Euphemia
The sweat trickled down my back, but I ignored it and kept scrubbing.
This was the work I liked—order, rhythm, a task I could master with my own two hands.
The old Laird—God rest him—had let the house decay for years.
The scale of it still shocked me; four floors if I counted the cellar, twelve bedrooms, endless corridors.
Wasteful. No one needed this much space.
But the bones of the place were beautiful.
Carved wooden panels richer than anything I’d ever seen. Corniced ceilings with delicate patterns curling into every corner. Solid furniture that had stood so long it felt part of the stone itself.
All of it ignored by its new Sassunach master, I was sure.
I grunted, scrubbing harder. My hair was damp beneath the cap, sticking to my temples. Flora had given the three of us uniforms—grey dresses, white caps and aprons. After properly washing them, they weren’t half bad.
A heavy footfall sounded behind me.
I froze.
Then… nothing.
Had it stopped? Or had I imagined it?
I lifted my head slightly, listening.
Silence thickened the air.
I shook it off and shuffled along the floor, moving to the next section.
Flora was supposed to be keeping an eye on the staff downstairs; I’d made it clear the rugs were to be beaten and swept by midday, then freshened with soap suds before drying.
The place needed a proper cleansing from top to bottom.
My mind ran through the remaining tasks. The top floor would need to wait until Uncle Callum repaired the roof; he couldn’t start until the right timber arrived. Everything was slower here—repairs, deliveries, news. We’d make it work.
I leaned my weight forward to scrub a stubborn patch—when the air behind me shifted.
A presence.
Not a sound this time, but something… else.
A prickle along the back of my neck.
Not fear, not quite.
But awareness.
I swallowed and kept my eyes down.
Boot leather creaked.
Oh, for God’s sake—of course he’d appear now. The Sassunach Laird, with his airs and graces, come to inspect what he knew nothing about.
I leaned back on my heels, straightened my spine, and prepared myself.
I didn’t turn.
But I felt him.
Like a cold draft.
Like a storm cloud pressed too close.
His breathing hitched.
I glanced over my shoulder. His black leather boots gleamed with polish. He wore dark brown breeches, a matching waistcoat, and a crisp white shirt.
But it was his expression that made my breath catch.
He looked furious—for a heartbeat—nostrils flared, eyes wide, knuckles white from gripping the doorframe.
Then his eyes shifted.
Blue to amber.
Bright.
Burning.
A trick of the light?
Or—
I gasped just as he smothered a sound. His hand snapped up to cover his nose.
My jaw tightened.
What now? Did he think hard work carried a stench?
Fine. Let him. He could shove that opinion right up his polished London backside.
I dipped my brush back into the bucket with a hard splash and kept scrubbing.
Let the lord of the manor choke on his own superiority.
I had work to do.
The muffled sounds stopped.
A gurgling noise followed… then a low, rumbling growl.
My hand froze mid-scrub.
A growl I recognised.
The same one that lived in my chest.
The door slammed so loudly I spun around, brush flying from my hand—but he was gone.
“What in God’s name…” I whispered, staring at the empty doorway, heart pounding.
What on earth was happening in this damn house?
? ? ?
“Where are ye aff tae?” Uncle Callum asked, stepping into my path with his arms folded like an oak blocking a stream.
“I’m honkin’. Off tae the loch,” I said, waving my towels and clean shift in his face for proof.
“Naw ye arnae,” he grumbled. “Am comin’ wae ye. Ah dinnae trust strangers aroon’ here.”
I groaned. “Fine. Am no gawn tae be long.”
He nodded and stepped aside, though his frown didn’t budge.
“Yer gettin’ cantankerous,” he muttered as I passed.
“Aye, now I ken how Aunt Flora feels,” I said with a snort.
He huffed, but I caught the ghost of a smile.
Outside, the air bit at my cheeks and the late-afternoon light stretched long across the heather. It would be a quick wash—in and out before the cold sank into my bones.
My muscles ached, and the Laird had managed to make me self-conscious about my lack of proper ablutions. A simple cloth wash wasn’t enough, apparently—not when he of all people saw fit to cover his nose every time I walked past.
Bastard.
The walk to the loch was short, but finding a patch of shade and privacy took longer.
“I’ll be back here. Holler if ye need me,” Uncle Callum said, positioning himself behind a thicket and turning his head sharply away.
“I thank ye kindly,” I snickered.
“Dinnae drown yersel’. We need the coin,” he chuckled.
The cheek o’ him.
I clambered down through overgrown grass, pushing through reeds until I reached a small hollow at the edge of the loch. The ground was damp, the rocks slick beneath my boots. I stripped quickly, fingers stiff from the cold, and laid my clothes on the driest patch of grass I could find.
The soap smelled faintly of herbs—a proper scented soap, not the harsh lye cakes we used for laundry. A rare luxury.
At least the Laird had deep coffers.
A sharp gust blew off the water and slapped every inch of bare skin.
I hissed.
God’s teeth, it was freezing.
Still, I took a breath and stepped in.
The shock hit me like a thousand needles.
I gasped.
Then gritted my teeth and pushed deeper until the water met my waist.
No one got the better of Euphemia MacDonald.
I scrubbed fast, vigorous, determined. My body shook, but pride kept me steady. I lathered my arms, my neck, my legs. By the time I reached my hair, my fingers were numb and my teeth were chattering loud enough to frighten the fish.
I’d just worked the suds into my scalp when a branch snapped on the bank.
I spun so fast my foot slipped on the slick rock beneath me—and I went under.
Cold swallowed me whole.
I kicked off the bottom, breaking the surface with a loud gasp.
The soap, thank God, was still in my hand.
I shoved my wet hair out of my eyes, heart pounding, scanning the reeds.
Nothing.
Only rippling water and the whisper of wind through the trees.
I glanced toward where Uncle Callum waited, but he was still out of sight behind the shrubs.
Probably a deer.
Or a fox.
Or the spirits Flora swore watched over the land.
My teeth chattered again.
I turned back to washing.
I’d do this every night if I had to.
Even when the snow came.
Even when the loch froze around the edges.
No one—not the Laird, not the winter, not the whole damned world—got the better of Euphemia MacDonald.