Page 8 of Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Highlanders of Cadney #14)
CHAPTER FIVE
D onall watched as Lydia moved to the desk and began sorting through the papers on it. Most of the servants, Maisie included, swept all the documents into a neat pile, then put away the quills and capped the inkwells and considered the task finished.
Lydia was different. Her hands slipped through the papers with easy confidence, and she appeared to be actually sorting through them, arranging them into different piles and gathering them neatly together.
Can she read? ‘Tis nae a skill most servants learn, an’ I ken for a fact that Maisie cannae. An’ if she can read, can she write as well? ‘Tis another skill most servants dinnae ken.
The papers were soon sorted, then stacked in a neat pile, in some form of order.
Donall itched to go to the desk and see how she’d arranged things, and what sort of system she used—it was likely to be different from his own—but he refrained.
Instead, he remained at the table, watching from the corner of his eye as Lydia continued working.
She lined up his quills and arranged them neatly, then set aside the inkwell precisely where it would be within easy reach, but not where it might accidentally get knocked over while he was working.
It almost seemed she had experience with using a desk, pens and ink.
Unusual for a maid—even a lady’s maid, as far as he knew.
Of all those in his employ, there were only three who possessed any sort of knowledge of reading, writing, or the proper use and storage of tools for such work.
Corvin, Ewan and Evelyn. And Ewan had only learned the skill because he was insatiably curious, and close friends of both Alex and Donall himself.
From there, she finished tidying the desk, swiped a small cloth over the surface, then turned to pick up the pole used to clean the rafters.
Her movements as she crossed the room were graceful, her steps light and short, rather than quick and strong like those of most maids he was familiar with.
Her shoulders were level, her back straight, and her movements smooth and slow, as if she made every move with attention to how she would appear to another.
Good posture, an’ purposeful movements… graceful too. She’s used tae paying as much attention tae how she looks as she daes tae how she works.
He watched her lift the pole, hesitate, then swipe awkwardly at the rafter just above her, only to wince a moment later as dust fell into her eyes.
Nay. She’s more used tae minding her appearance than her work. But what sort o’ laird or lady was she workin’ fer, if that’s the case? Daesnae make sense. I’ve never met a servant who was so self-conscious, or so awkward when she was bein’ watched.
Most servants in his employ, or those whom he’d encountered when visiting other castles, including when he visited his sister, were focused on their work.
They paid no attention to who was watching them, unless they were trying to avoid notice, or concerned with their performance being judged - which often made them focus even more on the task they were assigned.
Servants, in his experience, cared more for the timely and proper performance of their duties than they did for their appearance while completing their work.
Her gaze flicked to him, sky blue eyes downcast and wary as they slid to meet his for a moment, then away. She knew he was watching her, and she was troubled by it. That intrigued him.
Is she truly that shy? Or worried about what I’ll say regardin’ her work? Or is there somethin’ else that’s makin’ her so skittish?
Perhaps she would be calmer if he spoke to her. Donall considered it, then voiced the first question that came to mind— one of many. “So lass, what is yer story? Yer history? Ye didnae tell me yesterday.”
Lydia’s shoulders tensed, but after a moment, she answered, her voice soft and faltering as her efforts at dusting.
“I was a… a lady’s maid, for the wife of a lord who guarded a small territory near the border between the English and the Scottish.
There was very little—the lady had me doing simple work, mostly sewing or sometimes other things—learning herb lore from the healer, or accounts from the steward.
When she passed away, the lo-laird, sent me away.
A friend suggested I search for employment in the Highlands, rather than attempting to find another estate or try my fortunes in London. ”
“An’ why nae in the king’s city o’ Edinburgh?”
“I… I do not know. Perhaps she thought, with my obvious English background, that I would have little luck in securing a position, where such might be overlooked farther away from the larger towns.”
“I see.” Donall sipped absently at his beer while he considered her words. “An’ who was the laird ye worked for?”
“No one you would know.” She shook her head. “He was… somewhat reclusive, as was his wife.”
Donall nodded, his thoughts churning as he contemplated her explanation.
It was a plausible story, and it made sense of her odd skills in some areas, and her lack of skills in others.
A lady’s maid would be softer and more refined than a regular servant.
On the other hand, generally, a lady’s maid had some sort of training to fulfill the position.
“Where were ye raised? How did ye become a lady’s maid? ”
“Oh… my parents were minor nobles, but poor. I happened into the position while seeking to earn a living after they perished, and my lady was kind enough to take me in.”
Again, plausible. A daughter of a minor household might be taught the sort of skills and behaviors that would make for an acceptable lady’s maid, despite her lack of training in basic household tasks. And yet…
She carefully avoided naming anyone specific, or providing a surname for herself.
And the sort of household she described working in rarely had many servants - let alone lady’s maids.
Certainly, the household she described growing up in would likely have had only one or two servants, if any - which made it puzzling that she was so unused to labor.
And why, unless she was exceptionally poor at her work, would her previous master have sent her away without a recommendation?
Why not send her to an associate who might have need of her services and her unique skills?
Servants who were trained in more than menial chores were often accounted valuable, as far as Donall knew.
Certainly, one who knew how to read and write would be.
He’d received an answer to some of his questions, but the tale she told only gave him more to wonder about.
Lydia… ye truly are a mystery indeed.
He watched Lydia stretch upward toward the rafter at the apex of the room. It was higher than the rest, and beyond her reach. After a moment, she dragged a chair over and clambered awkwardly up onto the cushions. Donall raised an eyebrow.
The rafter was still almost out of reach, so she clambered up onto the arms of the chair. Donall tensed, skin prickling with a feeling of unease.
A moment later, Lydia slipped, foot sliding off the arm, sending her toppling headlong for the floor. Donall bolted out of his seat, nearly upsetting the remains of his drink, and leaped forward just in time to catch her before she hit the stone floor. “What dae ye think ye’re daein’?”
Lydia blushed scarlet and squirmed out of his arms. “I was trying to clean the rafter. I could not reach…”
“Then ye should have asked fer a ladder or stepping stool. Or ye could have asked fer help.” With a huff, Donall set Lydia on her feet and took the pole from her. “Give me that.”
A footstool near the fire gave him enough height to just reach the beam in question. Donall stretched up and ran the dusting cloth across the wood, conscious of Lydia standing at his hip, watching him intently.
Her sky blue eyes followed his every move, and he wondered what she was thinking.
Watching the way he worked, or was there something else that held her attention?
She stood so close he imagined he could feel her breath ghosting across his thigh, and the sensation made his blood stir in a way he’d not experienced in far too long.
She’d shied away from seeing him undressed, and yet, she seemed to have no concept of how she affected him now. Donall clenched his jaw against the trickle of desire that snaked through his blood, and tried to focus on finishing the task, rather than on the mysterious lass standing inches away.
He’d just wiped away the last of the dust when the door opened and Maisie bustled in. “Lydia, are ye nae done yet? We cannae spend much longer…”
The maid trailed off, eyes going wide as she beheld Donall’s position on the stool, pole in hand, with Lydia not a foot away, her hands empty and her face nearly the same scarlet color as the hearth flames. “Me laird!”
Her tone was so shocked and scandalized it was all Donall could do not to break into unexpected laughter.
Instead he huffed out a sharp exhalation and dropped lightly off the stool, before handing the cleaning implement back to Lydia.
“I’ve finished breakin’ me fast. Clear the tray an’ the room, so I can dae me work in peace.
” He turned to Lydia. “Taenight after supper, there will be a council meeting. Ye’ll remain an’ serve at me side fer the meeting. ”
“Ye - Aye, my lo-laird.” She dipped her head in agreement.
Donall turned and left the room just as Maisie hurried to Lydia’s side and began speaking in low, hushed tones.
It was unusual for him to ask anyone beyond a page to serve at the council meetings, but Lydia was an unusual lass. Perhaps, if he kept her close, she might reveal more of her secrets.
But will those secrets prove be useful tae me clan, or harm? There’s nay way tae tell, but I am certain o’ one thing - findin’ the answer tae those secrets will be a challenge, o’ the sort I’ve nae had in a long time.