Page 10 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER TEN

T he seamstress took one look at Lyra and exclaimed, “Why she’s a right bonny lass. I’ll enjoy the sewing fer this one.” She patted Lyra’s hand. “Ye’ll nae require too many tucks and flounces to disguise the shape of this or that, fer ye’ve a fine figure and ye’re tall enough tae look like a princess in even the simplest garment.”

Claray smiled. “Well, the laird wishes tae order six new garments fer me lady.”

“I’m sure I can manage with a couple,” Lyra added hastily.

The housekeeper shook her head. “Nonsense, ye’ll need all. And, I daresay ye’ll need a good, warm tunic and petticoats and something of chemises tae wear with yer new gowns.”

Purdie brought out armfuls of rolled fabrics in all colors. There was saffron yellow, red the color of the deepest rose, pansy violet, a blue that could only have come from crushed lapis, pink, as soft and enticing as a baby’s cheeks, and green to match the grass.

“Yer choice me lady?”

This brought a giggle from Lyra. While her years of austerity at the nunnery had her in flux over the indulgence of so many garments, that little part of her already growing used to the outside world was secretly thrilled at Laird Tòrr’s sweeping decision. Left to herself she would have only dared to order two at most, and they would have been in the most inconsequential colors. Brown mayhap, or dark grey.

Claray took the fabrics of softest linen and wool, one-by-one and draped them under Lyra’s chin for the effect.

Purdie looked on and sighed as each fabric was displayed. “Why ‘tis impossible tae say which tae choose. They are all delightful and all of them suit yer yellow hair and yer rosy cheeks.”

“What d’ye choose, Lady Lyra?” Claray put down the last of them.

Lyra shook her head in confusion. “Why each of them is quite lovely. I cannae select me favorites.”

“In that case…” Claray handed the fabrics to Purdie. “She will have one in each of these colors, and one more in the silk.” She gestured to the two rolls of silk on the shelf beside Lyra. “Which of these d’ye like?”

Lyra did not hesitate. She pointed to the roll of lilac-colored silk. “That one is the most beautiful.”

“Now, I’ll take yer measure, and get started on the first of yer new gowns.”

After standing for what seemed forever, Lyra was finally released. Purdie seemed satisfied that she had as much information as she needed. She described the dresses she would make and showed charcoal drawings to emphasize the placement of a pleat or collar, and it was all finally decided.

The afternoon had fled and, as Lyra and Claray took their leave of Purdie, Claray reminded her that it was almost time to meet with Tòrr again in the hall.

They were nearing the door when Lyra gasped. “I’d almost forgotten. This gown I have on is much too low over the… over the chest. Is there a small piece of fabric I could have tae cover meself.”

Purdie pshawed. “Whatever d’ye wish tae cover lass?”

Lyra pointed to the swell of her breasts.

“Why lass, ye’ve such perfect alabaster skin it would be a crime tae cover it.”

It was impossible for Lyra not to giggle at that. “But surely this is most unseemly.”

Now it was Claray’s turn. “Nay, lass. This is more modest than many of the ladies wear. And, Purdie is right, ye look so lovely it would indeed be a mistake tae try and cover yerself further.”

“Are ye sure?” Lyra was dubious. But then, what did she know of fashion?

Both Purdie and Claray nodded without hesitating. “But ye’re quite right in suggesting that it is a garment suitable only for special occasions. While ye look very fine in it, I’ll have the first of yer new garments ready at this time tomorrow.”

Lyra left the seamstress still unsure, but without the modesty kerchief she sought, buoyed by all the flattering remarks showered on her by the two women.

The sun was low in the sky, throwing a pleasant glow over the courtyard. Enjoying the warmth on her face, she decided to walk through the courtyard in the bailey, with the intention of picking some flowers for her room. She retraced her steps past Seamstress Purdie’s room and headed for the kitchen.

Bethia greeted her with a floury curtsey.

“Please, dinnae pause, Mistress Bethia, I am simply here tae ask if I may borrow a knife tae cut some flowers.”

The cook signaled to one of the scullery maids, who handed a small, sharp knife to Lyra.

After a quick “thank ye,” she headed back to the bailey.

She’d cut some briar roses, daisies, lavender and an assortment of poppies, and was wending her way back when a woman’s voice hailed her.

“Good evening,” came the soft voice.

Looking around Lyra found the source of this quiet, cultured voice. Standing in the shadow of the infirmary door was a tall, smiling, woman. She moved with an easy grace into the fading sunlight her hand outstretched in greeting. Although she was clad in a simple green woolen kirtle covered by a fur tunic, she had the elegant bearing of a noblewoman.

Smiling, Lyra proffered her hand in greeting, noting that the woman’s fingers were stained green.

“How dae ye dae, me lady. Me name is Eilidh, and I am the castle healer.” She gestured toward the infirmary. “This is where I stay.”

“I am pleased tae meet ye, Healer Eilidh. I am Lyra, from Morvern. I have been admiring the herb garden. Is that yer work?”

Eilidh nodded. “Aye, I am the grower of the herbs and the maker of the herbal salves and tisanes I use in me healing work. Sometimes I walk the cliffs and shores hereabouts fer grasses and seaweeds also.”

Lyra sighed. “I should enjoy doing such useful and important tasks.”

“During yer stay at Dùn Ara mayhap ye can accompany me in me foraging.”

Another sigh as Lyra considered her situation and shook her head. “Thank ye. Mayhap one day.”

Eilidh’s auburn hair in the last of the sun’s rays shone copper and gold, streaked with silver. Lyra studied her features. Her angular features were not classically beautiful, yet her face was one that would always draw attention.

“I should like tae hear about ye, Lyra. What brings ye tae this place so far from yer own clan lands?” Eilidh gestured toward the small gravel path between rows of herbs. “Come, walk wi’ me and tell me yer story.”

Lyra hesitated. “There is little tae tell. Me life until now has been lived in the Priory at Iona.”

“With Maither Una?”

“Ye ken the Maither Superior?”

Eilidh gave a soft laugh. “Ah, yes. I once contemplated taking the veil and spent some time with the good sisters. In the end, I came to understand that such a life wasnae fer me. I’ve found solace from the death of one I loved in this wild, windswept, place among the healing plants and remedies, tending tae the sick and wounded.

Lyra nodded. It was not difficult to understand how such a life could itself be a healing from grief and sorrow.

“Dùn Ara is far distant from the Priory, Lyra. How is it that ye came tae this far-flung place? Are ye looking fer solace, seeking a new life?”

“I have nae had the time tae decide what new path me life will take now that I have left the sisters. I am here because there is someone who wishes me ill and yer laird rescued me from grave peril and brought me tae Dùn Ara.”

“I see.” Eilidh nodded without asking further questions. “If ye wish tae talk with me about what troubles ye, I listen well.”

The two walked together, Eilidh naming each of the plants in the growing beds. She described how each of them had a special use, whether from their leaves, their flowers, their roots. Some of them were used to heal a wound, others could take away pain, there were plants that could staunch the flow of blood or even send a person to sleep.

Her mind rolled back to the poison that had almost taken Sister Morag’s life that was meant for her.

“And if someone is poisoned? Is there an herb that can be used tae save them?”

“Aye. There are special concoctions that can help. First the person must be purged and there are herbs that help with purging. Then there are mixtures of herbs to make tisanes that will clear the poison from the body.” Eilidh gave Lyra a curious look. “D’ye ask because ye’re giving thought tae poisoning?”

Lyra laughed softly. “Nay. I asked because someone was poisoned in me stead. It occurs tae me that the poisoner might try again.”

Eilidh listened gravely. “In that case I shall make sure the herbs that work as an antidote tae poison are in the infirmary.

“I would like very much tae learn about the healing ways of the herbs and how they were made into salves and creams.”

As she spoke Lyra fel, that she could be useful as she had been in the priory, instead of a pampered woman and guest. She voiced as much to the healer.

“While ye stay at Dun Ara I would be happy tae teach ye. Ye’re welcome tae visit me in the infirmary at any time. There is much work tae dae and I would welcome another pair of hands tae assist me, if the laird daesnae mind.”

At the mention of the Laird, Lyra swiveled, eager for the Healer’s opinion of Tòrr. Although she’d only known Eilidh for a short while, her quietly confident manner, and her knowledge shone through, so that Lyra believed she was someone whose opinion was to be valued.

“Is the laird a good man?” Lyra’s heart thumped. “I’ve heard he is called The Mad Laird and I ken he is a strong and fearsome warrior from experience, but I have found him tae be kind also.”

“He is a great warrior.” Eilidh nodded. “He is tough, ‘tis indeed true, yet he is fair in his judgments. He is a relentless foe tae those who wish him ill, but his loyalty tae his clan and those he cares fer is beyond question. Yes, he can be kind, and kindness can compensate fer any sins. If he has promised tae protect ye, then ye can trust his word.”

Lyra smiled. “Thank ye, Eilidh. Yer words bear out the opinion I had formed fer meself. Mayhap he is someone I can trust after all.”

“His faither, Murchadh MacKinnon was a cruel man, but the Laird Tòrr is nae like him. He has nae streak of cruelty.”

The healer’s words lifted Lyra’s troubled heart. Her doubts that Tòrr was using her in some game of his own requiring him to make her his captive at Dùn Ara were alleviated.

Yet as she made her way back to the keep her burning need to return to her own clan remained as strong as ever.

She’d not been long in her chamber when there came a soft tapping at the door. When she opened it, there was Elspaith with hot water in a large ewer and linen towels slung over her arms.

The maid sloshed water into the washbowl and waited with the linen for Lyra to finish washing her hands and face.

Once she’d dried off, Elspaith handed her a jar of sweet, rose-scented balm, for her to moisten her lips and pat some behind her ears.

“Now, if ye wish, I can fix yer hair.”

While Lyra sat, Elspaith fussed over her long, fair tresses. First, she divided them into two sections which she braided, then, taking a fine ribbon, which she wound through the braids. She positioned them neatly around Lyra’s face, threading the ribbon through them as she went. She then wound the plaits around and over the top of Lyra’s head, drawing them down behind her ears where she threaded them together with the ribbon finishing with two bows at the base of Lyra’s ears trailing the remaining length of ribbon over her shoulders.

Then Elspaith held up a bronze-backed looking glass so that Lyra could see what she’d fashioned.

Lyra gasped at the lass she saw reflected. Surely that could not be plain Lyra MacInnes?

The effect was something Lyra could not have envisioned. She looked the very picture of a fine lady of fashion, in the beautiful gown she’d borrowed from Tòrr’s sister.

“Ye’re very bonny me lady.” The wee maid curtsied.

“I thank ye Elspaith.” Lyra beamed with delight. “If I am bonny, it is because of yer nimble fingers and yer cleverness.”

“Is there aught else ye need me fer?”

Lyra thought about it for a moment. “Aye, can ye hasten down the hall and tell me if the laird is already at the table?”

Elspaith wasted no time. She swiveled and darted out and returned with all speed.

“Aye lady. He is in the refectory with Master Edmund and the maids are ready tae serve dinner.”

“Then I must go. And I thank ye again fer all ye’ve done.”

Elspaith curtsied again as Lyra rose to her feet. The maid straightened her gown and brushed her hand over the velvet. She was already attending to the chamber when Lyra swept from the room.

Her hands were clammy and her heart was fluttering.

Will Laird Tòrr also find me appearance bonny?

She felt his eyes on her as she walked through the arched doorway and walked down the hall to the high table, where he was seated beside Edmund.