Highlander's Prize (16 page)

Clarrisa eyed her, but the woman didn’t relent. Edme watched as the girls combed, braided, and pinned up Clarrisa’s hair. Clarrisa sighed once it was done, for it felt as though it had been ages since she was neat.

Dresses made of wool arrived, but they were still finer than Clarrisa would have preferred. Dyed rich shades of blue and gold, the wool was woven tightly from thin threads. Edme snapped her fingers, and two of the maids removed the dressing robe. Clarrisa felt the sharp gaze of the head of house taking note of her size as well as every other detail of her body. It wasn’t a new experience, but her belly quivered with apprehension because she just couldn’t help thinking the older woman was deciding if she was fit for her laird’s bed.

“The blue, I believe.”

The blue dress had a cranberry underdress. Made of linen, the undergown had straps that came over her shoulders. It was quilted across the front in tiny rows with stiffened reeds inserted into the channels to support her breasts. Hooks and eyes were closed down her front before the overdress was lifted and dropped carefully into place. Once the back laces were tied, the dress fit reasonably well.

“We’ll set the seamstress to work on a few others,” Edme muttered. “Let Ardis in now.”

One of the maids opened the chamber door. A man with a long white beard stood there with two younger men behind him. He tugged on his bonnet before walking into the chamber. One of the men held a wooden box, which he set on the floor, while the other man carried a stool, which he set it in front of Clarrisa. Ardis sat down.

“Ardis is the cobbler. He’ll make up some sensible boots for ye.”

The box was opened, and Ardis took the tools his assistant handed him—a measuring tape and even a sheet of costly parchment. He carefully recorded the measurements of her feet before tracing an outline of each of her feet.

“I’d have been happy to come to your workshop.”

Ardis stood and shook his head. “A lass of royal blood does nae belong in a cobbler’s shop.”

“I’m bastard-born.”

He stroked his beard as his assistants picked up his stool and closed the workbox. “Blood is blood.”

He was gone without another word, while Clarrisa was still trying to decide on a way to argue with him without disrespecting his greater age.

“Now that’s done, we’ll take off the dress so ye can rest.” Edme’s voice rang with authority.

“Oh… but really… I’m not tired.” Clarrisa turned to avoid the hands of the maids.

“Ye’re fighting a chill,” the head of house declared.

If they disrobed her, she’d be imprisoned in the chamber as surely as if the door were barred. “I’ll sit by the window… and read. I simply don’t want to be in bed like a child. It’s only a hint of a chill.”

The maids stopped trying to catch the ends of the laces and waited on their mistress to decide. Edme tapped her foot several times before nodding.

“The sight of the fields being turned can be a hopeful one. No doubt it will encourage ye to heal quickly.”

The maids moved to the windows and opened the shutters to allow the sunlight in. Clarrisa sat down and suffered their pushing a padded stool beneath her feet, while another offered her a selection of books. She took one without looking at the title.

“I truly am not fragile.”

Edme looked unconvinced. She snapped her fingers, sending the girls toward the rumpled bed. They set it to rights before lowering themselves and quitting the room. Clarrisa listened to their steps fade away before looking at the book in her hands. For once, she wasn’t interested in a new book, which was surprising because one of the few things she’d adored about living with her uncle was his collection of books. But he’d known it and had often restricted her access to the costly volumes whenever he was of the mind to discipline her.

Break
her
will
was
more
the
correct
way
to
say
it…

It didn’t matter. She was about as far from her uncle’s castle in Kent as she might be. The Highlands were a place no English army ventured, which left her with the task of freeing herself—if she truly wanted freedom.

Did she?

Or did she want to choose Broen…

With a hiss, she stood and placed the book on the seat of the chair. The brew from the cook had eased the pounding in her head, but the result was that she was thinking much too clearly. Alone with her thoughts, she’d become easy prey for Broen if she did nothing but recall his kisses. She would drive the man from her thoughts with work. Her shoes were neatly placed in the wardrobe. She gave them a shake before putting them on.

Deigh Tower was in good repair. From the stories she’d heard, she had expected dank and smelly corridors. Instead, the solid stone walls were covered with smooth plaster. Every ten feet along the walls were iron torch holders that each held a length of iron with its end wrapped in dried stalks from the last harvest. The stalks were coated with pitch, the dry material soaking up large amounts of the black substance. At night, they would burn well and far longer than wooden torches.

Such was a modern design. The wind did whistle through the arrow slots, but it carried the sweet scent of spring, no noxious odors from slime accumulating in the dark corners. In fact, the hallway was well lit with windows that had their shutters open. She hurried past the master bedchamber, Broen’s voice ringing in her ears.

Fate was determined to hound her, it seemed, for her lips tingled. She felt anxious and her senses keener.

Trust
him? Not likely.
The man was too good at the game of seduction.

The stairway was narrow, but still wider than the ones in her uncle’s home. It made sense, for Broen and his retainers were burly men, every one of them wide-shouldered and tall. That portion of the tales of Highlanders was proving true; they were formidable men.

She needed to find some work. Her mind wanted to dwell on Broen MacNicols, no matter the consequences.

She smelled the great hall before she saw it. At the bottom of the stairs, the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Preparations for the midday meal would be well under way. She made it to the entrance of the hall and frowned when the MacNicols women there all lowered themselves.

“I am not worthy of such respect.”

The women didn’t respond to her, only studied her for a moment before continuing with their duties. They switched to speaking in Gaelic too, shutting her out completely.

Well, she’d not allow their perception of her station to keep her from finding something to occupy her hands. There was always work aplenty in spring.

But every time she tried to help, some MacNicols woman would take away the chore. Frustration nipped at her, but the challenge of outwitting them became greater. She went into the back kitchen and began to scale fish. She’d finished two before she was discovered and the remaining fish taken away.

“Yer hands are too soft, lady,” the cook muttered with a meek look but a touch of superiority in her tone. For as much as she’d always heard Highlanders were men of amazing strength and audacity, she’d never considered what type of women lived among them. The MacNicols women were good companions to Broen and his retainers, it seemed.

That only reinforced her need to rise to the challenge of besting them by having her way.

“No, my hands are not soft, because I am not lazy. My day has always been full, and I see no reason to change honest habits. There must be chores I can help with,” she insisted and lifted her hands to show the cook. The woman only shook her head.

“Does nae matter. Yer blood is royal. The chores in this kitchen are too lowly for ye.”

She might have continued to argue with the woman, but more and more of the kitchen staff were taking notice. The cook was their superior, so they’d not go against her word. It was better to see if she might find someplace where the opinions of the older women didn’t reach. Besides, if she forced the cook to bend, she’d only be proving that she was owed obedience because of her royal blood.

It was a frustrating tangle to be sure, one that made her pity true princesses, because their lives must be so very limited by what everyone around them believed they should or shouldn’t be doing.

Down a corridor came the sound of singing. Clarrisa followed it to find a long workroom with spinning wheels and two looms. So early in spring, there wasn’t any wool left to card or spin. The only woman in the room was working the loom.

“There is fine linen on the table to make the laird a new shirt,” she called out over the cloth she was weaving.

A wife made her husband’s shirts, or a mistress or a lover, for the undergarment was an intimate thing. It showed devotion to labor on something no one else would see. Handling the fabric that would rest against his skin… She shook her head to dispel the image. The MacNicols woman grinned at her, but the expression resembled a smirk too much for Clarrisa’s taste.

“I will not make Broen a shirt,” she blurted out, too flustered to keep her voice even and composed. The Highlands were truly driving her mad, sucking every civilized behavior from her while destroying her self-discipline.

The woman smiled. “But ye use his Christian name so easily.”

The insinuation sent a blush back to her cheeks. The maids had clearly carried the tale of Broen’s kissing her far and wide. Clarrisa sighed on her way out of the spinning room. It was no different in her uncle’s castle—or any castle, for that matter. Everyone knew everyone’s doings very soon after they happened. It made her temper sizzle to think everyone assumed she belonged in Broen’s bed.

Even the brute himself.

“Ye are supposed to be resting, Lady Clarrisa.” Edme was in the hallway with several maids trailing her. Clearly the woman was busy, for many of the maids had rolled parchments in their hands.

“I am not tired, nor are my hands too soft for work.” Clarrisa held her chin steady. It was time to show the MacNicols head of house that she was also not a child easily bent.

“I’m a Highlander, Lady Clarrisa. I know what sturdy hands look like,” Edme declared while her staff watched intently. Clarrisa stood her ground.

“I am also not accustomed to being addressed by the title of ‘lady.’”

Edme tilted her head. “On that we disagree, for yer blood is blue, which entitles ye to the title of ‘lady,’ even if ye were nae afforded it before now. Even we in the Highlands know how titles of nobility work. Blood is blood. Being born the daughter of a peer means ye are a lady.”

“Perhaps, but my uncle forbade any member of his house to address me so. He feared I’d forget my place.” She’d learned long ago to ignore the shame her uncle had meant to inflict with such a dictate. If she didn’t care, he couldn’t hurt her feelings. “I was raised to be useful. I do not know how to be idle while the sunlight is squandered, and I do not want to learn such a wasteful habit.”

“Well now, there is something ye might help me with. A task no one else has the knowledge for.”

There was a gleam in Edme’s eyes that made Clarrisa leery, but the promise of something to take her mind off Broen MacNicols was too much to resist. Her suspicion grew as Edme led her back up the stairs toward the chamber she’d slept in. The woman was just as much a Highlander as her laird, for she would not be bested.

Well… neither would Clarrisa accept becoming the pampered plaything for the laird of the keep. Edme continued to the next floor. “Like any good head of house, I like to keep a strict accounting of what is inside the keep.” Edme opened a door to reveal a room crowded with chests of all shapes and sizes, many of them locked. There was a rattle of keys as Edme took a large key ring from one of the maids.

“The things in this room came with the laird’s grandmother or as gifts from her relatives.” Edme sent the maids toward the window shutters. Once opened, the morning sunlight illuminated dust floating thickly in the air.

“She was bound for marriage with an Englishman when the laird’s father brought her here.” Edme made a soft sound. “She followed her heart and married him.”

“If she wanted to stay here, why didn’t she open these chests?”

Edme’s expression turned sad. “She never got the chance. Fate had other plans. She died of childbed fever, but her relatives wouldn’t believe the husband she’d wed without their permission when he wrote to them of her passing.” Edme spread her hands wide. “So the gifts came, and the laird’s grandfather was too full of grief to open them. Now that he’s gone, it’s time to open them, but they are gifts for a noblewoman. Perhaps ye can help me identify what they are.”

A chill swept down her spine. The neatly stacked chests belonged to a woman long dead. She wandered in a circle, trying to decide which chest to open first. A sense of adventure filled her as she settled on one. She began humming, enjoying being needed for something beyond the blood flowing through her veins.

Indeed, being needed for the knowledge inside her head and the order she might bring was a fine thing indeed. Who might have thought she would find such a place among the uncivilized Highlands of Scotland?