Page 8 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)
CHAPTER EIGHT
L yra reclined in the copper tub, closed her eyes and let her hair sink into the warm water to wash away the suds.
She’d never bathed like this before. Of course, for the nuns, cleanliness was almost a sacred bond. Lyra had always washed her face and hands each morning and monthly sponge baths were de rigueur. But to disrobe and immerse completely in warm water, with the luxury of rose-scented soap, was something she’d never even dreamed of.
This was a rare pleasure indeed, and the silky sensation of the water moving over her body made her aware of herself in a way she’d never experienced. The water flowed over and around her breasts, and she watched, fascinated, as the pink nubs responded by puckering and hardening. She brushed one with her hand, startled at the little burst of pleasure that brought.
Surely it was sinful to feel such delight in the sensations of her own body?
She soaked until the water lost its warmth and it was turning cold by the time, she stepped out of the tub onto the rush mat. She dried off with the linen towels provided, and put on the lacy night-shift that had been left for her on the bed.
Then she sat by the fire and combed the shiny ringlets of her hair until they were dry and smelling sweetly of roses.
She dreamed before the fire, dozing, waking, luxuriating. When her traitorous thoughts strayed toward a tall, dark-haired, savage, she put all such foolish visions out of her head and, instead, remained in the afterglow of the newfound, languorous indulgence of bathing in warm, silky – and, oh so sinful – water.
Finally, when even the logs had burnt low, she slipped between the covers of the bed, reveling in the soft mattress and the fresh, sweet-smelling sheets, and drifted off to sleep.
Morning light was streaming into her room from a high window in the stone wall when a soft tapping on the bedchamber door awakened her. Heart thrumming, she seized her cloak and hastened over.
“Who is it?”
Could it be Laird Tòrr?
A small voice responded. “’Tis Elspaith, yer ladyship.”
Lyra opened the door to a small, trembling lass. She caught a glimpse of fiery red hair and a face dusted with freckles as the wee lass dipped her head and curtsied. Draped across Elspaith’s arms was a gown of deepest blue velvet.
“Come in, lass.” Lyra flung the door wide.
Elspaith trotted into the bedchamber and proffered the gown along with a chemise, stockings, and a petticoat of embroidered white fabric.
Lyra lifted the sumptuous gown and held it up. “Is this for me to wear? It is very grand.”
Elspaith nodded. “Aye. Claray sent it. It belongs to the laird’s sister who left it along with other gowns after she visited. It is in the Italian style.”
“Well, surely, I cannae wear the lady’s clothing?”
Elspaith shook her head. “Claray said it will dae until the dressmaker can fashion another for ye. She is certain the lady willnae mind. She is a sweet soul and generous.”
The little maid’s face had turned pink, making her freckles stand out, and Lyra could not help but smile at her earnestness.
“Aye. I thank ye, Elspaith. I shall be pleased tae don such a lovely gown.” She ran her hand over the velvet. “’Tis beautiful with this gold stitching at the neck and sleeves… I’ve ne’er seen such a gown.”
“I am at yer service if ye wish me tae attend ye, tae braid yer hair, or tae put ribbons in it. I have ordered some warm water fer ye tae wash when ye’re ready. The scullery maid will bring ye something from the kitchen tae break yer fast.”
Lyra was nonplussed. “I dae believe I will need yer help tae dress. I am unused tae wearing aught but the simplest of robes.”
After she’d splashed water on her face and washed her hands with the rose-scented soap she donned the underskirt, and Elspaith helped her roll up the silk stockings.
“Raise yer arms, me lady, and I’ll slip the gown over yer head.”
Lyra dutifully obeyed and, as the dress slipped over her shoulders, she marveled at the unfamiliar softness of this lush fabric. It clung tight around her waist and over her breasts so that breathing freely became difficult.
As she tied the golden, plaited girdle around the neat waistline, Elspaith produced a pair of dainty, embroidered, slippers and Lyra slipped her feet into them.
Another knock at the door brought two scullery maids carrying trays loaded with porridge, honey and cream, coddled eggs in sauce, cheese, butter, bannocks, and blackberry jam.
When the maids had departed, Elspaith curtsied. “Ye look beautiful me lady Lyra. Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I’ll leave ye tae break yer fast and I’ll return tae attend tae yer hair.”
“Thank ye, Elspaith.”
After the maid had gone, Lyra surveyed herself warily. She ran her fingers down her neck, across her shoulders and over the top of her chest investigating the parts of her that were not covered. She uttered an anguished yelp. There was altogether too much bare skin on display. After being completely enveloped in nun’s robes for most of her life, displaying her neck and bare shoulders was shocking. But to expose the top of the plump breasts she’d only really discovered when she bathed last night, seemed the very height of wantonness.
Without a looking glass it was impossible to glean the full effect of the flowing gown, but, mayhap when Elspaith returned she could prevail on her to provide a piece of linen or lace that she could tuck into the bodice and cover herself. with That would make the gown at least partway decent.
She seated herself at the small table in front of the fire, took as deep a breath as the gown would permit and proceeded to break her fast.
She’d swallowed no more than a mouthful of porridge, when the door was suddenly flung open once again and Tòrr strode into the room.
She snatched a hand over her breasts, her cheeks burning.
She gasped, attempting to stand without the voluminous skirt hampering her legs. She would have toppled but for Tòrr pacing forward and seizing her arm.
Clutching the back of the chair, she shook herself free of his hand.
“Laird Tòrr! Ye startled me!’
“Begging yer pardon, me Lady Lyra.” He gave a short laugh and bowed from the waist. “Forgive this barbarian who is so lacking in manners. I’m nae used tae a lady living at Dùn Ara, thus I havenae the habit of knocking on the doors of me own castle.”
He chuckled, and flung himself, uninvited onto one of the chairs. He lounged there, insouciantly, his gaze raking her from head to toe.
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin in a haughty gesture that caused her hair to fly over her shoulders. She raised a hand to push a wayward strand behind her ear, realizing as she did so, that she’d left her breasts open to his view.
Her cheeks were on fire. This man was far too bold and not at all to her liking.
He nodded approvingly. “I must say, wi’ a night’s sleep in a soft bed and a scrub, ye are a sight tae behold, lass. And…” he wiggled a cheeky finger at her, “that dress fits ye like a glove.”
“Pshaw. I’ll nae listen tae yer compliments Laird Tòrr.” She cast a glance down at the front of the gown. “Why, ‘tis more than unseemly, ’tis… ’tis… unchaste...”
“Unchaste is it?”
She huffed, refusing to answer.
“Who was the lass who sat beside me by a fire, naked, save for her cloak? As I recall, it was only yesterday.”
She blushed intensely.
“And, who was the lass who watched me disrobe and said nary a word?”
She couldn’t help her lips curling into a hint of a smile as she remembered the sight of him. While one part of her had been shocked to the core, another, wicked, part, had thoroughly enjoyed the sight of Tòrr’s nakedness. It was impossible not to admit to herself that he was a very fine specimen of manhood.
“Now that ye’re coming tae yer senses, lass…” He helped himself to one of the bannocks on her tray and slavered it with butter and blackberry jam, “… finish breaking yer fast and join me fer a walk.”
She slipped back into the chair and took another spoonful of her porridge.
“Where are we tae walk?” Her heart leaped at the prospect of walking the cliffs above the sea as he’d promised she could.
“We’ll nay stray from the castle. But I wish tae show it tae ye. There are still blooms on the poppies in the bailey that I’m sure ‘twill be tae yer liking.”
She nodded half-heartedly. “I was set on a stroll on the clifftops but, I admit, I am curious tae see all of the castle. Is it as grand as the monastery and the priory at Iona?”
He gave a soft laugh. “Nay. Tis merely a wee castle. The place of the MacKinnons. And me home fer all me life.”