Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (7 page)

“’Tis alright, Gillis,” the maid said softly. “Gillis is my lady’s brother,” she explained. “He was wounded in the battle of Arkinholm and hasna spoken since, nae for many years. He abhors violence. He was the only brother to survive the battle.”

Gillis placed his slender fingers on Sorcha’s shoulder and glared at the Lady Douglas.

“Twould seem Gillis has a soft spot for yer maid,” Malcolm said, releasing Lady Douglas’ arm from his grip.

Gillis stared at Malcolm now, confusion in his eyes.

Several weeks ago, Sorcha had tried to explain to Gillis why she would pretend to be a maid and why it was necessary for Nessa to pretend to be the Lady Douglas. She did not want to marry the Highlander. She wanted to drive him away. She’d found Gillis in the stables that morning, patiently petting the nose of a horse. He always had treats for them—usually mint, or apples and pears in the summer, if the fruit wasn’t too sour. He appeared to listen as she explained her ideas for deceiving the Highlander, but she couldn’t be sure how much he’d understood because he never said anything. Nessa had come into the stables and overheard her talking to Gillis.

“As always, ye waste yer breath,” she sneered. “He doesna understand a word ye say. He’s witless. If only it had been Tavish who came back from Arkinholm.” It was a cruel thing to say, for Nessa had been infatuated with the handsome and strong Tavish. “Leave us,” Sorcha said. Nessa had frowned and stormed from the stables.

“Forgive my clumsiness with the whisky, my laird,” Sorcha said, gritting her teeth.

“No harm done, lass.”

“Except for a sopping pair of trews,” Nathair said.

“More whisky,” Lady Douglas demanded, sputtering. “Get me another as well.”

“Nay,” Malcolm said. “No more whisky. We will be shown to our rooms now. I would like to bathe and change from these uncomfortably wet trews before the e’ening meal. Yer maid will aid me with my bath.”

“Yea,” Lady Douglas said. “But of course. Dunna fear the chit’s clumsiness. She’ll nae scald ye, of that ye can be sure. Or she’ll be sorely punished. I’ll put ye in the room that used to belong to…to my brother Gordon.”

Gillis began to shake his head and angry, red splotches appeared on his cheeks.

“Gillis,” the maid said softly, “perhaps ye can fetch more Birchwood for the fire?” She patted his hand. “All is well, Gillis, all is well.”

Reluctantly, Gillis nodded. He withdrew his hand from Sorcha’s shoulder and walked away.

Lady Douglas rang the bell loudly, startling everyone again. Several hounds in the corner howled. “Nessa,” she said, “see to the laird’s room and prepare his bath. Martha and the others will bring the tub and water upstairs.”

“Me thinks, my lady, ye should give that sarding bell a rest,” Nathair said, rubbing his ears.

8

Sorcha hurried up the twisting stone stairs and along the dimly lit corridor. Once she was inside Gordon’s room, she shut the heavy, oaken door and took a deep breath.

The room’s lone window provided a stunning view of the coastal shores and looming mountains. The smaller cove almost dried up at low tide but it was high tide now, and the sea was riotous and frothing as dusk fell. The marshland’s wet surface caught the last rays of the sun and Sorcha could hear the mournful cries of sea birds.

The room, which contained a four-post bed with dark green coverlets, a chair, a small table, a trunk, and a wide hearth, was adequately prepared for the laird’s stay. It was a masculine room—a boar’s head was mounted on the wall and Gordon’s weathered targe still stood in one corner. The targe was circular, its width almost twice the length of her arm. It was crafted from pine and covered in tooled leather and silver-headed studs, with a spike in the central brass boss. The frame was bent from battle. Kendrew had managed to bring it home after Gordon had died. He’d cleaned the blood off and a layer of dust had coated it ever since.

When she was a child, Gordon let her strike his oiled targe over and over with her small wooden sword. They’d often stood in the courtyard, the sun streaming down. “Hit me harder!” he’d command. “Wee sister, yer attack is like the tiny bite of a midge!” He teased. “Nobody e’er died from the bite of a midge!” Sorcha smiled at the memory. Gordon had always been teasing but so patient with her.

The wooden puppets her father had made for Gordon when he was a lad lay next to the targe. A pair of foot soldiers—warriors on strings—could be pulled back and forth in semblance of battle, and a jousting figure with miniature armor and horse-trappings could raise his joust. Her father had made puppets for all of his children. Sorcha had one of her own, a princess, though she had pestered her father to make her a jousting figure instead.

When Murry was a child, his father had been stern and strict. The only gifts he gave Murry as a lad were silver spoons. What lad wanted a silver spoon? Children wish for play things. Murry had determined when he was a man his own children would have such play things, and he made them himself, with love and care.

Many a night when they were wee children, Murry had told Sorcha and her brothers wondrous and frightening tales in this room as the sea raged outside. Sometimes he moved the puppets as he talked, a twinkle in his eyes.

They always begged to hear the tale of Cailleach, or “the old wife.” Cailleach was a one-eyed hag who had tusks like a wild boar. She was a spell caster who could split mountains with her hammer and raise great storms. She loved darkness, desolation, and winter. Numerous wild animals followed her about—deer, goats, and of course, wild boars. When she thwarted one of her son’s torrid love affairs, he turned her into a mountain boulder overlooking the sea, and she had to remain that way until summer turned once more to winter. ‘Twas said she stole children and roasted them in her cave and that her sons were two-headed giants. 

Resentment flared inside Sorcha as she thought of the father and brothers she so sorely missed, their lives cut short by a quick-tempered king who feared the Douglas reach. She lit the candles on the bedside table and the flames illuminated the space. Then she lit a fire in the hearth.

No sooner had she finished and there was a knock on the door. She froze. But it was Nessa who wobbled into the room and Sorcha let out her breath. Tripping on the hem of her gown, Nessa fell into Sorcha’s arms and giggled.

              “Ye’ve had far too much whisky!” Sorcha said. “And we havena had the e’ening meal yet!”

              “Was I nae a good actress?” Nessa sat on the bed and put her hand to her head. “Och, but the room willna stop spinning.”

              “Yer playing yer part vera well,” Sorcha said.

“Ha’e I repulsed him sufficiently? Disgusted him? Shocked him with my ill manners? Do ye think they will all leave in the morning?”

              “It was a grand first performance, but I dunna think the oaf has any plans to depart on the morrow. I dunna think it will be that easy.” She frowned. “Would ye really ha’e struck me, Nessa, when I spilled whisky on the Maclean?”

              “Mayhap. But nae hard. I wouldna ha’e hit ye
hard
. Ye said to make my performance believable, did ye nae?” Nessa flounced backward on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Sorcha grabbed her hand. “Sit up! The servants will soon be here with the tub and the water. Ye canna be found here by the laird, whispering with me. What else do I need to do?” She looked around the room and tried not to panic.

              Nessa sighed. “I didna expect him to be so…handsome. Ye ken? He is nae a hideous oaf, as we thought he would be. He doesna stink or yell or spit or belch or boast.”

Sorcha furrowed her brows. “’Tis early yet. Give him time.”

“Truly I didna expect such tartan, drab clothing, though. He wears no gold or gems and pulls his black hair back loosely with a leather thong. He almost looks like a cleric the way he is dressed! Except he’s much too sensual looking to be a cleric. Hmmm…he looks more like a devil if ye ask me. They say he looks vera much like his father, and they call his father the Black Wolf. ‘Tis easy to see why.”

              “Nessa, we canna forget who he is, a boorish Highlander who will take
e’erything
from us if we let him.”

              “Ye ha’e the lucky duty of bathing him, of seeing his hard, naked muscles dripping with water….”

              “’Tis surely the whisky talking! Now tell me, how do I bathe a man? I ken ye’ve done so many times. I’ve ne’er had to. Tell me quickly and then ye must go! Do I hand him the sponges and turn my back?”

              Nessa laughed. “Oh yea, ask the lowly servant how to bathe a man for she’s done it many times. Ask her about the spinning of flax and wool, or the emptying of basins and the sweeping of dung-riddled floors. Ask her about changing rushes or beating the dust and grime from a tapestry or pulling apart and re-stuffing a lice-infested mattress, for these things she kens.” In the twisted ropes of candlelight, her sweet face looked almost angry.

“Had we nae come up with our wee ruse, I would be the one bathing him now, and I must tell ye I wouldna mind it a bit. I ken how to do it well. I used to bathe Lulach often.”

“After what he did, I think ‘tis best we ne’er speak his name. And bitterness doesna become ye.” Sorcha did not want to be reminded of the day she’d found Nessa’s still form on the bank of the Burn of Black Sorrow, or relive that horrible moment when she thought her dear friend dead. The unpredictable burn had already taken other lives, including her mother’s. There had been terrible rains and thunder that day and Sorcha had felt something was wrong. She searched the keep but there was no sign of Nessa.

She’d ventured into the cold, rain-swept valley, not bothering with a cloak, and went looking for her. To this day she did not know what drew her to the burn, but she could never forget seeing Nessa lying still on the bank, dripping wet as if she had drowned, her clothes and hair drenched. Sorcha had shaken her until her eyes had fluttered open. Sobbing, Sorcha had gathered her to her chest, trying to warm her trembling body.

“Oh Nessa, what do ye here, on a day like today?” Sorcha had whispered.

“Dunna love a man,” Nessa had weakly replied. “Oh Sorcha, dunna e’er love a man.” She’d begun to cry then as the wind howled and tore at their shivering forms. Nessa’s brothers Tomas and Johne had found them and helped them back to the keep.

              Nessa frowned. “Do ye think Lulach is happy with her? She’s older than he is and vera plain, as plain as a field mouse. Do ye think she reads him romantic verses by the fire of an e’ening and plays her golden harp for him?”

“I think he’s vera happy with her dowry. I think he likes gilt-silver cups, rich rugs and tapestries and foods, gold, and her warm bed. He wants for nothing. I ha’e also heard he uses her money at the gaming tables. As I ha’e told ye many times, ye deserve a better man. Now, sweet girl, tell me how to bathe the Maclean. We dunna have much time. I had nae thought of this task. I had nae thought it would be required of me.”

“Things could ha’e been different for Lulach and me.” Nessa glared at Sorcha.

“Ne’er defend that man to me, nae after what he did,” Sorcha said. “He broke yer heart and ye nearly died.”

Nessa’s shoulders slumped and she sighed. “Make sure ye ha’e sponges for him to sit or lean upon in the tub and a sponge also under his feet. The basin will be filled with hot water and fresh herbs and scented oils. Just as it is when ye take a bath. Ye simply wash his body with a soft sponge and rinse him with warm rose water. He may ask ye to wash his hair with the cinnamon and licorice spices.”

              “I ha’e to…touch him?”

              Nessa giggled. “Of course ye ha’e to
touch
him. But ‘twill be no hardship, my lady. Och, I didna mean to call ye ‘my lady.’
I am
Lady Douglas now. I like being the lady. So get about yer duties, ye dalcop!” Nessa hugged Sorcha fiercely. Her breath reeked of the drink she’d consumed. “My sweet, sweet dalcop.”

              “Of late, yer moods do e’er swing this way and that, dear friend.” She paused. “Couldna Martha or one of the other maids wash him instead of me?”

              “He asked that ye do it, Sorcha. Can ye imagine Martha, as gentle as an ox and as wide as one too, bathing the Maclean laird?”

“But what parts of his…body…do I ha’e to wash?”

              “All the parts he wishes ye to wash. I’m sure a man like that will guide ye. Now it is yer turn to put on a grand performance. He must think yer a maid experienced at bathing guests. Experienced at bathing a
man
and nae bashful about his nakedness.”

Nessa continued to hug her and then finally released her and tottered to the door.

              “He willna expect…anything else?” Sorcha asked.

Nessa shrugged her shoulders. “He may.” Then she disappeared into the shadows.

But
what
would he expect? All the tensions of the day, of meeting the dark-haired Malcolm Maclean, of being deceived by him, hit her with full force. When she’d climbed that tree and surprised him and Nathair with her presence, why hadn’t he told her who he was? That he was the Maclean? Then she felt a moment of shame, for she was still deceiving him about who she was and planned to go on doing it until he left the keep in disgust. Perhaps he’d hoped to receive a more forthcoming opinion of his bride-to-be if the maid in the tree did not suspect him to be the laird.

There was no time to dwell on her deceit. ‘Twas necessary if she was to drive him away and hold on to everything she held dear. She would play her part well and hoped Nessa would do whatever was necessary to make him leave
without his bride
. She comforted herself thinking how he would be gone well before the heather’s bright blooms marched across the hills and crept up the mountain sides, lighting the shadowed glens with their purple and pink hues. For surely he would not wish to stay here with such an unpleasant bride.

Sorcha did worry about Nessa’s unexpected physical attraction to the man.
Would
she continue to play her part? Or would she become a simpering, love-sick mess whenever he was near? A year ago Nessa had fallen for Lulach, a handsome noble, and Sorcha had seen her completely change. The nobleman had broken Nessa’s heart, after he’d used her body for his pleasure. He’d been a chameleon, so tender and sweet, always at Nessa’s side. And then one day he just left, without saying goodbye.

A traveling priest who’d sought shelter at the keep during a particularly violent rainstorm a few weeks later surprised everyone with the news that he had recently married Lulach Kerr to an Italian woman named Caterina Cellini.

Stunned by the news, Nessa had taken to her bed for weeks, crying and barely functioning, despite Sorcha’s best efforts to get her up and living again. She rarely ate, became feverish, often wretched into a basin, and Sorcha had feared for her life. Sorcha had taken care of her herself, and eventually, when spring arrived, Nessa had started to return to her old self. And then there had been the incident at the Burn of Black Sorrow.

Nessa still refused to talk about what happened that day. How had she almost drowned? Had she gone there with the intention of letting the fast-moving waters, which cut a channel through a valley walled by cliffs, swallow her and her sorrow forever, as Sorcha’s own mother Lizbeth had done?

Would Nessa be blinded by Malcolm’s unexpected virility? Sorcha had to admit Malcolm was not the hideous oaf she’d expected. But he was a Maclean, hard and arrogant; his ancestors had battled Vikings and been victorious. And he seemed astute. The longer this ruse played out, the more dangerous it became and the more likely she would be discovered. At least as of yet she’d seen no evidence of his gift of the Sight nor had he talked of it.

There was no more time to ruminate as Martha and several other maids marched into the room with the wooden tub, buckets of warm water, folded linens, sponges, fresh herbs, and scented oils.