Page 22 of Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Highlanders of Cadney #14)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
C rack. The sound brought Donall out of a fitful sleep with a jerk, heart hammering. For a moment, he saw dark, grimy gray walls surrounding him, felt chains on his wrists, and heard the sound of the whip cracking in the corridor…
Then he blinked, and the vision vanished, replaced by the walls of his bedroom, the hangings of his curtains.
There were no chains, no restraints at all.
The cracking sound had been the pop of something in the fire.
He’d ordered the servants not to disturb him, and he’d forgotten to fully bank the fire before he went to sleep.
With a grunt, he dragged himself from the bed.
Another nightmare. Will they never end, or am I doomed tae become a sleepless wraith wanderin’ me own halls til the end o’ time?
The nightmares alone were miserable enough, but now the unknown threat presented by Clan Cameron, the mystery of what his rival laird was and the matter of Lydia increased his anxiety.
It wasn’t the suspicion of her that concerned him.
No, what gave him pause and made his gut clench was the way he’d reacted earlier that day, when he saw her tending to Alex’s wounded hand.
He hadn’t expected the white hot-jealousy that had slashed through him, the primal urge to step between them - perhaps even strike Alexander’s hand away.
He’d heard Alex speaking those smooth, polite words to Lydia, and even though he knew it was only courtesy, he’d felt the desire to cuff the man and drag him away.
The rawness of the emotions, and the unexpected strength of them, worried him nearly as much as the threat from Clan Cameron, and he had even less idea of what to do regarding his growing desire for Lydia than he did the threat at his borders.
He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, then gulped the last of the mead from the flagon that he’d brought to his room. His stomach twisted and growled, reminding him that he’d skipped supper, for the second night in a row.
Perhaps some food would settle his nerves, as well as his belly.
Donall huffed, then dragged on a shirt and loosely tied the laces, before padding out of the room, barefoot and sleep-tousled.
It wasn’t as if there was anyone else awake this late - he knew for a fact that Ewan was bunking with the soldiers, as he did every so often to make sure they knew he was approachable, rather than an aloof commander such as others they’d seen.
And Alexander had stayed in with a book, having embarrassed himself enough for one day.
The kitchen was filled with low, flickering light as he approached, but that was hardly unusual. Probably some scullery maid finishing some task, or perhaps a fire left to slow-roast or stew part of the next day’s meals. Donall pushed open the door, then stopped, blinking in confusion.
In the kitchen, he found Lydia, staring at him with wide eyes from the table, knife poised over a loaf of bread. She’d clearly been about to cut herself a slice. Donall chuckled. “Cook will have yer hide, if she discovers ye’re pilfering her fresh loaves.”
Lydia smiled. “There’s nothing older. I did look for an unfinished loaf, or some day-old bread, but…”
Donall shook his head. “Och, dinnae fret. I’ll nae tell her.”
“There’s also hard cheese an’ dried meat.” Donall nodded to the larder.
“I… my laird, are you also hungry?”
Donall snorted. “Nay other reason tae be traipsin’ round the kitchens, so far as I ken.”
“Then, is there something you would prefer. I can… attempt to make it if you like.”
Potatoes and oat bannocks, with dried meat and a little bit of cheese sounded good, but Donall had no idea if Lydia’s skills in the kitchens were adequate.
A normal servant would know how to make such things while half asleep, but given how little she’d known on other matters, according to Corvin, that was little assurance.
Still, roasted potatoes and already preserved meat were easy enough that even the five-year-old scullery boy could make them. “Roast potatoes an’ meat.”
Lydia nodded and went to the hearth, to kneel gracefully beside the basket of potatoes.
She withdrew two, then a third. But instead of rising to scrub them off and cut them, she bent closer to the fire and began to tuck them into the hearth.
Donall stepped forward and caught her wrist before she could completely bury them. “What are ye daein’?”
Lydia blinked up at him. “When I was traveling, this was how the potatoes were cooked by many of the caravan members.”
Donall heaved a sigh, though he couldn’t help feeling somewhat amused as well. “On the road, ‘tis done that way fer ease. Here, ye wash the potatoes, cut them, then sprinkle the slices with salt an’ pepper an’ roast them on a flat pan like that one.”
He pointed to the appropriate items. Lydia nodded and gathered the potatoes, then carried them over to wash them in the proper bucket before bringing them back to the cutting table.
A moment later, Donall stopped her again. “Who taught ye tae cut potatoes? That’s nae the right blade fer it, an’ the way ye handle it… ‘tis a miracle ye havenae lost a finger yet, or ripped yer hand tae pieces.”
He found the proper knife and started to slice the potatoes, but Lydia stopped him. “How am I to learn, if you do the task for me?”
The slices Lydia produced were uneven, the thickness varying not only between slices but from the beginning of the cut to the end, but Donall let the matter be.
Instead, he waved to the hearth. “Lay the potatoes flat in the pan. They’re cooked enough tae eat when the centers o’ the slices are soft.
They’re proper roasted when they’re golden brown an’ a bit crispy, like bread when it becomes toast. An’ ye can arrange the meat around the edges, so it cooks at the same time, an’ the juices mingle with the potato. ”
Twenty minutes later, Donall found himself prodding a slightly blackened, crunchy potato, and meat that was cooked nearly to travel jerky. “’Tis… an admirable effort.”
“It is a poor meal, you mean. I should have asked you to finish it after all.”
“Nay ‘tis made well enough.” Donall took a bite, chewed, and just managed to swallow. “Wouldnae mind somethin’ tae drink with it. Some mead or beer.”
Lydia nodded and came back with a tankard of beer. Donall drank deeply. He was preparing himself to take a second bite when Lydia spoke again. “You wander the halls often in the night, my laird. Are you well? Or does something disturb your sleep?”
His first impulse was to snap back at her, to refuse to answer. To tell her it was none of her business. He bit the words back before they emerged into the air. “What dae ye ken?”
“Nothing in particular. I heard someone mention, very briefly, that something had happened to your father and perhaps your sister, but I know nothing of the particulars, nor the truth of the matter.”
If she’s already heard that much… I’d rather she hear the full truth from me rather than someone else.
Donall took a deep breath. “Tae start with, there’s naething wrong with me sister.
Her name is Alayne, an’ she’s happily married tae a good man.
Her husband’s clan is allied with ours, as are the clans his two brothers married intae, an’ were it nae fer them, Clan Ranald would have been taken over by another clan a few years ago, an’ I’d be a laird without lands or people. ”
“I do not understand.”
Donall shook his head. “’Tis a long and complicated tale.
Still, the gist o’ it is this… me father wasnae a good man, but he was me faither, an’ Alayne was all I cared fer in the world.
When Darren MacLean refused me sister’s hand in marriage, me faither chose tae declare a vendetta again’ them.
He stole the bride o’ Laird MacLean’s youngest brother, threatened her life, and the brother killed him while Alayne an’ I watched. ”
He heard Lydia gasp, but he refused to look at her.
It was easier to speak the words while staring into the coals of the hearth, rather than seeing the horror on her face.
“I watched him die, an’ for all he wasnae a good man - he was cruel an’ cold and prone tae drinkin an’ beating defenseless folk when the black moods took him - I swore vengeance.
‘Twas a matter o’ honor, I thought, nay matter that me faither’d never had a drop o’ honor in his black soul.
But even so, I swore vengeance on MacLean Clan. ”
He took a long drink of the beer, letting the sour burn cut the sense of bile in his throat.
“The king ordered Darren MacLean tae take me sister’s hand as part o’ a peace treaty.
I couldnae bear the idea, but I couldnae defeat Darren MacLean in pitched combat, so I tried to sabotage his marriage tae me sister in other ways.
I tried tae make it seem it was his fault the peace was failin’.
Then I tried tae force him to relinquish the treaty, an’ me sister, though I kent he couldnae.
Even when I realized she’d come tae love him, an’ he her, I tried. ”
The words stuck in his throat, bitter even now.
“I failed, but Darren had enough honor nae tae kill kinfolk, even kinfolk-by-marriage. Instead, I was sentenced tae the king’s justice, an’ placed in the royal gaol fer some some years.
Darren an’ his brothers were given stewardship o’er me clan while I was imprisoned, an’ I hated it, but ‘twas better than seein’ the clan destroyed fer me folly.
An’ I had plenty o’ time tae realize it was folly, sittin’ in me cell. ”
“That sounds… awful.”
Donall let a bitter laugh escape his throat. “Which? The gaol, or realizin’ I’d been a fool, too blinded by me own pride an’ determination tae avenge a man I ought tae have said good riddance tae meself?”
“Both, I suppose. It is never comfortable to realize one has been wrong about one’s life, and the course it ought to take.” Lydia’s voice was soft, but Donall heard something quiet and all too knowing in her words.
For the first time, he looked up and met her gaze. “Och? An what mistake did ye make, lass?”