Page 5 of Taken by the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #2)

Jude scowled to himself as he made his way toward the kitchen. Drinking on an empty stomach was always a fool’s move, and he knew it, but his mood had been too dark to bother with breakfast that morning. Now, his gut was grumbling, and his head was aching.

He’d convinced Craig and Moira to cease bothering him about the noon meal, but even so, he knew Moira always set aside something, in case he happened to be hungry before supper.

He pushed open the door to the kitchen and stopped abruptly, blinking in confusion. Moira was there, tending the hearth, and the welcome aroma of roasting meat and fresh bread wafted through the air. That, he had expected.

The seamstress, Valerie Blackwood, was also there, sitting on a stool by the heavy table in the center of the kitchen. That was confusing enough, as he knew he’d dismissed her hours ago, but she was also holding a pair of trews.

More specifically, she was holding a pair of his trews. It was a pair he’d tossed into some corner or another some time ago because they were uncomfortably rough on his scar and also torn in a few places.

Jude stepped forward and let the door slam shut behind him, causing both women to start and turn around to stare at him. “What do ye think ye’re doin’, lass?”

The seamstress looked up at him, seemingly undisturbed by the ire in his voice or the scowl he knew darkened his features. “I’m mendin’ these trews. Master Craig told me they were yers when he gave them to me as a test of my skills.”

Jude glowered and stalked closer. “I told ye I didnae need?—”

The seamstress blithely cut him off, holding the garment out for his inspection.

“I’ve mended the torn places with some undyed linen yer maid gave me, and then I lined the inside with a softer wool cloth I found.

I’ve also adjusted the hems and seams slightly to be less irritating and reduce the pull or the chance of ye trippin’. ”

“I told ye enough times already. I never needed or wanted ye to do any of that.” Jude’s glare landed on the garment. “I dinnae ken why ye’d think it needed to be lined or adjusted.”

The seamstress raised a challenging eyebrow. “Yer man mentioned ye’d sustained an injury. I cannae see any sign of one on yer upper half, and I did notice the difference in yer gait when ye walked with me afore. It wasnae hard to guess yer difficulty, and nae harder to alter yer trews accordingly.”

Jude glowered at her a moment longer, then stepped closer and took the offending garment from her hands to inspect it. He turned it inside out, then studied it closely.

Despite his irritation, he had to admit that the work was well done.

He could see where the patches were only because the undyed linen was a different hue from the original fabric.

The stitches were so fine that it was difficult to distinguish them from the original weave, even when he knew they were going against the grain.

He turned the garment inside out, reluctantly intrigued by the idea of a softer inner lining to reduce the irritation on his scars.

He ran a calloused hand over the fabric, feeling the difference in texture.

It was softer than he had expected, almost velvet-smooth, and unlikely to cause any itching or chafing against the sensitive scar tissue.

The lining was stitched close to the original fabric, so there would be little, if any, awkward bunching, folding, or tugging of the cloth.

A close examination also revealed where she had adjusted the seams outward to allow him more freedom of movement and reduce the risk of chafing.

The work was, he had to admit, fairly impressive, and all the more so for the little time she’d had to produce the result he held in his hands.

Jude looked up from his trews and met her inquiring gaze. “Ye do good work, lass.”

“Valerie. My name is Valerie.” She folded her arms and regarded him with a level look. “And if ye approve of my work, then why nae let me stay and do more for ye?”

Jude considered it. He could see Moira hovering in the background and watching him with an expectant gaze.

He could also admit that the seamstress—Valerie—had a valid point.

She’d proven her skills, and proven them well.

He respected her ability, and despite himself, he found he admired the way she faced him head-on with no sign of trepidation.

Admiration aside, he was still angry that she had so brazenly defied his command to leave, and frustrated by her audacity in mending his clothes despite his repeated declarations that he had no need of her services.

He folded his arms and frowned at her. “Ye might do good work, lass, but I already told ye to leave.”

“Aye, ye did. But the fact is that ye werenae the one to request my services—it was yer man-at-arms, My Laird. Since he is the one to ask for me, he is the only one who can dismiss me.”

He hadn’t thought of that, and the truth in her words pricked like a thorn in his side.

Jude huffed. “This is my home. I can tell him I dinnae want ye within my walls.”

“Aye.” To his surprise, the words seemed not to trouble her in the slightest. “And ye can order me outside the walls of this castle. But that only means I’d take lodgings in the village, and yer man-at-arms would be responsible for payin’ for my food and rooms as well as my work.

I cannae say for sure, but like as nae, it would cost more. ”

Jude growled low in his throat and took a deep breath, fighting the urge to seek out Craig and throttle him. “I could just order Craig to dismiss ye.”

“And then I’d wonder why ye were refusing yer man-at-arms new or mended clothing, My Laird. A good many others might wonder as well, especially considerin’ the rumors that brought me here.”

Her response made his lips curl into a snarl.

The worst of it was that every word she spoke was true, and every point she made was sensible and well-thought out—exactly the arguments he should have guessed she might make.

I cannae even blame the drink and the ache in my skull, or the growling of my stomach, for both of those are my own doing as well. Dammit.

Still, her determination raised one question he hadn’t thought much of before now. “Why does this matter to ye so much, lass?”

Her shoulders stiffened, and something darkened her eyes.

Her voice, when she responded, was as carefully controlled as his own when his temper flared.

“It is partly because I’m a professional, My Laird, and when ye sent me away without even giving me a chance, it was a matter of pride to try and convince ye otherwise.

Beyond that… I have reasons of my own for comin’ all this way and seekin’ work in yer castle, but they’re little concern of yers or anyone else’s.

I can only say that other than work, I could be seekin’ shelter in yer castle. Would ye turn me away?”

The vague response was somewhat frustrating, but Jude understood both pride and the desire to avoid certain subjects. There were matters in his past and his life that he had no desire to speak of either.

He pushed aside his irritation and took a moment to consider the matter thoroughly, without his pride and stubbornness, or the ever-present melancholy that so often shrouded his thoughts.

The truth was, she had done an excellent job of sewing his trews.

They looked better—and would look almost new once they’d been re-dyed—and they felt like they might be comfortable to wear as well.

Her sewing skills were far beyond anything Moira or his laundry maids, or even any of the village lasses, could produce.

And, if he was being honest with himself, he found her forthright manner, her boldness, her wit, and her courage a welcome change from the way most people tiptoed around him, wary of his temper.

The way she acted was different from Craig’s almost relentless attempts to be cheerful, or Moira’s sometimes smothering attempts to mother him.

Perhaps there’s nay harm in letting her stay, just for a short time.

Jude turned and handed the mended trews to Moira.

“See that those are washed, and find someone to re-dye the fabric. As for ye…” He stepped closer to Valerie.

“I’ll give ye seven days to show me yer worth.

Ye’ll mend whatever Craig and Moira give ye.

Pay will be room and meals, and recompense for whatever supplies ye need for yer work and ten silvers for every garment ye repair—triple that for any garment ye make from whole cloth.

If ye can also mend tapestries and the like, ye’ll get ten to twenty silvers—depending on the work—and extra for yer skill and speed at the end of seven days. ”

“I’ll give ye seven days to show me yer worth… ”

At those words, Valerie felt a coiled knot of tension inside her break apart, like a string being snapped. Tension she hadn’t even been aware of drained from her shoulders, and the cold, hard lump of fear and uncertainty that had filled her faded away.

As a seamstress who’d made a living with her needle, she knew Laird MacFinn’s terms were almost ridiculously good—the sort of terms a highly reputable tailor in a larger city might impose.

The relief she felt, however, made any further consideration feel unnecessary, as did the sense of smug satisfaction that filled her.

Still, she couldn’t help the soft, sly, teasing question that emerged, daring as it was. “And what of the curtains, My Laird? What am I to be paid for them?”

His scowl was half-hearted, seemingly more frustrated and exasperated than angry, as if this was an argument he’d had far too often to be truly irritated by it anymore. “I dinnae need any curtains—nor do I want ye changin’ them on a whim. I like the castle the way it is, lass, so leave it be.”

She’d proven her skills to Laird MacFinn, and proven them well. She knew that as surely as she knew her name. She’d seen the way he’d studied the trews she’d mended for him, watched his expression, and knew he’d found little, if anything, to criticize.