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Page 19 of Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Highlanders of Cadney #14)

CHAPTER TWELVE

A nother sleepless night. But it hadn’t all been nightmares, and that was what surprised Donall the most. He’d certainly woken up from nightmare memories at least once, but some of his dreams had been of a different nature… and aroused him from slumber in an entirely different way.

Lydia. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to suggest that she wash his arms and his hair as well as his back and shoulders.

Perhaps it had been the urge to tease her, knowing she was so shy.

Or perhaps it had been the way her hands had lingered on his skin, her touch careful and gentle in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced before.

Certainly not since his mother had been alive.

I need tae stop thinkin’ about her like that. She’s a servant, an’ there’s too many questions around her presence - I cannae allow meself tae soften toward her an’ forget that, nay matter how she might affect me otherwise.

He splashed some cold water on his face to chase away the last vestiges of weariness and the thoughts that plagued him, then finished dressing for training and made his way downstairs.

Ewan was already outside in the courtyard, waiting for him. To Donall’s surprise, his second-in-command was not alone. Maisie stood close beside him, and the two of them were clearly engrossed in conversation.

Donall slowed his steps, watching as Ewan grinned at something the maid said. His return statement, too quiet for Donall to hear, made Maisie laugh, the sound ringing like chimes in the air. A moment later, she managed some reply, and Ewan joined her in laughter.

The sight of the two of them laughing together filled Donall with competing feelings of amusement, satisfaction, and a faint stab of jealousy. Donall winced at the last, and forcefully shoved it down, squashing the emotion as well as he was able.

Ewan deserved to be happy, as did Maisie. He had no right to begrudge them if his close friends and associates found joy with another. It was no fault of Maisie’s or Ewans’ that his own choices and temperament had left him bereft of companionship.

He moved closer, angling on a path that would take him past the two, intending to start his training without Ewan.

Despite his best efforts, however, his movement caught Ewan’s eye.

His friend stiffened slightly, coming to attention.

Maisie noticed the change and spotted Donall a moment later.

She immediately dipped into a curtsey. “Me laird.”

“Maisie. Ewan.”

The maid turned to Ewan and smiled briefly, murmuring something that made Ewan nod. Then she turned and hurried away.

Donall and Ewan made their way to the sparring field, and began to stretch.

Donall arched his back and sides carefully, feeling the slight pull of his wound.

It was healing well, as Lydia had said, but it was still tight, and the new skin pulled when he extended his body too far in certain directions.

Donall made a note, aware that the fragile state of the skin meant he might tear the new scar tissue if he wasn’t careful.

Once his muscles were sufficiently loose and warmed up, Donall took his place across from Ewan.

The two of them circled slowly for a moment, feeling each other out, then Donall saw a possible opening and lunged, striking high and then dropping into a sideways swipe that would bruise ribs if it connected.

Ewan recognized the feint and caught the sideways strike, sliding his own blade up for a counter attack. Donall parried it away, then moved to re-engage on a different angle.

Strike, block, parry, thrust. Motions as smooth and familiar as breathing for Donall. Before long, he slipped into a rhythm, his body moving easily from one pattern to the next, leaving his mind free to think of other things, like how friendly his second-in-command seemed to be with his maid.

He waited until the two of them crossed and locked blades, before offering Ewan a smirk over the crossed steel. “So… ye an’ Maisie? An’ here I thought ye’d an eye on one o’ the barmaids in the village.”

“That was a thing o’ the moment - a night o’ lighthearted pleasure an’ nay more.” Ewan pushed him back and swiped at him with an upward diagonal stroke that turned and came into a downward chop, slightly angled so it would slide off Donall’s blade and into a position to cut shoulder and belly.

Donall countered and responded with an attack of his own before he spoke again. “An’ yer dalliance with Maisie is nae?”

To his surprise, Ewan flushed, and there was a glint of irritation, or embarrassment in his usually calm gaze. “’Tis nay dalliance. Maisie an’ I…”

He cut himself off, but he’d already said enough for Donall to guess what he meant. And even if his words had not revealed his intentions, the red heat spreading across his cheeks and ears made the truth plain as a sunrise on a clear day.

“Ye an’ Maisie… ye have feelin’s fer the lass. Are ye courtin’ her, then?”

“’Tis naething so serious, as yet.” Ewan muttered.

“As yet? But ye want it tae be?” Donall raised an eyebrow, and Ewan’s flush deepened.

Donall smirked. “Well, ye have me blessing, so long as ye have the lass’s.”

Ewan’s response was inarticulate, but his movements were sharp as he sought to push Donall back.

Donall was tempted to tease him further, but after a moment, he decided against it.

Ewan was surprisingly sensitive, and he’d no desire to discourage his friend from pursuing Maisie, if his friend was as sincere in his attentions as he seemed to be.

The two exchanged a flurry of blows, each seeking the advantage. Donall ducked a blow, dodged, and spun in a half circle to go on the attack. A flutter of color to one side caught his eye, and Donall turned his head, startled by the unexpected sight.

Maisie and Lydia stood there, watching them. Now they were watching the sparring, interest and curiosity sparkling in Maisie’s brown eyes and Lydia’s cerulean ones.

A whisper of sound was all the warning he had to drag his attention back to the combat. Donall blocked hard and fast, stumbling as he dodged out of the way of a blow that probably would have left his collarbone cracked if it had connected.

He blocked again, lunged in a thrusting attack meant to help him regain control of the combat - and needle sharp pain seared across his side as he overextended and the fragile scar tissue tore. Donall swore and staggered, his hand going to his side.

The hand came away stained red. Donall cursed again, even as Ewan dropped his blade and hurried forward, the two women hot on his heels. “Me laird! I…”

“Ye did naething. I was a fool. I kent better than tae try that move just yet, an’ I did it anyway.” Donall scowled at the blood on his hand, unable to believe that he’d been so careless. “’Twas me mistake.”

He sighed and handed his practice blade over to his sparring partner. “Evelyn’s likely tae blister me ears fer undaein’ all her hard work. Still, best tae I seek her out afore she hears o’ this an’ seeks me out.”

“Evelyn’s nae here, me laird.” Maisie spoke up. “She’s out gatherin’ herbs an’ seeing tae some o’ the lasses in the village who are havin’ women’s troubles.”

Donall grimaced. He could bandage his side himself, but it was no easy task, and he was no expert in herbal remedies, and what to use or not use for a salve.

To his surprise, Lydia stepped forward. “If you wish, my laird, I know how to make a salve and bandage the wound. I can tend it for you.”

It was an unexpected offer, but a welcome one. Donall nodded. “All right. Lead the way lass.”

It was a risk, offering to bandage Laird Ranald’s wound, and Lydia knew it.

She wasn’t sure she could hide her reactions to being so close to him, and she feared what he might notice if he was so close to her.

Still, she could no more have refused to help than she could have breathed underwater, or flown through the sky.

Laird Ranald was quiet as they entered the hut, sitting down and removing his shirt without a word. Lydia studied the wound, the slightly reddened flesh and the split in the tender, newly healed skin. “It is not bad, no more than a light cut would be.”

She turned and went to Evelyn’s shelves, searching among the herbs and salves.

There were few - the healer likely only made them when they were needed, so that the salves would be at maximum potency when applied.

She found the honey easily enough, blended with beeswax to make a coating for the wound, as well as comfrey and yarrow, but there were other herbs she’d used in England that she could not see.

Still, she could make do with what she had. She took her chosen herbs and a small mixing bowl, and carried them back to where Laird Ranald sat watching her.

“Somethin’ troubles ye? I cannae think that Evelyn let her stores lapse.” The remark was quiet, thoughtful, and Lydia’s response came without thought.

“It is not that. Back in England, I would have used a salve of honey, turmeric and comfrey for such a wound. Yarrow will work well enough with the comfrey and some mugwort, but I had to think a moment.” She hesitated. “My apologies if I kept you waiting, my laird.”

“Ye didnae.” Laird Ranald shrugged the opposite shoulder. “I was merely curious. An’ I’ll own, I never heard Evelyn make mention o’ turmeric.”

“It may not be so readily available in the Highlands. My lady always purchased hers from apothecaries in the larger villages - perhaps Evelyn prefers the remedies she can cultivate herself or find easily in the Highlands.” Lydia felt her stomach twist, wondering if she’d made a mistake again.

Turmeric was one of the stronger healing herbs she knew of, one that the healers near Wycliffe had sworn by, but she’d no idea how much it cost, or how often it was used by actual servants.

Still, there was nothing to be done, save hope her explanation proved satisfactory for Laird Ranald.

He grunted, his brow furrowed as he watched her work. “Ye’ve a deft touch. And soft hands. Softer than many servants.”

Lydia swallowed hard. “I do not know what to tell you, my laird. I have always been good with my hands, and as I have said, my previous duties were far lighter than those your maids perform here.”

“Aye, ye’ve nay calluses.”

“I cannot explain it, my laird. Perhaps it requires longer than I have been a maid, or perhaps my skin simply does not lend itself to such - it often blisters and peels, instead of hardening, just as it reddens in the sun, instead of darkening to brown, as Maisie’s does.”

It was a weak explanation, and she knew it, but it was the only explanation Lydia could offer.

“Ye’re a strange lass, Lydia… an’ I still dinnae ken yer given name.”

“It is not one that would mean anything to you, my laird. And I was willing enough to leave it behind, when I went from my childhood circumstances into the service of another. It matters nothing now.”

She couldn’t just give him a name - what if he discovered a family who bore that name, and it was revealed that she was not part of the family? If she gave them the name of a family she had ‘served’, what if he sent someone to verify her story and discovered the falsehood instead.

“If ye say so, I will leave it be.” The unspoken for now hung in the air. Lydia bowed her head in acceptance and gratitude, trying to calm the racing of her heart as she focused on salving his wound and winding a fresh bandage around it.

Her presence, her existence as Lydia the serving maid, hung by the thinnest of threads, and she well knew it. The only question was whether it would end with her leaving, or with her discovery, and she was rapidly becoming uncertain over which would trouble her more.

She was so lost in her thoughts, she scarcely noticed it when Laird Ranald rose, redonned his shirt, and quietly left the cottage, leaving her alone once more.

“Turmeric, me laird?” Evelyn’s eyebrow rose nearly to her hairline. “Aye, I’ve heard o’ the herb… ‘tis in some o’ the herbals I’ve traded fer from the larger towns, but I’m surprised any serving lass would ken much o’ it, or how tae use it.”

“Why?” Donall frowned.

“Daesnae grow anywhere except the mainland, and the far southern parts o’ it at that.

Has tae be traded fer, an’ the few times I’ve seen it in an apothecary, ‘twas a pretty penny.” Evelyn shook her head.

“Most maids ken the folk remedies, or the ones they can harvest, or grow, an’ prepare themselves.

Dock leaves, comfrey, mugwort, yarrow, vervain an’ valerian…

honey tae keep the wound clean an’ dry. That’s the sort o’ remedy a maid’s likely tae ken an’ use. Turmeric is too costly.”

“Mayhap her previous mistress had her use it?”

“Mayhap. But ‘twould be ‘ strange, tae have a mistress who was willin’ tae spend the silver on turmeric, an’ yet have a servant so haphazardly trained in her duties as I’ve heard Maisie an’ Corvin say she is.”

Donall nodded, and filed the information away for later consideration. “I’ll be sendin’ her tae ye, with Maisie, tae help with whatever ye need. I’ll nae ask ye tae go against yer conscience, but if ye notice aught about her that might explain her history… I’d appreciate bein’ told.”

“As ye will.” Evelyn dipped her head in agreement.

Donall turned and left the healer’s cottage.

Night had fallen, the supper hour had come and gone, but he’d not sent for Lydia to attend him since she’d rebandaged his wound.

After the observations of the morning, and the reminder of his suspicions, he hadn’t wanted to be around her, in case he revealed his mistrust of her too soon.

Still mulling over the mystery of his newest serving maid, Donall made his way to his chambers.

There was a meal there, courtesy of Maisie or Lydia, and he ate part of it with a glass of whisky, still thinking.

It wasn’t until the fire had burned down to a few sleepily flickering embers that he retired, seeking his bed in the vain hope of getting a few candle-marks worth of rest.

Instead, he was woken barely two candle-marks later by Ewan, shaking his shoulder. “Sorry tae wake ye, me laird, but there’s been an attack.”

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