Page 28 of Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Highlanders of Cadney #14)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
T he morning following her revelation to Maisie, Lydia rose early.
Her sleep had been restless, even if she’d found some measure of peace after having gained her fellow servant as an ally in keeping her secrets.
While telling Maisie had been a relief in many ways, it had also reminded her of all those she was still deceiving. Laird Ranald among them.
The man who had bought her the beautiful blue dress had no idea who he was giving such gifts to.
And likely, no idea what such a gift would have meant, if she had still been living her life as a young lady.
Dresses such as that would have been courting gifts in her old life - but she dared not believe it was anything more than a kind impulse now.
With a sigh, Lydia toward the courtyard to enjoy the early morning air.
The sound of heavy thuds and ‘thwacks’ drew her attention, and Lydia made her way toward the source of the noise, curious as to who might be so active so early.
She had expected a guard, either fresh from his time on guard, or warming up in preparation to take to the wall. Instead, she found none other than the man who occupied her thoughts with increasing frequency - and followed her into her dreams.
Lydia flushed. She only recalled fragments of those dreams, however, what she did remember was…
well, it was hardly the sort of thing a proper young lady would be dreaming about.
She had woken from them warm and somewhat flustered, unable to entirely banish the phantom sensations of hands on her hips, and caressing her belly and her chest…
And if dreaming about such things is improper, then mulling over them while I am awake, and in front of Laird Ranald is most certainly a path to disaster.
She stood for several moments, watching the laird as he practiced his sword techniques against a dummy.
His shirt was discarded, leaving his muscular body and those intriguing tattoos fully visible.
His muscles moved smoothly with every strike, and the fine sheen of sweat as he cut, thrust and parried made his tanned skin glow.
His movements were precise and graceful, making the exercise appear almost like a dance. His handsome face was tight with concentration.
Lydia watched him for a while longer, then went to get some tea - and two cups to share.
By the time she returned bearing a pot of freshly made strong tea and two mugs for drinking, Laird Ranald had finished whatever exercises he was practicing, and had set his blade to one side.
Lydia considered waiting until he had dressed, but there seemed little point.
After all, he might decide to bathe before redressing.
“Would you like to take some refreshment, my laird?” She offered him the pot of tea, and the clean cup.
“Och, twould be welcome enough. Give me a moment.” Laird Ranald stepped around her and ducked his head roughly into the horse trough, then came up with a toss of his head that showered Lydia with water droplets. She startled in response, and the cup of tea she’d poured for him tipped and spilled.
Hot tea splashed over both of them, and the ground between them. Lydia winced, blushing furiously as the tea splattered over Laird Ranald’s arm. “I am sorry. I did not mean…”
“’Tis nae matter.” Laird Ranald shook the liquid off, then eyed the slightly reddened skin. “I’ve suffered worse eatin’ me supper.”
“I am certain. It is only…” Lydia lowered her eyes in embarrassment. “I had meant to bring the tea as a thank you for the dress… and it seems a poor token of gratitude to give you burns instead.”
Laird Ranald snorted, the sound more amused than anything. “’Tis me own fault, fer showerin’ ye with water and startlin’ ye. At least I didnae have tae rescue ye from fallin’ again.”
Lydia smiled, embarrassed by the reminder of her various mishaps. “Shall I pour you another cup then?”
“’Twould be appreciated.” Laird Ranald stepped around her to collect his shirt and don it, then took the cup carefully from her hands. He sipped it, then nodded and drank more deeply, appreciation softening his stern expression. “Ye’ve been payin’ attention tae me preferences.”
“Of course. What sort of maid would I be if I did not?”
“I suppose.” A soft clanging sound echoed over the courtyard, and Laird Ranald looked up. “’Tis the changin’ o’ the guards. Means the mornin’ meal will be served soon. Ye should go dress, eat, then bring me the meal in me study.”
“As you will, my laird.” She would have liked to stay and speak with him longer, but she had given him her gratitude, and she knew a dismissal when she heard one. With a final smile, she accepted the now empty cup from him.
Sparks seemed to tingle across her fingers at the brush of her hand against his, but Lydia put the sensation out of her mind and gave a curtsy. “I will have your meal for you soon.”
With that, she turned away and hurried inside, her steps light.
She had feared that revealing the truth would mean the end of her duties, or perhaps make her feel resentful of having to serve, but that was not the case at all. Instead, she found herself smiling as she hurried to dress for the morning meal.
Donall sighed as trudged through the darkened hallways of Ranald Keep. The past two days had been an exercise in frustration and futility, leaving him weary with the seeming uselessness of everything he attempted.
His search of the peat bogs had been fruitless.
He and Ewan had found the markers Ewan had left at the beginning of the trail easily enough, and Ewan was sufficiently skilled and experienced to be certain they’d not been moved to create a false trail.
Even so, all their efforts to follow the trail of the mysterious riders beyond that point had ended in failure.
By the end of the day, Donall had lost count of the number of peat bogs he had stumbled into, mud pits he had nearly lost a boot to, and trails that had ended in dead ends and murky pools.
He had traced every path he knew through the marshlands twice and thrice over, but to no avail.
If the riders had used one of the known paths, they had taken care to hide their trails.
And if it wasn’t one of the paths his clan was familiar with, it would take a miracle to find it without guidance.
The marshlands and peat bogs were always changing, and he knew it as well as anyone.
The knowledge didn’t lessen the frustration of failure.
He’d ridden back to the keep tired and filthy, and so irritable that he hadn’t even summoned Lydia to attend him, nor bothered to discover her reaction to the sky-blue dress.
He had no idea why he’d chosen to purchase it - it had been pure impulse that had prompted him to buy it - impulse, and a sudden desire to see what she would look like wearing it.
Donall smiled slightly.
At least I ken that the dress is appreciated.
Lydia’s offer of thanks at the training grounds - clumsy as it had been - had been the only bright spot in a day that had seemed to drag onward. Alexander would have made the day less tedious and more bearable, but his friend had not yet returned from his business in the north.
He had forced himself to attend to the reports of guard rotations, crop growth and harvest, inventory of keep (now richer by one maid’s wardrobe) and other mundane matters, but his mind kept drifting to other things.
Like Lydia. Why was it that when he looked at her, his mood softened, and his blood warmed? Why was it that a simple touch, like the brush of their fingers when she’d taken the mug of tea from him earlier, could make him feel as if sparks danced along his skin?
She was a beautiful enough lass, even with her skin reddened from the sun and the sheen of tormentil salve coating it, but he’d seen beautiful lasses before. Soft spoken too.
Perhaps it was the air of mystery that hung about her, compelling as much as it was infuriating. Perhaps it was her entrancing blend of innocence, wisdom, compassion and shyness that drew him.
No matter what it was, there was no denying that Lydia’s presence affected him, and he would have been a fool to attempt to pretend otherwise.
Donall noticed there was a light in the library, so he went to the door and pushed it open, to find the fireplace burning and a familiar cinnamon-haired lass standing by the shelves nearby.
He never visited the library much, as it had always been more Alayne’s territory more than his own.
Even so, he was fairly certain the section Lydia was standing beside was devoted to balladry and poets.
They had always been Alayne’s favorite books, just as they had been favored by their mother before her.
Donall moved closer to find her perusing a volume with a small smile on her lips. “Ye like Donne? I’ve always liked Scott better meself.”
Lydia blinked up at him, her brows furrowing and lips pursing. She shook her head. “I find Donne to be… more suitable to my disposition.”
“I see. An’ ye have a favorite?”
“Oh, William the Bard, the great playwright… his work is lovely. Though, in defense of my gender, I must confess great fondness for Elizabeth Melville.”
“Och, the Bard should have been a Scotsman, with his silver tongue,” Donall nodded. “I’ve a fondness fer some o’ his work. Nae fer what yer folk call ‘The Scottish Play’ however.”
“Oh yes. That one is quite gloomy. I rather prefer his more lighthearted works. The Twelfth Night play, about the brother and sister who have mistaken identities, is one of my favorites.”
“Aye.” Donall nodded, but behind his words, his mind was racing.
It was one thing for a maid to be able to read and write, but to have read so much was a different matter.
Most servants wouldn’t know the difference between Donne, Scott, Elizabeth Melville and William the English Bard, much less have any idea what sort of things they’d written.
And yet Lydia not only knew the names and had preferences, she’d spoken of specific works from the Bard’s collection of writings - and not just poetry.
She had referenced the plays, which were less often found in printed form.
Who is she, that she’s so familiar with works of literature?
“Your pardon, my laird.” Lydia’s hand brushed across his arm as she returned the book to its shelf. “It is late, and I ought to be abed.”
Donall felt his ears heat as he realized that he’d been staring too long, and that he’d unnerved her. “Ye dinnae need tae…”
Her cheeks darkened with a tint of rose as she looked away. “As I said, my laird, I should retire. Unless you have some need of my services?”
“Nae in particular. But I was enjoyin’ the conversation,” Donall prodded gently at her, testing to see how she would respond. “Were ye nae?”
“Perhaps. But I have little enough knowledge - only what my lady asked me to read for her while she embroidered.” Lydia shook her head. “I fear that the conversation would become dull for you all too soon, my laird.”
She’s nae bein’ honest - that modesty is a falsehood forged around the stories she’s already told.
The familiar surge of frustration rose inside him, the tingling awareness that the key to everything was hidden somewhere within her, right within his grasp and yet still unattainable.
Still, he could either confront her or let the matter lie. He grappled with himself for a moment, then sighed. “Aye. ‘Tis probably best I get tae bed meself.”
“I wish you a fair night’s sleep, my laird.” With a final dip of her head and the faintest ghost of a smile, Lydia slipped around him and left the library, leaving Donall to frown after her.
I ken I wasnae imagining the way she pulled away when she realized how much we were talkin’ about the books, but more than tha’... was she tryin’ tae pull back from me? Has somethin’ changed, or is it simply that I made her uneasy, starin’ at her so long?