Page 13 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

O nce Tòrr had left her chamber, Lyra returned to the fireside. She was used to quiet contemplation, but since she’d left the Priory there’d been little time to sit alone with her thoughts.

Her mind, filled with confusion, slowly settled as she sat gazing into the flames, breathing slowly, allowing herself to observe the thoughts that continually drifted across her mind.

Again and again, they returned to the Laird Tòrr MacKinnon. She saw his face, sometimes set in grim lines, other times smiling. And, what left her unsettled and often bewildered, were glimpses of something else in his dark, storm-ridden, grey eyes. Whenever she met his gaze, it was as if lightning scorched between them. She felt it streak through her heart as if it came directly from his eyes.

What were those strange feelings that came over her when he was close? A tingling, breathless kind of churning inside that was both excitingly pleasurable but, at the same time, alien and terrifying?

And then there was the way she found herself looking forward to being in his presence, listening for his footsteps, the pulse of sheer delight when she glimpsed his face.

Her reverie came to a halt with Claray’s voice at the door. “Are ye there Lady Lyra?”

“Come, Claray.”

Claray bustled in, beaming, a saffron-yellow gown draped over her arms.

“Mistress Purdie worked into the wee small hours tae make sure ye had something tae wear this day.” She hung the gown on the peg outside the garde robe.

Lyra clapped her hands at the sight of the delicately woven wool and the rich color. This was like nothing she’d ever had before. “It’s lovely,” She fingered he delicately woven wool. “This is me very first gown.”

Observing Lyra’s delight, Claray smiled. “I’m certain ye will look quite beautiful and that the Laird Tòrr will be pleased with Purdie’s effort.”

Lyra’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of her being pleasing to Tòrr’s eyes. “I will call in tae see Mistress Purdie tae thank her.”

“Hm.” Claray shook her head. “Mayhap give the seamstress time tae catch up on the sleep she gave up. Ye may find her door closed this morning.”

“Of course.” Lyra grinned. “I shall leave her tae sleep.”

Once she had washed and dressed, she sat impatiently fer Elspaith tae brush her hair.

“D’ye wish me tae make braids fer ye?”

Lyra shook her head. After so many years with her hair constrained and hidden under veils and caps, it was a joy to allow it to flow free down her back.

Elspaith held up a brass-backed looking glass to enable her a glimpse of the new gown.

Lyra preened in front of the mirror, turning this way and that, scarcely able to believe the lass in such a fine garment was herself. She sighed. There was much she missed from the company she’d known at the Priory but the world now seemed filled with fresh delights to savor. And with that in mind, once Elspaith had left her, Lyra slipped on her fur-lined tunic, exchanged her silk slippers for her boots, took down her cloak and headed out to the bailey.

She was going to ask Healer Eilidh about the disturbing sensations she was experiencing when she was in Laird Tòrr’s company.

Eilidh was pulling weeds from her herb garden when Lyra showed up beside her. The healer straightened, her face rosy and shining with sweat from her labors.

There was something about her tranquil composure that made Lyra wonder if, in the past, she might have contemplated the convent life.

“I’m pleased tae see ye, lass.” Eilidh gestured toward her tiny cottage next to the infirmary. “’Tis time I took a break from these cursed weeds. As soon as I turn me back it seems they’ve grown back twice as vigorously as before.” She gave a short laugh and peeled off her gloves. “Come. I am much in need of some refreshments.”

Lyra followed her back to her dwelling. Although on the outside it had the forbidding appearance of a cold, neglected stone building, inside it was bright with colors. Dried herbs hung in bunches from the rafters, tied with satin ribbons in crimson and blue, the walls were hung with colorful embroideries. On the mantel above the fireplace were painted stones in all shades of brown and green, each carrying a single word.

Lyra was intrigued. “May I?”

“Of course.” Eilidh was making up a brew in a large pottery teapot. The fragrant steam swirled into the air.

Picking up the first of the stones, Lyra saw ‘Kindness’ painstakingly carved into the stone. The next one was ‘Friendship’, then ‘Faith,’ followed by ‘Cherish,’ ‘Laugh,’ ‘Devotion,’ ‘Care,’ and, finally ‘Love.’

The words lifted Lyra’s spirits. “They are beautiful, Eilidh. Are they yer instructions fer how tae live a good life?”

Eilidh laughed. “Mayhap they would take us some way along the path tae a happy life. Yet there are many more. I make them when I feel the need. I often hold them in me hands, finding they bring comfort when me mind takes me tae places of sorrow I would rather nae visit.”

She poured two bowls of the tea she’d brewed and carried them outside to the old timber bench for them to sit in the sun.

Lyra replaced the stone in its spot on the mantel and followed Eilidh outside.

The sun cast a golden glow over the russet leaves on a cherry tree growing along the path. The air was filled with birdsong and as they sat, sipping Eilidh’s brew, a cheeky robin flew down and perched on the timber arm of the bench.

“Why, me dear Lyra, the sun has turned yer hair tae spun gold, it’s like a halo around yer face. Quite lovely.”

“Thank ye, Eilidh.” Lyra’s cheeks burned. “I’m nay used tae compliments.”

Eilidh gave a soft laugh. “Well then, ye’d best become used tae them fer ye are very beautiful and there will be many compliments coming tae ye.”

Lyra sighed. “I’d like tae think that might be so.”

The Healer gave her a quizzical look. “What is troubling ye. I can see it in yer eyes. Ye wish tae talk?”

“Only if ye have time tae spare.” Lyra was suddenly shy, all the questions that had been on her tongue while she was in her bedchamber had simply fled.

Eilidh reached across to squeeze Lyra’s hand resting in her lap. “Dinnae fash, ye’ll nae keep me from what is important tae me. If ye wish tae speak wi’ me then that is the thing uppermost in me day.”

It was difficult fer Lyra tae form the words, but once she’d assembled them in her mind, they tumbled out with alacrity.

“As ye ken, I’ve nae long left Iona and the nunnery. And now that I am in the outside world there are some things I find puzzling.” She mused on this for a moment. “More than puzzling. Unsettling. Disturbing. Bewildering.”

“Ah, so it’s a lad ye’re speaking of?”

“How d’ye ken such a thing?” Lyra was taken aback. Was she so transparent? Did her feelings show on her face?

“’Tis simple enough. When a lass speaks in such a way, it is clear tae me she is thinking of a lad.”

“Aye. And I wish ye tae help me understand these strange sensations. And…” Lyra drew in an anxious breath. “I wish tae ken the ways of things between a lad and a lass.

Eilidh nodded. “And ye think I am one who kens such things.”

Lyra’s cheeks flushed pink. This was not easy to speak of and she was beginning to feel rather foolish at having raised it. “I ken the way a bairn is made. I could scarcely believe me ears when I was told. The lass in the nunnery who kent all this said the lad’s shaft becomes hard and long, and he thrusts it inside the lass… er… between her legs. Could that actually be true?”

Eilidh laughed. “Aye, ‘Tis the truth.”

Lyra let out a yelp, her eyes widening in horror.

“Did this lass in the convent nae tell ye that many folk, lasses too, find that when a lad takes a lass in such a way it is divinely pleasurable?”

Lyra’s hand shot to her mouth. “Nay one told me such a thing, and I cannae believe it.” She narrowed her eyes, shaking her head going over this preposterous notion. “I suppose if one wanted a bairn very badly them mayhap it would be possible tae dae it… once…” She sucked in a sharp, disbelieving breath.

“But there are many whose family numbers ten or more children.”

“Ugh.” Lyra made a sound of disgust. “Yeu mean they’ve done such a thing ten times? Oh nay, that is unthinkable.”

“Mayhap many times more than ten times.” Eilidh added, laughing.

Lyra was shaking her head. “And each time they dae it, they find it brings pleasure?”

Eilidh chuckled again. “And, what’s more, they find such great pleasure in that way of coming together, they desire it greatly and long fer it.”

This was altogether too much. “Now ye are teasing me. I would never long fer something so base.”

“These feelings ye speak of. Are they disgusting tae ye?”

“Why nay. That is part of the problem. They are feelings that are… enticing, captivating…” She gave this more thought. “They are most alluring and pleasant.”

“So, ye dinnae wish those sensations to stop?”

“Nay. I find meself wanting them more and more. I wish fer them.”

“And they come when ye are with a certain lad?”

“Oh he daesnae have tae be wi’ me. I think of him fer most of me waking time. And, sometimes, he comes tae me in me dreams…” She stopped and looked at Eilidh anticipating a look of horror.

Instead Eilidh was nodding, a gentle smile on her face.

“How are these feelings?”

Lyra drew in a reluctant breath. “All I ken is that when the lad is near, I wish him closer, and when he is absent, I wish tae bring him near. Are ye telling me that these are the feelings that lead tae… daeing… that what ye spoke of?”

Eilidh nodded. “Methinks ye are falling in love, Lyra. ‘Tis a beautiful thing, dinnae be afeared of it.”

Lyra’s fingers scrabbled with the skirt of her new gown, twisting it into little ball. Eilidh reached a quiet hand and placed it on Lyra’s agitated fingers.

“But, ‘tis wicked tae have the kind of yearning I have.”

“Wicked?”

“Aye.” Lyra’s cheeks were burning. “I think of him taking me in his arms. I want his kisses on me lips. And, even worse… I’ve seen him naked and I wish tae see his body again.” She whispered. “And tae touch him.”

Eilidh shook her head. “These are the thoughts of young lovers. Mayhap ye have heard that such things are wicked. But…” She paused. “Look around ye. Every soul ye see, has come into the world because a lass made love wi’ a lad. If ‘twas disgusting, as ye suspect, then there’d be nay more bairns coming into the world.”

Lyra laughed. “Mayhap I will take yer words tae heart.”

“Mayhap…” Eilidh chuckled. “…ye are falling in love wi’ this lad of yers. Ye’re innocent, yet yer feelings are true. Trust yer heart, but guard yerself well.”

They had finished their tisanes, and both rose to their feet.

“Come visit again soon, Lyra. I enjoy yer company.”

“And I yer. I thank ye fer yer wisdom. I am comforted tae ken that I am nae as wicked as I feared I might be.”

Eilidh placed her arm around Lyra’s shoulders and drew her into a hug. “Never fear, lass. Just remember the words on me stones and stay true tae yerself.”

Lyra wandered back through the gate in the inner wall, lost in thought, marveling at Eilidh’s conclusion that she was falling in love. She’d heard of such things of course, but the heady, dizzy luscious confusion of it had caught her totally by surprise.

She went in search of Claray, for it was time she made herself useful. She had always been busy with work at the Priory and was happy to spend her time on the many mundane tasks that kept the place humming. Surely, there must be tasks she could help with in this vast castle.

Claray was in a small space near the door to the refectory. She was immersed in counting coins and allocating them to mysterious pieces of parchment on the tiny table in front of her.

Lyra tapped on the open door and Claray looked up with a smile.

“What is it me lady?”

Lyra did not hesitate. She was used to the plain speaking of the Priory. “How can I be of help?”

Claray greeted Lyra’s words with a puzzled expression.

“Help? What d’ye mean, lass?”

“I am willing to work. I like tae be useful. I have naught tae occupy me time. Nay embroidery, nye gardening. At the Priory I carried out many tasks. Laundry, sweeping, making sure all the beds were neat, washing dishes.”

“Hm.” Claray grew thoughtful. “Every task in the castle is allocated tae one of the servants. There are maids fer laundering, fer sweeping, fer attending tae the bedchambers.”

Her eyes swept over Lyra in her new finery. “The maids have taken the laundry tae the river, but it is nay fer the likes of ye, me lady, tae be rolling up yer new skirts and sleeves and standing knee deep in the water tae scrub the soiled garments.”

“Oh. I was hoping…”

“Wait.” Lyra looked up, smiling. “There’s the laird’s great kilt. He’s out with his man Edmund, in the training yard. D’ye ken how tae sponge clean a woolen plaid?

Lyra nodded. “Of course, our habits were made of wool and we cleaned them with great care.”

“In that case, accompany me tae the place where we hang clothes in the sun. If ye can sponge the laird’s kilt and leave it clean, ye’ll save me a task.”

Lyra followed Claray to the place behind the kitchen where several large cloths hung on rope lines, drying in the sun. Slung across two of the lines was the length of plaid that made up Tòrr’s great kilt.

She shook her head in amazement. “Why, it is immensely long and wide.” A sudden recollection of this very same length of woven wool hanging suspended from the rafter above the fire where she’d sat naked save for her cloak caused her to take a deep breath and nibble on her lower lip.”

“If ‘tis too much fer ye, never mind. I shall dae it fer the laird meself.”

“Nay, nay, I’m happy tae relieve ye of the task.”

Claray showed her the bucket and sponges and left her to return to her work.

Lyra spread the cloth over two of the clothes-lines and inspected it.

There were many splashes of mud, a stain that could be spilled ale and even a bloodstain on the tail end, which she supposed had come from a cut on his arm and soaked into the fabric when he had laid it across his shoulder.

After brushing it all over, she set about removing the muddy sprays. First brushing them vigorously to remove the loose dirt, then sponging to remove what was ingrained. The stains took a different kind of sponging, but they soon dried in the sun. It was not difficult work, but tedious.

Nevertheless, she pressed on happily, imagining how impressed Tòrr would be when he saw his great kilt looking like new.

As she worked, she allowed her thoughts to wander over her conversation with Eilidh.

The healer’s quiet wisdom had done much to settle her thoughts. She had now some small understanding of the feelings that were growing more compelling by the day, whenever she was in the laird’s company.

When she’d wakened with him beside her that morning, she’d been assailed by a cauldron of emotions inside her. She wanted him by her, as he had been in the night, keeping her safe, offering comfort. Yet she also wanted something more. Something she could not understand but accepted as symptoms of a strange new illness. Lovesickness. Finally, that word she’d heard mentioned in the Priory made sense.

Up until then, she’d imagined the worst. She laughed to herself. It was a disease, mayhap, but not terrible by any means.

She hummed quietly as she worked, enjoying the thought that this long length of fabric would eventually be wrapped around Tòrr’s strong body.

Claray appeared to inspect what she’d done.

“Oh, ye’ve done well. The kilt is as good as new. The laird will be pleased.”

Together they folded it, first lengthwise and then crosswise, so it could be carried like a loose package.