Page 17 of Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Highlanders of Cadney #14)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
D onall studied the sealed letter on his desk, frowning thoughtfully at it. He knew, if he undid the seal and opened it, that he would see Lydia’s neat penmanship dancing across the page, the graceful arches and loops far more elegant than he could ever manage.
Marcus was sure to note the difference. He would likely show it to his siblings as well, and the speculation would be…
he’d be inundated with letters, from his sister in particular, inquiring after the scribe who’d penned the letter.
The questions alone would be aggravating enough, but even more so was the knowledge that he had no answers to give.
Lydia - the lass with no surname that he’d ever been able to glean.
She’d supposedly learned penmanship and other such skills, including clerical tasks and correspondence, from being a lady’s maid in a minor noble’s household - but her penmanship possessed the elegance of someone who had either learned it young, or spent countless hours practicing.
There were other signs too, signs that were more obvious with every passing day that Lydia served as his maid.
Signs like her obvious enjoyment of reading - she was often found in the library - and her fledgling knowledge of healing.
Who would train a lass to be a personal maid and a healer at the same time?
There was no way the duties wouldn’t come in conflict.
And when would a servant develop such interest in reading?
Perhaps it was different among the English. However, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Lydia than had been revealed - and that she was not being entirely truthful with him.
Every story she tells me seems plausible… but they dinnae line up neatly. An’ what servant daesnae have a reference, even if the lady she served is dead? She could still offer the name o’ the laird, or an heir, or even a fellow servant who moved on tae another situation.
For that matter, she’s never told us the name o’ the friend who suggested she travel intae the Highlands seeking work, either.
There were just too many questions, and it made the back of his neck itch, the way it sometimes did out riding the borders, when there were wolves or bandits about.
A soft knock on the door turned his attention away from the letter, just as Ewan and Alex entered. Ewan’s expression was grim, and Alex looked unnaturally serious. Donall felt his stomach clench. “The scouts are back?”
“Aye. They went back tae where ye said ye were attacked. They found signs o’ the caravan bein’ turned away, toward the Cameron border. But ‘tis more than that. They found the bodies o’ the men ye killed.”
The way Ewan tensed told Donall all he needed to know, but he asked the question anyway. “And what did they find?”
“Traces o’ rags, but more traces o’ Cameron tartan. An signs o’ survivors makin’ straight fer the Cameron border.”
“Have there been other attacks?”
“Nae any sign o’ them, though our outriders an’ border patrols have seen signs o’ several scouting parties from that border. More than ‘tis normal.”
“I see.” Donall scowled out the window in the direction of the Cameron lands. “What dae ye think?”
Alex huffed. “They’re lookin’ fer somethin’ or someone, an’ looking hard. Whoever or whatever it was, they thought the caravan party was protectin’ it - or them.”
“But the increased scouts…ye think they havenae found what they’re seeking?”
Alex nodded. “All signs point tae that whatever they’re seeking, they think ‘tis on Ranald land.” He hesitated. “I’ve heard whispers too, that yer Council is growin’ uneasy. They dinnae think ye have the resources tae be embroiled in a conflict with Clan Cameron.”
“They’re right. Even if ye an’ me kin-by-marriage all supported us, ‘twould be a hard-fought conflict, an’ far too many casualties. I’m nae certain Clan Ranald would survive, even if the others would.” Donall sighed.
Ewan nodded. “The warriors are willin’ me laird, an ye ken we’ll fight fer ye, but there’s nay question – ‘twould be best if we kent what we were fightin’ fer, an whether it was worth the bloodshed.”
“I ken.” Donall grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve suspicions, but nay certainties. And until I ken fer certain, the only path open tae us is tae wait and see.”
Ewan frowned. “An’ what will ye tell the Council?”
Donall snorted. “Tell them what I said - until we ken what Clan Cameron is seekin’ there’s naught tha’ we can dae. If they want reassurance, tell them that I’ve sent word tae our allies an’ kinfolk fer more information.”
He reached over to the desk and handed Ewan the letter. “See that a messenger takes that tae MacDougall castle.”
Ewan tucked the letter into his belt pouch. “An’ what o’ the lass? This all started with her arrival. Ye ken that someone will question the happenstance.”
“I ken. That’s why I’m keeping an eye on her. But so far, I have nae proof one way or the other.” Donall combed a hand through his hair. It felt grimy, and he hated the feeling.
Ever since the king’s gaol, griminess troubled him more than it had before. He shook away the memories, and focused on the present. “Speakin’ o’ that... I need a bath. Send someone tae collect the lass tae attend me.”
Lydia approached Laird Ranald’s room with a slight feeling of trepidation. She’d received orders to attend to the laird while he had a bath, and the orders made her feel uncertain, not only because she had no idea what the duties entailed.
Drawing the bath, at least, was a task that she could enlist the aid of other servants for. No one servant could be expected to bring up the tub, heat the water, and bring all of it to fill the tub before it cooled.
She knew enough to collect a number of soaps, a cloth for washing, and sturdy sponge and a towel. Maisie had helped her select the laird’s preferred fragrances for the soaps, and pointing out the cloths and sponge that were set aside for his use. But what else was she supposed to do?
I… I could just bring his bath supplies and leave…
Lydia knocked on the door with tentative raps. “My laird.”
“Come in.”
Lydia entered to find the large tub had been placed by the fire and filled with steaming water. Laird Ranald stood next to it, barefoot but otherwise dressed. Lydia bowed, and held out the basket of bath supplies. “Where shall I put these, my laird?”
“Beside the tub.” Laird Ranald waited until she’d set down her burden. “Now, help me undress, an’ help me make sure the stitches are healin’ properly. They itch.”
Lydia felt her heart skip a beat and her cheeks burn red. “I… I have never…”
Laird Ranald raised an eyebrow at her. “Ye’ve never helped a man undress, or served yer laird or lady in the bath?”
“I… my lady… but never a laird.” Her cheeks felt hotter than the hearth fire.
“Och, well, I willnae bite, lass.” Laird Ranald’s mouth quirked in something that might be a smile, though the expression disappeared so fast she couldn’t be sure. “In any case, I’ll only ask ye tae help with me shirt an’ scrub me back. Naething more than that, unless ye’re so inclined.”
Lydia ducked her eyes away from his gaze, unwilling to let him guess how much his sly suggestion both embarrassed and intrigued her.
Instead, she fashioned her gaze on the ties of his shirt as she worked to undo the knots.
Still, she could not deny, if only to herself, that there was a small part of her that was curious.
The knots came undone, and she helped Laird Ranald out of the shirt before having him lift his arms so she could see the healing stitches on his side. “They look well healed… you may wish to have Evelyn take the thread out, after you have finished bathing.”
Feeling oddly daring, she slid the tips of her fingers lightly along his side, feeling for heat or puffiness that might indicate an infection. “No signs of any infection, my laird.”
“Good.” His hand dropped to the belt of his kilt, and Lydia hurriedly stepped away.
She busied herself with checking the temperature of the bath, adding another kettle of water from the pot over the fire for that purpose, and tossing in some of bath salts as well, to foam and provide some cover.
She thought she heard a chuckle, but then came the welcome sound of a body settling into the water.
She turned back to find Laird Ranald settled into the bath, everything of a delicate nature mercifully hidden from view. “My laird.”
“Let me soak a moment, lass. I’ll wave ye over when I want me back scrubbed.” His head tipped back, giving Lydia an unobstructed view of his tanned throat and his well-formed shoulder and chest muscles.
“Aye, my laird.” She dipped her head in answer, then made a point of attending to small tasks around the room - adding more water to the pot, seeing that the towels were properly laid out, and collecting fresh clothing for him to wear after his bath.
She couldn’t help sneaking looks at the man relaxing in the tub, but she did her best to keep her focus mainly on her duties as a maid.
Finally, Laird Ranald sat up with a groan, his hand waving in something that might be interpreted as a summons. Lydia hurried over. “My laird?”
“Another bucket o’ water, an’ then I’ll be wanting me back washed - the pine scented soap, I’m thinkin’.” He gestured.
“Aye, my laird.” Lydia hurried to follow his commands. “Do you prefer the softer cloth, or the sponge?”
“The softer cloth. The sponge is fer me hands an’ arms, or fer a hard day’s labor.” He gave her a sideways look.
“Every laird and lady has their own preferences, my laird.” Lydia responded. “My lady preferred a sturdier sponge - she said it made the skin feel cleaner and glow with health.”
That is even almost the truth - though I was the lady, not someone doing the serving.