Page 36 of A Rogue in Firelight

Ronan huffed in amusement. “Bathing apparatus. Thank you.”

“Down-the-stairs!” She pointed out and down.

“Aye.” He wanted a bath desperately. A basin and cloth would do, but he would try the shower machine, though he hated the things, having encountered them before.

“Clothes.” She pointed to the chair and the bed, where items were folded and stacked. “Towels. Soap. Bath!” she repeated with a sniff.

“Very kind.”

On the bed, he saw folded white linen towels, a fat ball of soap, and grooming items. The canopied frame was a dark, hefty monstrosity draped in red damask; the thick mattress was piled with pillows, and looked tempting after months on straw mats in a dungeon. A stiff chair held clothing items; polished boots sat on the floor.

He smiled, gritting his teeth, eager to be alone to bathe, change, rest, and think.

“Why does a guest arrive without his things, I wonder? But your manservant found some items for you to use.”

He raised his brows in surprise. “Manservant?”

“See, you know some words! Young Donal. Your manservant here.”

“Ah.” His nephew might be expected to guard him as well. A fortunate choice.

“Do-you-need-anything-more,” she boomed.

He shook his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Barrow. Kind.”

“Supper? Hungry? I will send up a tray. Tomorrow, breakfast is in the main house. That way!” She pointed out again. “Dining Room. Understand?”

“Aye. Breakfast. You are kind.”

“Hmph,” she muttered. “You have more English than anyone knows, I suspect.”

When he twinkled his eyes at her, she brightened. “So, Glenbrae! They think you a simple Highland man, but I think differently. I know a few MacGregors hereabouts.”

“Aye?” He went wary.

“Most are good folk, but there are smugglers in these hills. Are you with them?”

“I bring no trouble here.” Her question deserved an immediate answer.

“Huh. We shall see. Good evening.” She left the room, closing the door.

He sighed, ran a hand through his disheveled hair, rubbed his scruffy beard, and reminded himself again to be extremely cautious at Strathniven.

Exploring the room, he sorted through the clothing—linen shirt, neckcloth, waistcoat of brown damask, and a coat and trousers of black superfine. He wondered whose they were; the cut was suited to a tall, trim man.

First, he needed to feel clean again. Gathering the towel, soap, and a leather case of grooming items, he went in search of the bathing machine.

Going down the stone steps, he opened one door after another, finding rooms with furniture draped in dusty sheets and a compact room that held bookshelves, a table, a couple of chairs. A library. He would like to use that if he had time.

On the lower level, he found a small room with a high raftered ceiling and walls covered in blue Delft tiles. The tall apparatus filled the center of the narrow room.

He eyed the contraption skeptically. A wooden tub fitted with tall iron struts formed a cage-like enclosure; above it, a metal tank bolted in the rafters connected through pipes to the showering cage. Water was drawn downward by operating a long cord inside the cage; pulling it would produce a rainlike shower.

That was the theory behind such things, but in Ronan’s experience, they spit and shuddered and trickled and were more trouble than convenience. Pipes could leak and refilling the tank required at least two men to do the job.

This beast acted as expected. Ronan tugged a lever and then the cord, and water spit slowly downward. Stripping out of his things, he stepped inside, catching just enough tepid trickle for a decent wash. Wary of the rickety frame and creaking valves, he hurried to lather his hair and body with the pine-scented soap ball.

Earlier, the downpour on the hillside had given him a natural shower, so the machine completed the task. Rinsing the soap, he pulled the cord and stepped out. Clean was clean, and he felt good and grateful.