Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
Ididn’t really believe Hamish when he said I’d get today off.
A big, paranoid part of me expected to wake up shackled and dragged to that pit. A guy like him wouldn’t let last night slide—Callum cutting in, taking me from under his nose. Hamish doesn’t seem the type to let things go unanswered.
But whatever his plan is, it’s not happening today.
Instead, I wake to a new dress, delivered by a girl of about twelve. I’ve seen her before, sweeping ashes, emptying chamber pots.
I exhale. Things could be worse.
Things could always be worse.
“Rhona,” she tells me when I ask her name, and I’m thrilled to understand something on the first try.
Either I’m getting the hang of this accent or her name is just simpler.
Whatever the reason, I’m so happy we’re able to communicate, I smile at her till my cheeks ache.
She probably thinks I’m completely daft—yet another new word I’ve tucked away.
The moment Rhona leaves, I smooth out the dress on my cot, keeping an ear open for Donag. She was gone when I woke up, and she hasn’t been back. Maybe she’s disappeared into thin air.
A girl can hope.
Things have been strained since she caught me trying to cast that counter-charm. Her words echo in my head, cold and cruel.
I don’t want you neither, trust me.
Lately, she watches me warily, like I might have power buried somewhere inside me. Like she thinks I might actually succeed.
But until Callum discovers more about the magic we’ll need, I have to chill. I tried sniffing around, but if Hamish’s reaction to the hag stone was any indication, my attempts were more dangerous than I’d realized.
Last night, I gave Callum permission to…what? I’d agreed to more than dancing—I know that. It would be so easy to go there with him. To say yes. To dancing. To more than dancing.
But I can’t lose sight of what matters. I still need to figure out how to get home. Right?
Because what happens if I do let myself sink into this life? If I get too comfortable here? If I start thinking less about escape and more about…him?
I shake my head hard. Focus, Rose.
For now, I have to focus on what I can control—like this dress. This new, clean dress. It’s plain, which is a relief. I’d have freaked out if some Cinderella thing had shown up instead. But Hamish doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d ever let me forget my place.
Still, it feels like the height of luxury. The fabric is thicker and softer than what I’ve been wearing, and cut slimmer, too. It’s simple, light brown, and comes with a lace-up vest in a green that might actually look good with my hair.
Plus, it has laces. Actual support. A welcome upgrade from the hideous sack Donag gave me.
I never thought I’d miss my bra. But on one of my first nights here, I made the mistake of taking it off to sleep, and by the morning, it was gone. RIP, underwire. I’m not the curviest girl, but still, I’ve felt a little exposed without something more than my precious Costco tank top to secure me.
The only problem? I can’t imagine putting this dress on in my current state.
I’m filthy. Dirty, grimy, scalpy, oily—I feel like every gross-y word combined.
I’ve been sneaking private moments to wash with a cloth, but surreptitious sponge baths have nothing on a hot, sudsy shower.
There’s no mirror, but all I have to do is glance at my hands to imagine what the rest of me must look like.
I wish I could flee from my own skin. And last night’s exuberant dancing? Did not help.
Then there’s my hair. Greasy, limp, beyond saving. I’ve been carefully finger-combing water through it every day, knotting it into a braid down my back, but that only works for so long.
A knock at the door startles me.
My heart kicks against my ribs. Are they here to drag me to the pit after all? Should I hide the dress? But it was a gift from Hamish.
I’m still spinning out when the door opens.
It’s Callum.
Relief floods me. Oh, thank God. Then I’m flustered all over again. Because Callum. Freshly scrubbed. Unfairly attractive.
He’s wearing his kilt, but it looks fresher and neater, and his shirt is crisp and clean. He’s put on one of those beret-looking caps the men wear, and it frames his strong features. Beneath it, his hair has that soft, air-dried puffiness that tells me it’s freshly washed.
I force my eyes to stay glued to his face. Be normal. “What are you doing here?” The words come out too abrupt.
His brow dips, and with it, my spirits.
Yep. I’m as lame as I ever was in the twenty-first century.
“That’s a fine welcome,” he says, subdued. “I thought you might enjoy a bath.”
“A bath?” My face must light up, because he’s smiling again.
“A moment,” he says, before dashing outside. He returns with two buckets sloshing full of water, then disappears again. When he comes back hauling a metal tub, my breath catches.
“A bath!” I could weep.
The tub is small and round—so small I’m not sure I’ll be able to sit all the way down in it. But it’s bigger than the bowls of water I’ve been allotted before now, and it’s exhilarating.
Callum gives it a rueful once-over. “It’s no’ much.”
“It’s perfect.”
Perfect how he knew it’d be just the thing.
“I thought you might want a wash before putting on your new kirtle.”
I flush with heat. “You know about that?”
I’ve carefully laid out the green and tan dress, but now, in front of Callum, it looks strangely accusatory.
“All and sundry know about it,” he confesses. “The young Campbell giving the scullion a dress? You’ve got the other lassies jealous as a flock of Barbary pigeons.”
“Because of Hamish?” I snap. “Ugh. They’re welcome to him.”
I’m rewarded with a grin and…is he blushing?
But he turns his back to me, setting water over the fire and stoking the flames. The air between us vibrates—I swear if I squint, I might see it, like heat shimmering above a summer highway.
Sharing this small space with him is electric, but it’s soothing, too. Like sitting in front of a fire after being cold for too long. I breathe easier with him around. I can let my guard down. And if any surprises spring out to get me, I know he’ll be there to intercept.
He’s become a touchstone—the pinch on my arm that lets me know this isn’t a dream. That I haven’t lost my mind.
He makes this real for me. Makes me real.
It’s especially nice to be alone with him in Donag’s cottage—it makes it feel like I’m claiming it for my own. Though, knowing her, I’m sure she’ll come back at the worst possible time. Probably just as I’m slipping naked into the tub.
I have to ask. “Where’s Donag?”
“She’s away for the day.”
“Wait.” Something about his expression gives me pause. “The whole day?”
When he turns to face me, he’s wearing a pleased smirk. “Aye, ’twas Aoife who helped me. She told the laird he sounds thick in the chest. The old Campbell’s a worrier, you ken.”
“No, I don’t ken.” I picture the Campbell—a raging old man who flaunts his power, sending people to the pit with a snap of his fingers. “What does he have to worry about?”
“What doesn’t cause the man worry? He’s afeared for his health, wealth, and immortal soul.
Folk call him Black Campbell, nae for his hair but for his humor.
The man’s as grim and ill-tempered as a wet cat.
I believe he’s fair fashed he’ll die before his Janet returns.
So, when Aoife said she sensed noxious humors coming upon him, and that all she needed was a bunch of sweet cicely to make her special tonic, but the only person who properly kens the look of the herb is Donag, well… ”
“Campbell made Donag go pick some,” I finish for him, unable to stop my grin.
“Aye, you’ve the right of it, my Rosie lass. And ’twill cheer you to know the cicely grows half a day’s walk from here.”
I can’t help it. With a joyful shout, I spring into him and give him a huge hug. “Thank you!”
Maybe my bar has lowered since I got here, but I can’t imagine a more thoughtful gift than a tiny tub of lukewarm water and an empty cottage. “That is such a better present than any stupid dress.”
But Callum froze the moment I slammed into him. He’s holding his arms rigidly akimbo, like he has no idea what to do with them.
I start to pull back, suddenly unsure. As I step away, I feel the moment he breathes again. The subtle rise of his chest against mine.
Slowly, he unlocks. Pulling me back in, he molds his arms around me. Squeezes. I can’t hold back the deep, delicious sigh that shudders through me.
But Rose-the-Responsible is always just below the surface, and she chooses now to ruin the moment, letting a whole new set of worries seep in.
I push away. “You’re not skipping work to be here, are you? You can’t get in trouble again because of me.”
A sly, knowing smile curls the corner of his mouth.
“The laird himself gave me the day. Once I explained how I feel a powerful need to spend this Sunday fulfilling my God-fearing obligations.”
I take another step back. Narrow my eyes. “Wait. You do?”
He laughs. “Nae, lass. But with yesterday being Martinmas, well, Campbell quite agreed. As I said, he’s a religious man. He granted many of his servants the day so they might rest from their work and contemplate greater things. So here I’ve come, to contemplate greater things.”
He raises his brow in the most wicked of ways. That thing should be classified as a weapon.
“And here I thought Hamish was doing me some great favor by giving me the day off.”
“Heed me,” he says, instantly serious. “The fewer favors you owe Hamish, the better.”
My nod is perfunctory. Nothing is about to get me down today. Not even Hamish. The only thing on my mind is all that water hanging over the dancing flames. I’m practically tapping my feet on the floor with anticipation.
Callum sought out the Campbell. Enlisted Aoife. Disappeared Donag. He found a tub and buckets, and hauled them out here. All so I could wash in peace.
A peculiar warmth floods my chest. Something weightier than gratitude.