lass,” he added sharply, jerking the girl back as she tried
to get out of the tub.

“I have not seen Sir Patrick,” Molly said, taking a step back, wanting only to leave and never see either of them again. She
was shocked, embarrassed, and rapidly growing angry.

“Then who—?” He broke off, adding hastily, “Mind your hand, Bab, unless you want more of a ducking than you already got.”

Molly’s temper flared then, but the girl chortled, giving him a slap on one bare shoulder as she said, “You mind
your
hands, Fin, or by heaven—”

She broke off with a shriek and Kintail roared when Molly snatched up the water bucket by the tub and upended its contents
over the pair of them.

Without a word, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room. Had anyone asked her how she dared do such a thing, she
could not have answered sensibly. She was more than a little shocked at herself, and equally fearful of how Kintail would
retaliate.

The drenched pair in the tub remained silent for a long moment after the door shut behind Mistress Gordon before Fin gripped
his companion firmly around her slim waist and lifted her off him.

“Take care when I set you down, Bab,” he said. “The floor will be slippery.”

“Don’t lean over so far!” Barbara MacRae exclaimed, her feet dangling above the stone floor. “You’ll have the whole tub over!”

Setting her down, he said, “If I do have the tub over, I won’t wait for your brother to take a switch to you for this little
prank. I’ll do it myself. I may do it, anyway.”

Busy pulling her clinging, wet skirts away from her legs to wring them out, she paid no heed to his threat. “Who was that,
Fin? Is that the Maid of Dunsithe? Does she frequently enter your bedchamber?”

“I
will
take a switch to you,” he said grimly, putting both hands on the sides of the oblong tub and shifting his weight to get up.

“Don’t get out!” she shrieked, backing away so quickly that she slipped in a puddle and nearly fell. Grabbing a bedpost to
steady herself, she eyed him warily, but when he settled down into the tub again, she said, “What am I going to wear? At least
she rinsed the soap from your hair, but I cannot return to my mother looking like this, let alone go down to supper!”

“You should have thought about that before you decided to sneak in here and help with my bath,” he said unsympathetically.
“Ask Mauri to lend you something, or ask the Maid. She brought enough clothing with her to outfit Dornie village, as well
as any guests we might entertain for the next year or two.”

“I am certainly not going to ask Mauri,” Barbara said. “She’ll only scold.” Coaxingly, she added, “You won’t really tell Patrick,
will you? He may be the best of brothers, and he never cares when his behavior shocks people, but he frequently displays uncomfortable
notions of propriety where I am concerned.”

“Out,” he said, pointing toward the door. “There’s the bell for supper, and neither of us can go below until we’ve put on
dry clothing.”

“But—”

He started to get up, whereupon she shut her mouth and fled.

“The Maid’s room is below this one on the right,” he bellow after her, “but first find someone to tell Tam Matheson I want
him!”

Knowing that she had heard him but not certain she would obey, he got out of the tub and picked his way barefoot across the
puddle-drenched floor to the washstand to get a towel. As he dried himself and sought clothing to wear, he recalled the look
on the Maid’s face when he had demanded to know what she was doing there, and his ready sense of humor stirred. He subdued
it easily, however.

She could not have known she was entering his bedchamber, that much was clear. But why had she come? Her very presence teased
him—nay, distracted him at every turn— and that, too, was something she could not know. Even in her fury, she was distractingly
beautiful. Not a day passed without moments when he wanted to shake her, spank her, or kiss every lovely inch of her. Undeniably,
James had done him a favor, but he was not certain that he would ever feel properly grateful.

Molly, too, had heard the supper bell, but instead of continuing down to the hall, she darted into her bedchamber on the floor
below Kintail’s. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it, breathing hard.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to regain control. What was wrong with her? It certainly was not the first time she had
seen a man’s bare chest and shoulders, and thanks to the girl sprawled atop Kintail, that was all she had seen. Even if she
had seen more, she supposed it would not have meant the end of the world. In even the finest houses—or so Lady Mackinnon had
told her—it was not unusual for a daughter of the house to assist with a gentleman’s bath. But gentlemen, in general, did
not bathe often, and no one at Dunakin had ever asked her to perform such a personal service.

Still, she doubted that Kintail’s bareness alone had disturbed her so much.

Drawing a deep breath, she considered the matter but could think of no excuse for her odd behavior other than that finding
herself in his bedchamber, confronted by such a scene, had disordered her senses. As her breathing settled into a more normal
rhythm, it occurred to her that perhaps her mischievous household spirits had had something to do with what had occurred.

Narrowing her eyes, she searched the chamber—tidier now than it had been, for miraculously and just as Maggie Malloch had
promised, she and Doreen had found places to put everything.

“Maggie? Maggie, are you here? I need you.”

Was that a swirling of the air yonder on the cushion below the window?

A loud rap-rap on the door behind her startled her half out of her skin. Holding her breath, certain that a furious Kintail
stood on the other side, she was still wondering at her unnatural, trembling cowardice when a voice that definitely was not
his begged her to open the door.

“Mistress Gordon, it is Barbara MacRae. If you are in there, please be so kind as to let me in—and quickly, I pray you!”

Suspecting that her visitor was the girl who had been with Kintail, Molly did not want to open the door, but when she saw
the latch move, she snatched it open, saying icily, “Go away. I have naught to say to such a brazen female.”

But her annoyance quickly eased, for the girl on the landing, dripping water on the stones, looked utterly wretched. Dusky
curls had escaped her headdress and hung in limp, damp strands to her shoulders, and her gown was soaked through.

“Please, mistress, have pity,” she said urgently. “The supper bell has rung already, and I cannot go down looking like this.
Oh, haste! Someone is coming up the stairs. If ’tis Patrick—!”

The next moment she had whisked herself inside and shut the door behind her. Standing with her back against it, in much the
same way that Molly had stood only moments before, she said, “Pray, Mistress Gordon, we are of size, and Fin told me that
you have dresses to spare. Can you not find it in your heart—?”

“Fin?” Molly had moved only because otherwise Barbara MacRae, in her haste, would have run into her.

“Aye, Fin Mackenzie—Kintail.”

Her temper stirred again. “Do you always address him so informally?”

“We have known each other since childhood, mistress. I am Patrick MacRae’s sister. When our father died with the previous
laird, my mother insisted on moving back to our home across the loch, so I went with her. But I grew up here in the castle
just as Patrick did, earning my keep by helping Mauri with her chores.”

“You speak very well for a servant,” Molly said. Barbara’s blue eyes twinkled, giving her a mischievous look similar to her
brother’s. She said, “Although we MacRaes are sworn to serve the Mackenzies, mistress, we are not servants. Nor are we tenants,
although it must seem to many that we are. My family owns land across the loch in Kintail. My brother went to university with
Fin, and I was fortunate enough to learn to speak as they do.”

“Did you share their lessons?” Molly asked, sensing a kindred spirit.

“Alas, no, my father would not permit it. They did teach me to read enough to understand recipes and such, and to write some,
but that is all. Oh, bless you!” This last was because Molly had turned to open a chest and extract a clean shift, skirt,
and bodice from it.

“Whatever were you doing in the tub with him?” Molly asked as she handed Barbara a towel and began to help her remove her
wet clothing.