Page 8 of Taken By the Highland Villain
The maid’s weathered face brightened, a conspiratorial smile creeping onto her lips as if she knew exactly what Valerie was thinking. “Ye mean Master Craig MacCann? The Laird’s man-at-arms?”
“Aye. I ken the Laird doesnae wish for my services, but it was Master Craig who requested the work. Perhaps he needs new clothing.”
“Och, I’m sure he does, and there’s plenty of mendin’ to be done. More than an old woman like myself can do,” the maid agreed. “I happen to ken where ye might find Master Craig, and I’d be happy to take ye to him now, if ye like.”
“I would appreciate that…” Valerie trailed off.
“Moira, my dear. Moira MacKenna. If ye need aught, it is best to ask me or Master Craig, and we’ll do our best to assist ye. Assumin’ ye’ll stay, of course.”
From the twinkle in the maid’s eyes, Valerie guessed that Moira was as hopeful that her ruse would work as she herself was.
“I should meet with Master Craig then, and see if I’m to stay or nae.”
Moira smiled and led her out of the kitchen.
Valerie followed, a small, determined smile of her own tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Ye may nae have summoned me, Laird MacFinn, but ye’ll find that means ye cannae dismiss me. And ye cannae get rid of me with just a few sharp words and a hot temper either!
CHAPTER 5
Jude scowledto 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 ofhistrews. 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 whenye 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?”