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Page 14 of Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Highlanders of Cadney #14)

In fact, she wasn’t sure anyone in the Highlands rode sidesaddle.

She hadn’t had a lot of time to observe it, or taken any inventory of their tack, but the blunt practicality of their actions suggested that the Highlanders as a whole prized efficiency and sense more than prettiness.

Sidesaddle riding was made to look elegant and prevent ladies from mussing their skirts - not something she’d observed Highlanders being overly concerned with.

She’d made a fool of herself, and now here she was, reaping the consequences of her actions and the hastily told falsehood she’d voiced to explain herself, lest Laird Ranald grow suspicious. Of course, she had little experience riding astride, so perhaps it was just as well, but still…

And the way he’d chastised her, so like Maisie… how had she forgotten the maid’s advice so soon?

Ask. Better to reveal ignorance or lack of skill and have it corrected than to make a fool of oneself otherwise.

She could have asked which horse was hers, and asked him how to mount… no one would disbelieve ignorance of her, not with the rumors that were surely spreading.

Maisie was hardly unkind enough to tell tales, but she was also unlikely to lie about Lydia’s skills as a maid, which were near nonexistent.

And now that she’d twice received special attention from Laird Ranald - well, she knew how servants gossiped.

She and Elswith had used that ploy often enough against her uncle and his actions.

If she was honest with herself, Lydia knew why she’d behaved as she had.

Her pride. She did not like being thought so ignorant and untaught.

She might not have thought it consciously, but some part of her had welcomed a chance to show that she was not entirely untaught, that she did have some skills of value.

I ought to have remembered that pride goeth before the fall.

“We’re here.” Laird Ranald’s voice broke through her thoughts. Lydia blinked and looked around.

The village they were in was modestly sized - smaller than Wycliffe, but clearly a prosperous place nonetheless. The house they had stopped in front of was marked as an inn and tavern. Laird Ranald had already dismounted and handed the reins to a stable boy.

Lydia blushed and slid awkwardly off the horse. Laird Ranald waited until she’d regained her balance, then turned and strode down the street. Lydia followed, marking the different buildings they passed - stable, candle maker, and…

“This is the seamstress’s shop. She makes all the clothin’ fer the castle staff, an’ a fair amount o’ me clothin’ as well.

I’ll introduce ye an’ tell Hailey tae put ye on the Ranald accounts, an’ she’ll tak’ yer measure fer clothin’ suited tae ye.

If she’s aught that will fit ye, we’ll take it home fer ye tae wear.

If nae, we’ll see if she has somethin’ that will suffice till she’s made somethin’ suitable fer ye. ”

Lydia nodded and followed him inside the shop.

It was filled with neatly arranged fabrics of all descriptions, including a large selection made exclusively in the Clan Ranald tartan pattern and colors.

Against the back wall, right where they would be in view when a customer walked in, were a number of suits of clothing - simple skirts, dresses of varying styles, kilts, shirts, blouses, trews and even leggings.

In between the articles of clothing stood a stout, matronly woman with neatly bound gray hair, and a welcoming demeanor. “Me laird! Welcome back. How are ye farin’ this fine day?”

Laird Ranald huffed, but Lydia saw his demeanor soften, just the slightest bit. “Well enough.” He gestured Lydia forward. “This lass is a new maid up at the keep. She was waylaid on the road, needs everythin’ more or less.”

“Och, poor lass.” Lydia found herself swept up into a warm, matronly embrace that made her heart ache for her mother, though she had passed away many years ago. “Well, first let’s see if there’s aught I have made that will suit. Come.”

The woman led her to the back and began taking items off the wall. “Easy items first - ye’ll need a chemise or two, a soft corset - I dinnae hold with those stiff forms, they dinnae permit a lass tae breathe or move as she ought - and good stockings fer yer feet.”

Lydia watched in bemusement as the seamstress held up one chemise, then another. “Och, ye’re a slim one, but taller than most lasses. That’s all right, we’ll find somethin’ fer ye… ah, there! These two, they’ll suit ye the best.”

The seamstress then began to search through skirts, blouses, and dresses.

Lydia watched her work. At home, she would have spoken up, but she was keenly aware that she had little idea of what proper servant clothing should look and feel like, or what it was made of.

Her only knowledge of it came from the cast-offs Elswith had given her to escape in, and the clothing she had borrowed from the other maids at Castle Ranald.

Her gaze drifted around the shop, until it settled on the dresses.

Most of them were quite practical, made for working in, but there were two or three that were more ornate, which looked as if they might be made for some special occasion.

One in particular caught her eye - a sky blue dress stitched with elegant knotwork patterns about the hems and sleeves, with a wide embroidered ribbon serving as a sash-like belt, the thread glistening like silk and satin in the light of the window.

It was a beautiful dress, and for all that she knew it was utterly unsuited to her new station, Lydia couldn’t help going over to take a closer look.

“’Tis beautiful, is it nae? ‘Tis meant fer a wedding or a feast day, but I’ve nae found the right lass, or the right occasion fer it.

I’ve considered tradin’ it tae a merchant goin’ tae Edinburgh, where it might sell better, but I havenae had the heart.

” The seamstress’s voice made Lydia startle, then blush.

“I hope you do not. It is a lovely dress.” She stepped away from the dress.

“Here are some things that may suit ye fer a while, although they’re nae quite made fer yer build. They’ll dae fer ye in the short term, but ye’d be better suited havin’ some clothin’ made fer ye properly.”

“If that is the case, then take her measurements. I’ll leave Lydia with ye while I go attend tae the land dispute on the southern farms,” said the laird.

Lydia almost yelped aloud, and only a hand on her mouth stopped an embarrassing sound from emerging. As it was, her heart was pounding so loudly she feared the seamstress would hear it anyway. She’d completely forgotten that Laird Ranald was still in the shop.

Fortunately for her, Mistress Hailey was too busy making sympathetic noises. “Och, that one… I bid ye luck, me laird, fer those two are fair stubborn as rocks.”

For a moment, Lydia thought she caught a faint glimmer of humor in Laird Ranald’s eyes, but it was gone too swiftly for her to be certain she’d seen anything at all.

“Indeed. I’ll keep yer words in mind. Tak’ care o’ the lass fer me.

Lydia, when ye’re done, bring yer parcels back tae the tavern.

I’ll be there, or I’ll return soon enough. ”

Before she had time to formulate a reply Laird Ranald turned and was gone, tramping back to the door and out into the road without so much as a ‘by yer leave’.

The seamstress clicked her tongue, but there was a note of sympathy in her voice. “Such a gruff one, me laird is. But I suppose ‘tis tae be expected… och, but never ye mind tha’. Let’s get ye measured.”

The measuring took some time, but at least it was a process Lydia was familiar with, and Mistress Hailey proved to be a quick and competent seamstress.

By the time she was finished, Lydia was confident she was in good hands, and comfortable enough to dare a question of her own.

“Mistress Hailey… what you said before, about the laird…”

“Aye? An’ what was that?”

Lydia bit her lip, then pressed onward. “You commented he was gruff, and you said it was to be expected? I was wondering if you might explain…?”

“Och, little enough tae explain - at least so far as I ken it. All I ken is what I hear from the keep.” The seamstress clicked her tongue again. “I’ve had many a maid from the keep in here, ye ken, an’ maids do talk.”

“And what do they say?”

“That the laird’s a cold man, stern and sharp, sometimes even short-tempered. But for all o’ that, he’s never harmed a lass, an’ never a man who didnae deserve it. Aye, word is he’s a good man, but ‘tis nay secret our laird’s been through some trials in his life.”

“Trials?” Lydia blinked. “What sort of… trials?”

Mistress Hailey frowned. “Have ye nae heard, lass? About the laird, an’ the matter o’ his sister, an’ his faither?”

She was interrupted by the opening of the door, to reveal a lass attired in a stout apron, stained with beer.

Lydia guessed her to be a tavern waitress.

Her guess was proven correct a moment later.

“Is the lass done yet? Only, I’ve Laird Ranald back a’ the tavern, an’ he told me tae bring her if she’s finished with her measurin’.

Also, he told me tae give ye this, Mistress Hailey. ”

The barmaid passed over a folded, battered piece of paper. Mistress Hailey opened it. “Me laird is sure?”

“Aye. So far as I ken, he’s never joked about aught.”

“Well, as he likes.” Mistress Hailey gave Lydia a smile and a pat on the arm. “Ye’re all finished, so ye might as well go on.”

“Aye.” Lydia nodded and followed the barmaid, her mind spinning with questions.

She had no doubt that the other servants were right - Laird Ranald was a good man, for all his cold demeanor. But…

What did she mean, about his sister and his father? I did not even know Laird Ranald had a sister - I’ve certainly encountered no sign of her in the keep. What on earth might have happened to his family, and to him?

The thoughts occupied her mind throughout the short meal they shared at the tavern, and the quiet ride back to Ranald Keep.

Lydia flushed and hurried to dismount, but she was still unused to riding astride. In her haste, she slipped, stumbled, and fell awkwardly to the ground. Her left foot landed badly on the stones of the courtyard, and a sharp pain flared in her ankle. Lydia cried out in pain.

Scarcely had the sound left her lips before Laird Ranald was crouched next to her, lifting her into strong arms. “Are ye hurt? Where?”

“It was just my ankle.” Lydia tried to free herself from his grasp, but the moment her foot touched the ground, Lydia gasped in pain, the ache so sharp that her eyes watered.

“Dinnae try tae stand.” Laird Ranald hefted her higher and carried her into Evelyn’s cottage without another word, setting her on the bed before the healer could speak. “She fell from the horse an’ hurt her ankle. Tell me how bad it is.”

Lydia blushed, surprised by his concern. Evelyn prodded the limb, rotating it in a few directions, then shook her head. “’Tis nay more than a mild twisting. A poultice tae soothe the ache an’ a day or two o’ light duties should be enough tae set her tae rights - an’ it may nae tak’ even that long.”

“Fine. Send her tae Maisie with the message when ye’re done.” Laird Ranald turned and left, leaving Lydia so stunned by his abrupt manner that she couldn’t even muster the words to thank him properly.

Laird Donall Ranald. He truly is a kind man, for all his abrupt, almost rude manner. I only wish I knew more about him - and perhaps, more of what he thinks of me.

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