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Page 16 of Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Highlanders of Cadney #14)

She waited until she heard the low, gruff-sounding acknowledgment, then worked the door handle with her elbow as she’d been taught and stepped inside. She was halfway toward the table set by the fire when Laird Ranald emerged from his bedroom.

It was only decorum that allowed her to keep walking, rather than stopping abruptly and possibly tripping over her own feet. The laird was dressed in a short kilt and an open shirt, nothing else. He was barefoot, his hair was even wilder than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

Lydia hastily averted her eyes and continued to the table, where she set down the tray and laid out the contents, before bending to the hearth to awaken the fire and clear out some of the choking ash from the day before, so the coals could burn hotter and awaken sooner.

Laird Ranald watched her for a moment. “I found ye in the library last night. Were ye practicin’ with the linens?”

Lydia bit her lip to stifle a gasp, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She’d wondered, when she’d woken by the cold hearth, who had covered her, but she hadn’t expected it to be the laird. “I was. Maisie says I need much work to fold them as crisply and tightly as she does.”

The laird made a noise that might have been a huff of exasperation or a laugh - Lydia was far too embarrassed and nervous to look up and identify it. “Why the library?”

Because I wanted to see what sorts of books Highlanders owned. My uncle owned so few - I hoped to find something I had not read.

The words lingered in her mind, but Lydia held them back.

That was no servant’s answer - from what she’d seen and heard, servants had little time for such things, and most of them knew almost nothing of reading and writing.

Instead, she sought and offered a different answer.

“It was quiet, and I did not think I would be disturbed, nor disturb anyone.”

“I wondered.” Laird Ranald settled at the table and began to eat.

Lydia swallowed, and tried to keep her attention focused on her work.

It was difficult though, with him sitting there, the open edges of his shirt revealing glimpses of his well-muscled abdomen and those intriguing tattoos.

Then there was his kilt. Short as it was, it only reached his thighs, and Lydia was entirely uncertain as to what she would see if she chanced to look up.

Rumor had it that Highlanders wore nothing beneath the kilt. Lydia forced that thought away, but she couldn’t stop the color that rose to her cheeks when she considered what that might mean.

“Are ye well? Ye’re flushed.” The words were brusque, sharp and cold, but under them Lydia could hear the faintest thread of concern.

She shook her head. “I am not ill, my laird. It is only the heat of the fire.”

She prodded a last log into place, then rose to her feet, keeping her head bowed. “Would my laird like me to select his clothing for the day?”

“Aye. That is part o’ yer duties, is it nae?”

Lydia inclined her head. “Does my laird have any special meetings, or any activities planned?”

“Why?” There was a definite sharpness in his tone now, and Lydia flinched. She’d clearly said something to either anger him or make him suspicious. Nonetheless, all she could do was answer as best she knew how.

“If you had a special meeting, I could lay out nicer clothing - one of your better shirts, and a fresh pressed kilt, perhaps a sash and whatever else you might need. If you were planning something like training with the soldiers, or going out riding, I could select sturdier clothing. That is all, my laird.” Lydia swallowed hard to try and clear the lump in her throat, her heart pounding.

“Anythin’ that’s nae full council garb will dae.” The heat was gone from Laird Ranald’s voice, but she had no idea whether she had succeeded in placating him or not.

She didn’t dare ask. Instead, she dipped her head the way Maisie had taught her, then turned and hurried into the bed chamber to seek out the appropriate attire.

Finding a shirt that seemed appropriate was easy enough, and a kilt, but Lydia hesitated over the section that held the trews, leggings, and stockings.

She had no idea if Laird Ranald would want any of them.

“Jus’ the stockings.” Lydia startled and whipped around to find the laird standing there with an amused expression. “I dinnae wear the trews or leggings unless I’m ridin’, or ‘tis winter cold.”

“I see.” Lydia nodded and selected a pair of dark stockings to lay on the bed. She turned around to close the chest - just in time to see Laird Ranald toss his garments to the side and approach, completely nude.

Lydia made an inarticulate noise. It sounded to her like an undignified cross between a gasp and a squeak, and made her cheeks burn red once more.

Then she scrambled for the discarded clothing, her eyes fixed firmly anywhere but Laird Ranald.

She heard him chuckle, and had it not been for the fact she would have had to look at him, she would have thrown something at him.

“Ye’re a shy one.”

“I am not used to being around unclothed men.” Lydia bent to pick up the sleeping clothes and began to fold them, keeping her gaze on her work to ensure every crease was perfect. “I only ever helped my lady dress.”

“I suppose ‘tis nay surprise.” Lydia heard the rustle of cloth, then a low sound like a bed being sat on. Moments later, Laird Ranald’s voice came again. “Och, ye can look up again.”

He was dressed, moving to a chair by the hearth to put on his boots.

It ought to have put Lydia more at ease, but she couldn’t help recalling that she’d laid out no undergarments, and that only the fabric of the kilt prevented Laird Ranald’s manhood from being on display.

The fabric, which had felt like good, thick-woven linen when she laid it out, suddenly seemed a very thin barrier.

I cannot be thinking things like that. Especially not while serving as his personal maid, but certainly not while I am trying to remain as unnoticed and inconspicuous as possible.

Laird Ranald finished dressing, then rose with a grunt. “Leave the cleaning fer Maisie. Ye’re comin’ with me tae me study.”

Lydia nodded and followed him. Once inside, Laird Ranald tipped his head at the desk. “ I saw how ye organized the papers.”

Lydia blinked. She recalled tidying the desk. That was when she realized she’d done it the way she would have organized her own desk at home. It was too late to undo the mistake, so she would have to come up with a plausible explanation.

For a moment, she panicked. Then she recalled something an elderly lady who visited her uncle at times had said.

She bowed her head. “I’m sorry if I did it wrong, my laird.

My lady was older… her hands did not work well, so she had me manage things of that nature when her joints pained her too much for her to do so. ”

“I didnae say it was wrong.” Laird Ranald studied her for a moment, then handed her two sheets of paper and pushed a quill at her. “If ye’ve that sort o’ trainin’, ye can recopy this letter for me. I dinnae have the patience tae dae it meself.”

Lydia took the paper and smoothed it out. It was a roughly written, much smeared letter, beginning with the salutation ‘Laird Marcus MacDougall an’ Kinfolk…’

Lydia dipped the quill into the ink, shook out the excess, and began to write. The letter was not a long one, and she was soon finished. She gently shook some sand over the ink to dry it, then pushed the finished document back toward the laird’s side of the desk. “Is this satisfactory, my laird?”

“Aye. Ye’ve neat handwriting, lass.” A small frown creased his brow, then smoothed out. “Seems ye’re well suited fer this sort o’ work.”

He gestured for her to continue with tidying and tend to the hearth.

Once she’d done that, he waved her away.

“Go tell Corvin I’ve deemed ye suitable.

From now on, ye’ll serve me me morning meal an’ dae tasks at the beginning of the day, then after supper when I’m preparin’ fer bed, an’ whenever I call fer ye.

The rest o’ the time ye’re tae give Corvin any aid he needs, then speak tae Evelyn about whatever she needs, an’ the rest o’ the time ye’ll continue helpin’ Maisie an’ learning whatever ye still need tae ken from her. ”

“Aye, my laird.” Lydia dipped a curtsey, then turned and left the room, biting the inside of her lip in order to keep her face as expressionless as possible.

The change in her duties seemed like it might be a lot of work, but it was also an unlooked-for opportunity.

By the time she left, she might genuinely be able to say she had been a laird or lady’s maid, that she’d trained with a healer, and that she had experience in assisting a steward.

Such skills would likely make it far easier to find work.

Having such skills and work-roughened hands would only support the ruse if she set herself up as a young lady from an impoverished family of noble stock. She might never be able to regain her former status, but she might be able to find a comfortable life and perhaps even find a loving husband .

I could be content with such a life. In fact, I think I might even be happy in such a life, provided I married the right man…

Lydia squashed the rest of the thought before it could fully form.

The wish that had nearly formed in her mind was a dangerous one - a foolish one to give even a moment’s consideration to.

Better to be happy with her current situation, and regain her strength so she might implement the next phase of her plan.

Better by far to think about when she might move on, and where she would go, than to give any credence to the small whisper that echoed in her heart.

I wish I could stay…

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