Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Are ye excited about the cèilidh?” Freya asked, grabbing Marissa’s arm and leading her toward the vanity in the corner of the room.
“Aye,” Marissa admitted with a nod. “And nervous if I’m bein’ honest. I dinnae ken what to think of meetin’ the council.”
She turned to look at her sisters before continuing.
“But ye have been travelin’ all day,” she said hastily, trying to get up from her seat before the mirror. “Ye should get some rest before we start gettin’ ready. Ye dinnae need to be fussin’ over me.”
Freya’s strong hands fell on her shoulders, pushing her gently but firmly back into her seat as the other women in the room waved off her words.
“We’ll hear none of that,” Abigail declared.
Marissa’s eyes darted to the mirror, taking in the scene behind her.
The rooms that Freya and Michael had been given were similar to Arthur’s and her own. There was a large, lushly furnished room that was intended to be a receiving and changing room, connecting three other doors.
One, she knew, led to a private bathing chamber. The second led to a small study where the lairds that had come to visit Castle Reid could conduct their business. And the third led to a large, opulent bedroom, second in extravagance only to Arthur’s.
Abigail and Cody both had private rooms, the doors to which were directly across the hall from Freya and Michael’s chambers.
Abigail had collapsed into one of the large reading chairs in the center of the room, her legs thrown over the armrest in a rather unladylike fashion. Her eyes locked onto Marissa’s in the mirror.
“Ye’re the one who has to impress a council this evenin’,” Ayla chimed in, coming up to stand beside Freya.
Her body blocked Marissa’s view of the rest of the room, so Marissa’s gaze flicked to her reflection. Ayla was watching her with a smile as she and Freya started working on her short curls.
“We all need to impress the council,” Marissa reminded them. “Do ye think they’ll allow me to marry Arthur if they dinnae approve of me family? They seem like they’re ready to cause a tizzy over even the smallest of things.”
Ayla snorted a laugh. “Do ye think Arthur would allow the council to stop him?” Her voice was dark, laced with a challenge.
As Marissa studied her reflection, she realized that she’d never seen Ayla behave like her brother since arriving at Castle Reid.
“They could certainly try,” she argued, but her voice sounded unsteady and unsure even to her own ears. “And they already seem to be such a thorn in his side.”
Ayla waved a hand, dismissing Marissa’s worries. “They’re all a bunch of old curmudgeons,” she assured. “They’ll do nothin’ but yap his ear off. But at the end of the day, it’s Arthur who is the Laird. He’s a damned good one, too. And they ken it. They’ll do nothin’ more than give him a headache.”
Marissa almost told her that his getting a headache was also something she was worried about. She’d seen the way he’d succumbed to it the day before. And while she was glad that she’d been able to help him, she wanted to prevent him from feeling that poorly again.
She did not want to be the source of any pain for Arthur. Not if she could avoid it.
“Stop movin’ yer head,” Freya huffed, giving one of her curls a quick tug and bringing her eyes back up to the mirror.
Marissa fell silent for a moment, watching as Freya and Ayla worked in tandem. As she watched, she realized what they were trying to do.
Her hair, which was typically a short, unruly tangle of curls that fell just past her chin, was being yanked into an intricate series of braids. The two women worked seamlessly, as if they’d been doing it for years, even though they had met barely an hour ago.
“Amara,” Ayla piped up, drawing the girl’s attention. “Will ye go and fetch mine and Marissa’s dresses? As well as yer own? I have a feelin’ we’ll all be gettin’ ready in here.”
Amara flushed, scurrying out of the chambers to do what was asked.
Freya and Ayla continued to work in companionable silence. Soon, gentle snores filled the air, and Marissa had to choke back a laugh.
“She could sleep through anythin’, that one,” Freya murmured, nodding her head in Abigail’s direction.
Sure enough, as Freya shifted, a gap appeared between the two women’s bodies, allowing Marissa to glimpse beyond them. Abigail’s head was leaning against the back of the reading chair, her mouth slightly open as she snored.
Ayla giggled, drawing Marissa’s attention back to them.
“I always wanted sisters.” She beamed, meeting Marissa’s gaze in the mirror. “I think I’ll quite like me braither bein’ married to this one.”
Marissa beamed at her just as Amara swept back into the room with a mound of fabric in her arms.
“Everythin’ is here!” she announced a little too loudly.
Abigail snorted, her eyes blinking rapidly as Amara’s voice jolted her awake. “What happened?” she asked.
Her eyes were glassy and unfocused as they darted around the room, taking in the women still at the vanity and Amara holding the three dresses.
“Why are ye carryin’ so much fabric?”
Amara flushed but said nothing as she disappeared into the bedchamber.
“I’m goin’ to lay them out in here so they dinnae get wrinkled!” her voice called out cheerily.
There was a rustling sound—no doubt she was tugging the fabric of the gowns to lay them out straight. She appeared a moment later, smiling softly at them all.
“Everyone is goin’ to look so bonnie.”
There was a murmur of agreement, and then Freya and Ayla returned to the task at hand. It wasn’t much longer before they’d worked Marissa’s unruly curls into dual rows of intricate, tidy braids.
A tartan ribbon had been intertwined with some of the strands, leaving it to dance in and out of the plaits in a flash of dark blue.
“The council willnae be able to deny that ye’re perfect,” Ayla assured, giving her a quick, encouraging smile.
Marissa flushed with pride before rising from the chair, waving for whoever was next.
It was Amara who fell into the chair next, and Marissa waved Freya off to get some rest. Her sister shot her a grateful look, hand on her belly as she waddled over to one of the reading chairs and sank into it.
“Freya,” Ayla chimed in as she and Marissa began working on Amara’s copper locks, “Marissa told us that ye’re a healer?”
Freya nodded. “Aye. I’ve done it ever since our parents died. Taught these barmy lasses everythin’ they ken.”
She nodded her head toward Abigail and Marissa. Abigail scowled sleepily at her oldest sister, but Marissa couldn’t help but flush with pride.
“Was yer maither a healer? Or did ye learn on yer own?” Amara asked, drawing Marissa’s attention once more. “Marissa was able to cure the Laird’s headache the other day, and I cannae think of how helpful someone with that knowledge could be to the clan.”
Freya’s eyes went wide with shock. “Ye have nay healers of yer own?” she asked, her voice high-pitched. “A clan of this size?”
Both Amara and Ayla shook their heads.
“We have to go to the neighboring clan,” Ayla explained. “Our healer used to reside in the castle, but he rode off to war with Arthur and Joseph years ago. He died in battle nearly three years ago, and he didnae have an apprentice.”
Freya blinked at the two women, the shock still plain on her face.
“Well!” she exclaimed. “Then Marissa and I will just have to teach ye everything we can. I brought some books with me, actually. Filled with me notes.”
She pushed herself up with a grunt, hand still fluttering protectively over her swollen belly. She walked slowly across the room, and Marissa couldn’t help but wonder if her feet were swollen.
It was something her sister hadn’t dealt with yet in her pregnancy when she had left Castle Reid a few days ago. But the sisters had treated enough pregnant women in their time as healers that she knew symptoms could appear suddenly. And once they did, they tended to appear with a vengeance.
“Sit down,” Abigail commanded, seeming to think the same thing as Marissa as she jumped out of her reading chair. “Ye need to prop up those feet of yers. Ye dinnae need to be toddlin’ around after a few old books.”
“Old books!” Freya scoffed, clearly offended.
She didn’t argue, however, as Abigail put her hands on her shoulders and led her back toward the overstuffed chair she’d just vacated.
The moment Freya was tucked in, Abigail bustled away, disappearing into Freya and Michael’s bedroom.
“Where are the books?” her voice echoed through the shadowed doorway.
“At the bottom of the blue trunk!” Freya yelled back, sighing before leaning back into her seat.
She made quick work of pulling over an ottoman with her foot, sighing again as she propped her feet up on it. Her eyes flicked to the mirror, locking onto the reflections of the other three women.
“Stuck in the carriage that long,” she murmured. “It was torture on me poor swollen joints.”
“Have ye taken a tonic for it?” Marissa asked, her eyebrows knitting together in concern.
Freya shook her head.
When Marissa opened her mouth to argue, her older sister quickly cut her off.
“I’ll be drinkin’ some soon, dinnae worry yerself,” Freya said. “I just didnae want to drink it before we left. Ye ken it makes a woman want to relieve herself, and this little one is already sittin’ low in me belly.”
She pointed to the bottom of her stomach as if expecting them to be able to see it. But through the swaths of fabric that made up her traveling gown, Marissa could not tell.
“I’ll just have to take yer word for it,” she mumbled, saved by Abigail’s return a moment later with a pile of books in her hands.
There were at least five of them, all familiar the moment her eyes fell on them.
“Why did ye bring so many?” she admonished, shaking her head at her sister.
“Ye never ken when ye’re goin’ to need them,” Freya argued, pointing toward the small table at the far end of the room. “Put them over there except the red one. Bring that one to me.”