Page 26 of Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Highlanders of Cadney #14)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
S unrise found Donall at his window, flexing and rolling his shoulders thoughtfully. He’d fallen in bed the night before, too tired and frustrated to truly notice but they felt better, looser.
I dinnae ken the last time me shoulders didnae feel like they were tight as bowstrings. I wish I could have remained until she finished, but if I had…
Donall’s cheeks warmed at the memory of how the night had ended.
He’d been enjoying the soothing touch of Lydia’s hands, the boneless, blissful heat spreading through his back and shoulders, when he’d realized that one part of him was certainly not relaxing under Lydia’s ministrations. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He had tried to ignore his arousal, tried to shift his weight so that it would be less uncomfortable, or less noticeable, and had failed utterly.
Even closing his eyes and trying to think of less engaging things, battle fields and training hadn’t helped - not with Lydia’s touch sliding all over his back, rubbing tight little circles into his muscles, and finding the soft, sensitive points near his spine and his rib cage.
Eventually, he’d had no choice but to stand and leave, before he embarrassed both of them. Lydia was so shy and innocent seeming, she likely would have been mortified to know she’d cause his erection.
Donall shoved the memory away and turned to his chambers to prepare for the scouting with Ewan.
Heavy linen leggings to prevent chafing on the insides of his legs during the long ride, and a kilt in Ranald colors over that.
Sturdy boots, well sealed with oil and beeswax against rain, mud and water, along with stockings.
His shirt was likewise a heavy linen, plain undyed cloth, over which he wore a thick leather vest in case they were attacked.
A sash in Ranald tartan went over the vest, followed by his belt, and the scabbard for his blade and other weapons.
With any luck, he wouldn’t need any of his armaments, and the worst he would suffer would be the annoyance of traipsing through the peat bogs for no reason, and perhaps losing a knife, a boot, or an archer’s arrow, to the treachery of the terrain.
Donall wished he dared trust in luck, but he’d learned a long time ago that fortune was like the Fair Folk - a fickle friend indeed, and just as likely to bring harm as to bring help.
Finally armed, he made his way down to the kitchens to collect the shoulder pouch containing meat, hard cheese, bread and a jug of small beer that would be his lunch.
Maisie was there to inform him that Lydia was assisting Evelyn, and to hand him a bowl of porridge with cream and honey, as well as a cup of scorching hot tea.
Donall wolfed both down, then hurried out into the courtyard, to find Ewan already waiting.
He was halfway across the courtyard when a young man came hurrying from the stables, a wrapped bundle in his arms. “Me laird! Me laird!”
Donall grunted, but stopped and waited for the youth to catch up to him. “Aye?”
“Delivery from Seamstress Hailey fer ye, me laird. She wanted me tae tell ye the entire order is there, an’ ask where it should be sent.”
Delivery… och, right. Lydia’s clothing. Donall smirked to himself, wondering if she would appreciate the surprise he’d had the seamstress include in the order for her. For a brief moment, he was tempted to linger, to see what she would make of his gift. Then common sense reasserted itself.
Searching the moors, and particularly the boglands, was likely to be a full day’s task. The longer he waited to begin it, the less time he would have to search, and the more chance he would miss any clues there might be to find.
He waved the lad toward the keep. “Find Maisie, the servin’ maid in the kitchens, an’ have her direct ye tae the proper place. Tell her ‘tis the clothing fer Lydia, an’ she’ll ken where it needs tae go.”
“Aye, me laird.” The lad nodded, clumsy with his burden, and Donall allowed himself a small smile at the youth’s earnest enthusiasm.
“After ye’re done, go tae the kitchens an’ get yerself a hot meal.” The lad must have ridden through the predawn chill to arrive at that hour, and if he had eaten, it had been candle-marks ago. “Then find Steward Corvin, an’ he’ll give ye a proper payment for yer service in delivery.”
Corvin, he knew, would be sure to give the lad a few coppers. It was an arrangement they’d worked out seasons ago, and one that worked well for ensuring prompt, courteous deliveries of goods, and that servants and messengers put forth their best effort in their endeavors.
Ewan was grinning as he made his way across to the stables and swung onto his horse. “Delivery tae ye, an’ nae Corvin? Something special?”
“Mayhap.” Donall shrugged. “An indulgence. Ye’ll ken more about it later, I imagine.”
He took a deep breath and focused, dismissing thoughts of Lydia and the dress in favor of raiders, bandits, and the trails through the peat bogs that most needed to be followed and searched for signs of incursion. “Let’s go.”
He kicked his horse into a canter, Ewan at his side, his mind turning over the possibilities of what they might find.
Most likely, they’d find tracks and perhaps trails, but no actual campsites or people, not if the man Ewan had spotted were so canny. In a best case scenario, they might glean more information. Worst case…
… we find naething an’ are left clueless as tae Laird Cameron’s intentions, or that we may get attacked, an’ learn rather more than we can afford tae ken at this point?
Lydia smiled to herself as she made her way toward the room she shared with Maisie.
The day’s work had been long - Evelyn had taken her out onto the moors to harvest herbs, roots and flowers for tinctures and tonics, and everything had to be properly cut or picked, then carefully wrapped and packaged for transport.
She’d returned to the keep with enough dirt under her nails to start her own garden, and sun-reddened skin that stung and itched like she’d played in a patch of nettles.
Fortunately, Evelyn had foreseen the danger of sunburning and given her a Tormentil salve for the redness and itch, as well as a mild pain-relieving draft to ease the worst of it. A cool-water bath had soothed her aches still further, and left her feeling refreshed.
Soon, according to the healer, her skin would no longer burn so badly.
Soon, I will no longer look so much like myself. My fingers are getting stronger, my nails short, and my hair is becoming wavy with being braided back so often. Working with Evelyn will soon give me calluses enough to be a believable servant, and knowledge enough to be a healer.
Soon, she would be ready to depart Ranald Keep. Lydia sighed to herself as she opened the door to the shared quarters. The departure was necessary - she was far too close to Cameron lands for her own peace of mind - but she found herself reluctant to consider it.
Maisie pounced on her. “What are ye sighin’ fer? Look!” The maid all but dragged her over to the bed. “’Tis a package fer ye.”
Lydia eyed the package with interest. It took a few moments before she could identify the sender. “It is from the seamstress. My new clothing, I believe.”
“Och, finally!” Maisie grinned. “I ken ye were fretting about havin’ tae borrow from the stores, an’ with nay one built like ye.” She nudged Lydia gently. “Open it then!”
Lydia carefully undid the twine that bound the packaging, then unfolded the heavy, waxed cloth around the bundle to prevent it from getting dirty or wet. A pile of fabric, more than she’d expected, tumbled out onto the bed and met her eyes.
Skirts, a new chemise, a new, soft-made corset made to her measure, stockings, blouses, a few dresses for everyday work or formal service, such as for a feast day, and even a new apron - once, Lydia would have scarcely considered it worthy of note, but now she was painfully aware of what a bounty the bundle represented.
No more borrowing other women’s shifts. No more worrying with every slight mishap, slip, spill or grass stain that she was ruining someone else’s clothing. No more feeling like a helpless beggar. No more…
“Wha’ is that?” The low, startled tone of Maisie’s voice dragged her attention to the clothing pile. She blinked, wondering what could have caused Maisie to sound so agitated. Then she saw it.
It was the sky blue dress with the elegant stitching that she’d so admired in the shop - the one the seamstress had been lamenting that no lass had bought. She had not even realized Laird Ranald had noticed her admiring it, and certainly hadn’t guessed that he’d purchased it.
Why would he purchase this for me? I’m only a serving maid, so far as he knows, and not a very skilled one. This dress…
It was a dress for a lady. Or a dress a well-off village girl might purchase for her wedding, then place in a hope chest for her daughters, to become an heirloom of the family, worn only for the most special of occasions.
“That dress…” Maisie was staring at it, eyes wide.
“It is a very lovely dress. I had no idea Laird Ranald had purchased it for me. I will have to thank him… but whatever is the matter? It is very beautiful, but it is a dress…”
Lydia froze as Maisie’s expression darkened, eyes narrowing. She was suddenly, acutely aware that she had just made a mistake - a dangerous one, and all the worse because she had no idea what it had been.
“That’s nae just a dress. An’ ye’re nae a maid.” Maisie’s voice was low, anger crackling through it.
“I do not understand. What… why would you say that?”