Chapter Four
If the McCloud was an animal, a beast and a brigand, his men were worse. There were fifteen of them, all large and rough and raucous. Some of them had teeth.
Several of them made lewd comments and suggestions as she moved around the table—most of which she didn’t understand but which elicited riotous guffaws from the others.
One man, a particularly crass fellow with a displeasing aroma, pinched her bottom as she brought him his ale.
Another—the only quiet one of the bunch—sat in the corner, picking his teeth with a knife and staring at her with a predatory glint in his eyes.
The only one who was remotely kind was the hideous-faced driver she’d met the day before. And even then, it was a grudging kindness. More than once, he stepped in to smack away a wandering hand or rebuke one of the other men for a rude remark in the presence of a lady.
The men laughed off his remonstrations. Taking their cue from their leader, the McCloud, they saw no reason to show her any deference. They treated her just as they treated Jessie, the other serving wench.
The difference was, Jessie didn’t seem to mind.
She leaned into their caresses and laughed at their jests.
But they treated her better than they treated Pippin, the young boy who served in the scullery. Most of them were fairly decent but Craig, the mountainous man with the lingering odor of onions, cuffed the child and boxed his ears with horrifying frequency.
Ah, but only when the McCloud wasn’t there.
Morna, an older woman, a motherly type who served as the housekeeper and cook, set Violet to work assisting with the baking and the washing and helping Pippin load food into the pantry.
The castle wasn’t used much, she explained, but the McCloud had decided to move his operations here for the time being.
Violet could tell from Morna’s expression she considered it Violet’s fault she’d been wrenched from her comfortable station to work on this desolate rock. The tasks she assigned her were onerous but not unmanageable. And at least she hadn’t commanded Violet to scrub the floor.
That task fell to Pip.
The first day was exhausting to Violet, who had never done a whit of manual labor.
Carrying wood and water, kneading bread, rolling barrels—it was all much more than she was used to.
She didn’t mind—because it kept her away from the McCloud—but by the time supper was ready to be served, she was nearly asleep on her feet.
In a fog, she carried a heavy platter piled with sliced meat from the kitchen into the great hall. She rounded the corner and came to an abrupt halt.
An enormous black hound stood between her and long table. Its lips curled, showing sharp fangs. A low, guttural growl resonated through the room.
Violet‘s breath wedged in her throat. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. Her vision wavered.
The beast took a step closer. Her gaze fixated on its huge paws, larger than a man’s hand and tipped with lethal claws. Claws that could rip flesh like a hot knife through butter.
She stepped back. And back again.
The beast advanced.
“He wants some meat,” Pip, at her side, whispered. “Just feed him.”
Violet quickly tossed a chunk of ham onto the floor and, as the creature gobbled it up, she skirted around him to the table.
He followed, padding along behind her with glinting eyes. When she set the tray on the table and backed away, his attention stayed fixed on the platter and not on her, for which she was thankful.
She escaped to the kitchen, where she collapsed on the bench beside the fire, heart flailing, knees shaking.
Pip tipped his head to the side and studied her. “It’s just a dog,” he said.
Violet pressed her palm to her chest to still the tremors. “It’s e-enormous.”
“Aw, he’s harmless. Once you get to know him.” The boy puttered at the counter, loading bread into a basket and scooping butter onto a dish. He shot her a scornful glance. “Why don’t you stay here while I finish serving?”
“Would you?” Violet gushed with relief. She really shouldn’t be a coward but she’d been attacked by an enormous hunting dog once in the woods and if it hadn’t been for—she shook her head in an attempt to dislodge the memory. “I’m so tired.”
Pip snorted and carried the rest of the food out to the men at the table. His disgust was plain but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
Her feet hurt, her back ached and her dress had somehow acquired several more mysterious stains.
She longed for a bath and a soft, warm bed.
She was physically exhausted, emotionally spent and this last altercation had drained her completely.
She rested her head against the warm bricks of the cook fires and closed her eyes, trying very hard not to let the tears leak out.
She wasn’t a coward and she wasn’t a crier.
But she was very, very afraid.
Dinner had been over for a while when Ewan emerged from his office with Wolfe padding at his heels.
The men were chatting quietly around the crackling fire in the great room, sipping ale.
Jessie and Pip were playing cards at the table and Morna was knitting in the corner. Of Violet, there was no sign.
A thread of panic coiled. Had she escaped? Why hadn’t he though to secure her after the meal?
He stormed over to Morna’s chair and barked, “Where is she?”
His housekeeper surveyed him with a steady, unblinking stare. “You have no call to speak to me in that tone of voice, young man.”
Good God. In his panic he’d forgotten.
Morna took no grief from anyone. And she shouldn’t have to take it from him. Not the woman who’d taken him under her wing when his mother passed. Shown him how to care for a baby. Fed him. Kept him warm.
He was an ass.
Ewan raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Morna. It’s been a long day and I fancy a bath. Where is the new serving girl?”
Morna tossed back her head and cackled a laugh. “You won’t be getting a bath from that one tonight.”
His brows came down. “Why?” Because she’d fled?
With a sigh, Morna dropped her knitting into the basket by her chair and stood, a great creaking of old bones—but dear ones. She led Ewan to the kitchen and pointed to a bundle in the corner by the fire.
Violet. Curled up in a tight ball. Fast asleep. A dainty snore rumbled.
She seemed so frail and fragile and delicate.
He hardened his heart. She was getting no more than she deserved. Because of her, his mother had had to endure worse than this. Much worse.
“She’s all in, that one.” Morna perched her hands on her hips and frowned at him. “Will you still be wanting that bath?”
Ewan glanced at the buckets on the hearth.
Calculated how many it would take to fill his tub.
How many trips Violet would have to make up to the tower to do it.
He should wake her up. He should wake her up and make her prepare his bath and bathe him—just as he had dreamed about all day. But he didn’t.
And it wasn’t because he was going soft. It wasn’t. It was because, well, he just didn’t want a bath after all. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.
Yes. Tomorrow would be better. He was busy tonight.
“Yer lairdship? Do you still want a bath?”
Ewan sighed. “Not tonight, Morna. Maybe tomorrow.”
She mumbled something under her breath and went back to her knitting. Ewan bent and gently lifted Violet into his arms, being careful not to jostle her. With Wolfe at his heels, he carried her through the great room and up to the tower and settled her in his bed.
The candlelight flickered over her face in a tender caress.
God, she was lovely. Lovely and wan and.
.. Lord, her dress was a horror. He covered her with a blanket and sat on the other side of the bed to pull off his boots.
He would have to find her some clothes, he supposed.
And another room. Having her in his bed was a temptation—and a potential disaster—he couldn’t afford.
But his thoughts stalled there.
He didn’t really want her sleeping anywhere else.
And he wasn’t sure why.
Holy heaven. She would never take a bath for granted again.
Violet stumbled on the stairs and the contents of the heavy bucket sloshed, dousing her with hot water. She sucked in a breath as pain seared. She set the bucket on the landing and pulled her skirts up. Her skin was red. She ruffled the tatters of her petticoats, waiting for the sting to subside.
The door to the laird’s solar swung open. She stepped back so it wouldn’t hit her and it slammed into the wall. The McCloud glowered down at her. His gaze stalled on her bare legs.
It was riveted—until she dropped her skirts—then he snapped, “What the hell is taking so long?” He glanced back at her damp skirts and his frown darkened.
He picked up the last bucket and carried it to the tub, dumping it in himself.
“For God’s sake. How long does it take to bring a few buckets up from the kitchen? ”
A few buckets? It had taken twelve trips, each with a bucket that weighed near as much as she.
Violet glared at him. “Is that enough?” She probably didn’t need to clip the words quite so sharply but she had already worked for hours.
She was tired and sweaty and her skin ached and Morna was waiting for her to help prepare dinner.
He swished his hand in the water. “Yes. I suppose that will do.”
Not a thank you. Not a smile. Nothing.
Beast.
She whirled and started for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice rumbled, a deep tenor. Her steps slowed.
“Back to the kitchen.” She frowned at him over her shoulder. “I have work to do.”
“You have work to do here.”
“I beg your pardon?” What did he want her to do now, wash his bottom?
“You’re going to bathe me.”
Her heart stilled at his words, his intent and especially his expression. “Wh-what?”
“Come now, Violet. The laird of the manor can’t be expected to scrub his own back, can he now? Be a good girl, close the door and come over here.”