Page 10 of Bride of the Wicked Laird (Sparks and Tartans: The MacKinnon Clan’s Romance #11)

CHAPTER TEN

D avina awoke with a jolt as a small weight settled with great deliberation on her chest. While she was still entangled in a dream and her waking mind was trying to make sense of this, a loud purr penetrated her senses.

She chuckled. “Ah, little moggy, are ye waking me because it is time fer us tae be up and daeing?”

She stroked the small bundle which seemed to have no intention of moving. Stroking the soft fur and listening to the sounds of purring contentment issuing from the tiny creature made her smile.

It was almost morning. In the grey pre-dawn light she studied the tiny face, the whiskers and the furry stripes marking the soft fur. The kitten’s eyes were closed, a blissful expression on its face.

Davina could only wonder what it might feel like to be caressed and cosseted like this. She had no memory of being touched with warmth and comfort, of being soothed by gentle hands. Her memories held only the occasion cruel slap from Dame Maria.

Yet, there had been a moment she suddenly recalled, when Laird Everard had gently stroked the hair back from her forehead. Instead of being soothed by his kindly gesture, she’d almost jumped out of her skin, half expecting a blow, and quite unsure how she was supposed to react.

Thinking of it now as her fingers continued smoothing the silky fur, she rather wished he might stroke her hair again as he’d done.

She sighed. Whatever was wrong with her that she had such ridiculous ideas? As if the laird would ever bother to caress her again.

Having looked forward all afternoon for his return from Canna, she’d experienced a strange new sense of yearning and disappointment when he had failed to materialize. When she’d last looked out across the bay in the gathering dusk, she’d glimpsed no sign of the laird’s birlinn.

Yet only moments after she’d snuffed out her candle and settled herself under the covers, she had heard voices in the courtyard. Before she slipped off to sleep, she sighed, deep and long.

He was back.

As she stirred, the kitten jumped off the bed, and looked up, waiting.

“Oh, all right. Ye’re a hungry little one. I’m coming.” Davina pulled back the covers and swung her legs out of the comfortable warmth and placed her feet on the rush mat beside the bed.

In response to a loud “meow” she scurried across to the shelf where she’d placed the jar of milk last night, opened it and filled the saucer.

While the kitten was slurping up her milk, Davina washed her face and hands, shivering as she splashed herself with the cold water. She dressed quickly, warmed by the woolen tunic she pulled on over the kirtle and blouse.

After donning her stockings and boots and tidying her hair, she nestled the kitten in the pocket of her pinafore and hastened across the courtyard, heading for the kitchen.

Mildred and Broderick were already seated at Ailis’s big table, enjoying the porridge, and as she entered, they both looked up as she wished them good morrow.

“Good morrow, lass.” Mildred smiled.

Ailis bustled over. “Here. Give me the wee mog. Ye cannae break yer fast wi’ a kitten in yer pinafore.”

Davina smiled to herself as she handed the little cat to Ailis. So, this was what it took to bring a smile to those usually grim features.

After they’d finished their porridge and Bannocks, Broderick and Davina resumed their activities in the infirmary. Broderick had returned from across the bay with some herbs that required planting, so Davina headed out with her trowel and the seedlings.

The kitten frolicked beside her in the newly dug earth as Davina pulled weeds and turned over the sandy soil to make space for the herbs. “Ye’ll have muddy paws, wee one.”

As it had the previous day, a misty rain began falling.

Davina pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and rose to her feet. “Come, moggy, let us head inside before we become damp with this falling mist.” She bent to pick up the kitten.

As she stood, a hand reached out to take her basked, and a molasses-deep voice greeted her.

“Good morrow, mistress Davina.”

A delicious shiver rushed through her at the sound of his voice. She sucked in a sudden breath. The laird! And here she was, with mud on her hands, clad in her shabby old kirtle, cradling a tiny kitten in her hands so that she could not even smooth back the hair that was falling in her eyes.

He surveyed her up and down, a grin breaking out on his face as he did so. “D’ye ken ye’ve mud on the tip of yer nose?”

It was impossible for her not to laugh. “Why yes, I hear ‘tis the latest fashion from the King’s court in Edinburgh. Ladies nae longer wish tae whiten their skin but tae turn it brown.”

“Ah. Then I am pleased tae see ye’re keeping up with the likes of the noble ladies.”

She tucked the kitten into the pocket of her apron and brushed the annoying hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear.

“And I suppose wearing a wee cat in their pockets is another charm of the ladies at court.”

“Indeed,” she said, unable to overcome her grin. This was flirting, she was quite certain of it now. This foolish sparring back and forth with words and the sparkle lighting up his eyes as he met her gaze. To say nothing of the grin splitting his face.

There it was again. The fluttering in her belly.

“I am pleased tae see ye’ve returned safe from the Isle of Canna. Did yer discussions bear fruit?”

He tilted his head, frowning slightly. “What d’ye ken of the meetings and discussions we held on the island?”

She met his gaze, her expression serious. “Me laird, I am nae deaf. I heard what passed between ye, Hugo, Maxwell and Aileen while we sat together at supper. I understood that ye were endeavoring tae convince the privateers tae cease interfering wi’ MacDougall’s trade.”

“Ah. That had escaped me memory. Mayhap we should talk further.” He grew thoughtful. “Will ye join wi’ me in the solar at mid-morning?”

“Of course, me laird.” She managed a small curtsy despite the furry bundle in her apron pocket.

His grin was back. “And make sure ye bring yer the wee moggy wi’ ye.” He turned on his heel and strode across the courtyard to the keep, leaving Davina with new tingles that started in her toes and went all the way up to her nose with its daub of mud.

Broderick was chuckling as she walked into the infirmary.

“D’ye ken ye were addressing the laird wi’ a wee blotch of mud on yer nose?”

She huffed, dipped a linen rag into a pot of water on the table and swiped it across her nose. “The laird very kindly pointed it out.”

Davina and Broderick worked together during the morning attending to the problems of a number of folk. She was relieved he was there today, as she was not comfortable dealing with men’s complaints. Especially if they concerned their private regions.

One older man complained of crippling pain whenever he relieved himself. Broderick took him behind the screen for a mysterious examination. He brewed a tisane for the man and sent him home with dried berries to be used for a tea each night for the next few days.

This aroused her curiosity and she confessed to Broderick that she had no knowledge of men’s bodies.

He produced a parchment with a clear drawing .

“These are the outside parts.”

Davina peeked through her fingers at the diagram, noting three lumpy outlines. “And what are they fer?”

“This one is the pin,” he pointed to the object hanging between the two other outlines. “It is where a man pisses.”

“Oh.” Davina let out a loud exhale. “That looks uncomfortable.”

Broderick laughed. “And when the pin swells and hardens, it lengthens, enabling a man tae place it inside a woman. That is how a baby is made.”

“Me goodness.” Davina felt her cheeks burning. “I cannae imagine such a thing.” She pulled her hand away from her eyes and studied the diagram more closely. “It is indeed a strange apparatus.” She pointed to the two round objects. “And what, pray tell, are these used fer?”

Now it was Broderick’s turn to look a little flustered. Frowning, he ran his fingers through his fair curls. “’Tis complicated, lass. They are called ballocks. Those are used fer… storage.”

She raised a brow in puzzlement. “Storage?”

Broderick was spared from any further explanation as, at that moment, a mother with a wailing lad aged around six came rushing into the infirmary. Davina remained puzzled but determined to investigate further, at the first opportunity.

Blood was running down the lad’s leg from a large cut above his knee.

Broderick sat mother and son on the two rickety wooden chairs in the infirmary while Davina hastily filled another pot of water from the cistern outside. Taking a linen cloth from the shelf she handed the pot and the cloth to Broderick, who began cleaning the wound.

The lad’s mother, who introduced herself as Bessie and her son as Thomas, explained he’d fallen and been cut on a scythe left lying hidden in the grass.

All the while, the lad was all but raising the roof with his bellowing.

“Hush, Thomas.” Broderick tried to quieten the lad so he could examine the wound.

Davina knelt beside Thomas and reached into her apron for the kitten, who leaped at once onto the boy’s lap, instantly distracting him.

When Broderick laid his hand on the boy, the bellowing started up again.

“Me apologies Broderick, but Thomas doesnae trust ye.” The lad’s mother whispered. She glanced at Davina. “Can the lass help him? He’s more comfortable with a lass’s touch.”

Broderick handed the cloth to Davina and the lad quietened as she did her best to stay the bleeding.

“He’ll need stitching. Can ye dae it?”

Davina nodded, although a stone dropped into her belly at the prospect. But she’d stitched wounds before and, truth to tell, it was little different to the stitching she applied to mending the nun’s torn clothing, which had also been her job to fix in the convent.

Broderick handed her the needle, threaded with hemp, and while the lad was distracted by the moggy’s antics, Davina deftly made three neat stitches, closing the cut.

After knotting and cutting the thread, she layered one of Broderick’s healing salves on the wound and bound it with a clean strip of linen.

“Can I take the kitty home wi’ me?” Thomas begged.

Davina shook her head. She couldn’t bear to part with her kitty. After only a day, the tiny animal had squirmed its way into her heart.

“Nay, lad. I’m sorry. She’ll stay here wi’ me. But when yer maither brings ye back fer me tae see tae yer leg and cut the stitches, I promise ye’ll be able tae play wi’ her then.”

“What is the moggy’s name?” The lad was still stroking the kitten’s ears.

“She has nay name yet. What d’ye think we should call her?”

The lad thought about it for a while. “She’s soft and pretty and as light as a feather. Can we name her Feather?”

Davina clapped her hands. “That’s a perfect name fer the wee soul. Feather she shall be from now on.”

By the time Thomas had dried his tears, and he and his mother had departed, it was past noon.

Davina had been hoping there’d be time for her to change into her blue kirtle and braid her hair before she went to her meeting in the solar with Laird Everard. But there was no time for such vanity, so she scrubbed her hands, splashed her face with water and dried herself on a fresh linen towel, tucking her wayward curls behind her ear.

“Is there any mud on me nose? I must go visit with the laird.” She smoothed the crumpled skirt of her kirtle, straightened her apron and tucked Feather into the pocket.

Broderick inspected. “Nae a scrap. Yer nose is untouched, except fer one or two freckles.”

She huffed indignantly. “There’s aught wrong wi’ freckles.”

Broderick was chuckling as she hastened out of the infirmary. It was only when she raced up the stairs of the keep that she noticed her hem was stained with mud.

“God’s blood,” she muttered under her breath. Then she gave a half shrug. There was nothing to be done. She could only hope the laird would not notice.

Everard seemed lost in thought when she entered the solar, gazing into the fire which blazed merrily in the hearth.

At the sound of the door closing behind her, he got to his feet.

“Come in, lass. Join me and warm yerself at the fire.”

She slipped into the room and lowered herself into the armchair beside his, all too acutely aware as she sat that the hem of her kirtle was boldly displayed, muddy hem and all. She thrust her feet under the chair hoping her hem would follow. It remained, obstinately, in full view.

On a small round table between the two chairs was a flask containing an amber-colored liquid. Everard reached over and poured a splash into the glass he was holding and poured another splash into the remaining glass.

He put down the flask and handed the glass to her. “A wee dram of whisky, lass.” He raised the glass he was holding. “Slàinte Mhath. Tae yer good health.”

He watched as she sipped. The whisky burned as it went down her throat and she grimaced. He chuckled and immediately she felt her cheeks flushing with heat.

What an unsophisticated dolt he must think me.

She mustered up a smile and took another sip, taking care to school her features. The second sip was, surprisingly, rather pleasant, despite the rough edge as it slipped down her throat and she liked the sensation of warmth running through her.

“Are ye enjoying yer work in the infirmary?”

She bobbed her head. “Aye, me laird. ‘Tis me work there that made me late tae the solar. A wee lad whose leg needed stitching.”

He cast her an interested glance. “And ye’re able tae dae kind of doctoring?”

She nodded. “I learned a great deal in me years at Iona.”

“And nay doubt our healer will be glad of yer assistance.”

Feather chose that moment to leap from Davian’s pocket and spread herself in a most comfortable position in front of the fire.

“Ah. The wee moggy.”

Davina threw him an arch look. “Her name is Feather, me laird.”

He laughed. “I beg yer pardon, Mistress Feather.”

Feather rolled on her back, pulled one of the rushes from the rug at their feet and tangled it between her front paws.

To Davina’s surprise, Everard leaned down and tickled the kitten’s little round belly. At that Feather lost interest in the reed and diverted all her attention to his hand, holding it in her paws and nibbling his fingers.

“I dae think she likes ye, me laird.” Davina giggled. It was such a sight to see the large man, usually so imposing and dignified, almost on the floor, being assailed by such a wee creature.

She watched his long fingers stroking the soft fur and found herself unable to stop the thought of what it might feel like to have those same fingers caressing her. She bit down on her lip in an effort to prevent herself from entertaining such wayward thoughts.

His careworn features softened with a smile. “When I was a lad growing up, we always had a cat or two at Kiessimul. But in later years we’ve had none. It is good tae see this small one. I daresay there are enough mice tae keep her busy.”

When he turned his dazzling smile on Davina, she’d quite forgotten that she looked such an untidy sight in her scruffy mud-stained kirtle. Her heart jumped as their eyes met., and she took in a deep steadying breath.

He resumed his seat, drained his glass of the whisky and turned to her.

“Now, lass. Let us bring our attention tae more serious matters.”