Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
“What’s this then?” Donag’s voice lashes out.
Her gaze drifts from the stacks of wool, to the strap of hide, to the open trunk.
Then it lingers on the dress.
In that moment, something in her face caves in, and it makes me break out in a cold sweat.
I scoot back from the chest, trying to look as innocent as possible. “I’m so sorry. I was looking for a…for a…”
I scan the mess I made, scrambling for an excuse.
Donag’s eyes follow mine. Understanding dawns.
“Have you need of a girdle?”
“A girdle?” Sounds like the last thing I need. “Um…”
“Aye, a girdle,” she snaps. “For your flux? Don’t look so dumbfounded, fool. Is it time for your month-blood?”
I almost well up with relief. “Actually, yes. That. Totally. I do need something for my month-blood.”
She huffs. “I smelled it on you.”
Well, that’s horrifying.
She shoves handfuls of fabric back into the chest, then she pauses. Turns. Pins me with a hard frown.
“If there’s aught you need, simply ask. You’re more a fool than I figured if you think me able to read the minds of silly lasses.”
I open my mouth to apologize, but why should I feel bad? She dragged me here.
Fine. She wants to know what’s on my mind? “I’m freezing,” I announce. “And meanwhile, you have enough clothes in here to wear a different outfit every day for a month.”
She cuts me a sharp look. Then, with a scowl and a click of her tongue, she pulls out a shawl, two pairs of knitted socks, and an extra blanket, and tosses them at me.
Stunned, I almost thank her, but Donag pivots fast, like doing me a favor physically pained her.
“I dinnae ken how it is where you’re from,” she mutters, plucking up that gross strip of leather, “but this isnae for menstruous rags.”
I shudder. Whew. “What is it?”
“Seal skin. For the pains in my back.” She rolls it up and tucks it away. “But it does no good for the monthly pain. You treat that another way.”
“I thought cramps were supposed to remind me of Eve,” I grumble.
She snorts a laugh. “Women suffer enough.”
The words startle me. Not at all what I expected from her.
I toss off a casual, “Amen to that,” but cringe the second it’s out of my mouth, bracing for a sermon about blasphemous sluttery.
Donag only side-eyes me. But this time, it’s not mean. Her gaze is assessing. Like she’s started to look at me differently. When she speaks again, her voice has softened.
“If the pain troubles you ower much, go to the loch when the moon is high. Find yourself a toad.”
Oh, no—was I right? Does she actually turn things into frogs? “A what?”
“A toad.” Her eyes harden. Back to looking at me like I’m an idiot. “For burning? Use a girdle to place the ashes over your—”
“Oh! No. Stop. I mean, thank you. Really. But no toads. I can deal with the cramps. Just…what do I do about the, you know, blood?”
She puffs a long-suffering sigh. “Is there aught you do know, girl?” She heaves herself up, yanks a stack of rags from a shelf, and shoves them at me.
“Take one of these here clouts and put it a’twixt your legs.
Tie it off with this.” She waves a string in my face.
“Well, take it, fool.” She jabs it toward me.
“You’ll need a belt to tie off the clout, girl.
” She scowls. “Or is it nae good enough for you? Nae a real girdle, is it? Well, ’tis all I ever had and ’twas good enough. ”
“No,” I say quickly, scooping up the mess of fabric. “Thanks. But…” I inspect the rags. They’ve been washed, but somehow still look disturbingly stained. “What do I do with these?”
Donag blinks. “D’you nae listen? I just told you.”
“No, I mean, when they’re dirty. Then what?”
She clicks her tongue. “What kind of fool question is that? You wash them, a-course.”
She storms out the door, then returns with a bucket. “Soak them in this. At the end, clean the lot of them. Where you’re from, you may have maids to do the bloody work, but ’tis your job now.”
I sigh. Welcome to the seventeenth century.
By the time I wake the next morning, there’s still no word about Callum’s fight. Maybe that’s good. Maybe if something awful had happened, I’d have heard. Still, part of me listens for footsteps. For news. For him.
Donag is long gone, off tending a birth in the village. I have to give her grudging props—doing that sort of work could be dangerous. Does she help people because she wants to or does she get something in return? I consider the question as I try to figure out this clout-and-girdle situation.
Once I’m done, I clean up, eat, and decide I need better rags. Surely somewhere in Donag’s stacks there’s a clout that doesn’t look like it’s seen battle.
I’m mid-rummage when a knock at the door startles me. I whirl, already bracing to explain why, yet again, I’m messing with her stuff.
But it’s Callum.
Relief washes through me in a rush so overwhelming, I almost laugh. I hadn’t realized how scared I’d been.
He survived.
I open my mouth, but my throat seizes shut when I see him. Tall and grinning, one hand braced on the door and the other on his hip, he fills the doorway. Sunlight spills around him like he brought it with him. I swallow hard, trying to find my voice.
His expression shifts to concern. “Is aught all right?”
“Aught’s fine.” My cheeks burn. Does he recognize Donag’s clouty things? “I just needed…something.”
He steps inside. “Och, Rosie, I told you. I’m here. I can help you.”
“It’s nothing. Donag already helped.” That only makes him look more worried, so I babble the first excuse I can think of. “I had a…a backache.”
“Ah.” He nods, like that explains everything. “Donag’s an expert on that.”
Except now I’m confused. I have no idea what we’re discussing. “Expert on what?”
He strolls inside and snatches an oatcake from over the hearth. “Did Donag not tell you? She suffers bad pains in her back.”
I’m still not sure if I should be embarrassed or not. I say vaguely, “Women’s curse, I guess.”
But Callum shakes his head, looking grave. “I pray you never suffer suchlike.” At my questioning look, he says, “I may as well tell you—’tis no secret. When she was young, she was said to be quite bonnie—”
“I still don’t believe you,” I exclaim, but Callum’s dead-serious expression snuffs my gossipy delight. I grimace. “Oh no. This doesn’t end well, does it?”
“Nae, Rosie. It doesnae end well.”
He shoves the last of the oatcake in his mouth and brushes his fingers down the front of his shirt in that way he does, chewing as he considers.
“She caught the fancy of a Campbell cousin, but she didnae return his regard.”
When I don’t react, he repeats, “He was a Campbell.” His expression says this should explain everything.
“And?”
“And the man wanted what he wanted. When he didnae get it, he grew angry. The day came when it was time for him to return to his own lands. But first, he thought to give Donag one last chance. He rode out to look for her and found her walking in the glen. When she refused again, he charged his horse right over her.”
I clap a hand to my mouth. “He trampled her? That’s horrific.” My mother’s ring—a Campbell ring—is a cold weight on my chest. I’m not brave enough to ask if this man was related to Janet.
To me.
Callum nods, appreciating the depth of my reaction.
“’Twas a horror indeed. It broke her back.
The healer said she’d nae walk again. But you’ve met Donag.
” He cracks a rueful smile. “Tenacious as a badger, that woman. She got her legs under her again, but the pain’s been dreadful since. Worse when the weather turns.”
“That happens to my Poppa.” Quickly, I add, “Not the broken back, obviously. But he’s got old injuries that get worse when it rains.”
“You still haven’t told me.” Callum plops onto a stool, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks at me with an intent focus that makes me shift uncomfortably. “Why’d you nae ask me?”
“Ask you what?”
“Ask me for help. You’re nae afraid of me, are you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why?” He studies me like I’m some great mystery he’s trying to solve. “Is it because I…what you said…I girled you?”
“You—” I stifle a giggle. He’s so serious, but his question is ridiculous. “You what?”
His cheeks go red as tomatoes. “You told me not to ‘girl’ you. After Hamish came. ‘Don’t girl me,’ you said. I’ll nae do it again.”
Then, shyly, he smiles. “Though ’tis a mite difficult trying to forget you’re a girl.”
It’s my turn to blush. Because the way he said that…his voice all husky and nervous.
All my shields slam into place.
He’s charming, and generally, I don’t trust charm. Charm is for bracelets and frat boys.
I think of the young Campbell and that sword fight—Hamish’s easy charm, his easy violence. “So,” I ask casually, “what’s the story with Hamish, anyway?”
“It’s as they say,” Callum replies instantly. “‘Don’t trust a man with one eyebrow.’”
A laugh bursts from me. I try to be serious, to think serious thoughts in Callum’s presence, but it never lasts. “Who says that?”
He shrugs. “It’s what’s said.”
I frown as my thoughts return to that paddock. The hiss of Callum’s breath, the flare of pain in his eyes. It’s permanently imprinted on my brain.
Somehow, Callum knows. “You’re bothered by what you saw. Between Hamish and me.”
“Yeah, well, this whole thing is hard enough. Do I also have to watch you get stabbed?” I try to keep my tone light, but it doesn’t work.
“I had no choice,” he says earnestly. “I had to fight. ’Tis part of my duty to act as sparring partner. Usually, we both carry wooden practice swords, but—”
“But this time Hamish got to use an actual, metal blade because he thought it’d be fun to—how’d he put it?—‘muck up your face.’ And he’s allowed to do it because he’s prince of the manor?”
He frowns in frustration, his thoughts playing out on his face without pretense. As his expression smooths into resolve, he admits, “I didnae like how he was eyeing you. Touching you. Campbells think they own everything. Everyone. I’ll nae allow Hamish to expect the same of you.”
I lean against the butcher block table, studying him. “You were protecting me?”
“Aye,” he says with utter certainty. “And I’d do it again.”
I’ve been badly wanting a friend, a confidante. But I already have one. He’s sitting right here.
I look at Callum. Really look at him. I let myself fall into those kind eyes. Eyes that have already seen so much in his relatively young life.
A life he risks to satisfy the vanity of some seventeenth-century douchebag.
“Rosie?” He reaches out. A tentative finger grazes my knuckle. “Don’t fret on my account. I know how to manage the young Campbell.”
The featherlight touch lingers. When I don’t flinch, he adds a second finger. Then a third. Until his hand rests fully over mine.
I feel my shoulders ease and a warmth spread through me, like something has been released. Something set free.
“You’re my friend,” I find myself admitting. “I can’t let you get hurt just to protect me.”
“I’ll endure anything if it keeps you from harm.” He states it quickly, surely, like fact. Then he stares blindly at our hands, looking abashed. “You dinnae belong here, Rosie. You’re special.”
The air is sucked from my lungs. I don’t know how to reply, what to do, so naturally I resort to middle school. I mutter something lame: “Thanks, you too.” Then I give him a playful shove.
He grimaces in real pain.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp. “Are you okay?”
“Aye,” he says, voice tight. He’s sitting ramrod straight, holding his body at an awkward angle.
“I barely touched you. You’re not okay. You’re bleeding.”
He denies it and tries to stand, but I clamp a hand on his head, holding him in place. “Sit still.”
A red dot has appeared on the back of his sleeve, unfurling like a great crimson flower.
“This was from Hamish.”
“’Tis but a scratch.”
“’Tis more than a scratch,” I say, attempting to mimic his accent. “Did you clean it?”
He nods. “I mixed a plaster.”
“Did Donag help you?”
“And tell her I was fighting?” He hisses. “She’d thrash me worse than Hamish.”
“Nobody helped you?”
“’Tis naught, truly.” He pulls away and loosens the laces at his collar. “I’ve only to retie the bandage.”
He fumbles inside his sleeve, trying to adjust the dressing, but his hand is too big, the sleeve too narrow.
It’s hard to watch.
“Just—” I grab a stool, brace a knee on it beside him. “Take off your shirt.”