Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
They ascended to the battlements where, on a clear day, Maureen assured her it was possible to see across the Sea of the Hebrides.
But today was misty, with what Maureen informed her was smirr, a rain so light it was hardly more than mist. After descending the stairs, they walked in the walled garden where herbs and turnips grew beside one late blooming rose bush, while the remainder of the garden slept in preparation for the harsh Highland winter to come.
Afterwards, they retired to the solar, where refreshments were served and, later on, a light luncheon.
What remained of the afternoon was spent playing piquet with Maureen, who turned out to be an excellent and wily card player.
She won trick after trick, scoring many more points than Selene in every game but one.
“I give up. You’re much better at this than I am.” Selene said, laughing.
Maureen gathered the cards. “What is yer favorite game?”
Selene gave this some thought. “I enjoy chess,” she said tentatively.
Maureen tossed her head. “I’ve ne’er learned. It always seemed much too slow a game fer me.” She glanced at Selene, her lips quirking in a tiny smile. “But me braither loves chess. Mayhap ye could favor him wi’ a game one of these days.”
“Mayhap, I could. I would enjoy that.” Selene chuckled, relishing the prospect of a battle of wits with Laird Kenneth. She prided herself on her skill at chess and would do her level best to beat him.
Then she took a turn playing the harpsichord, accompanying Maureen who had a sweet singing voice until they were both tired.
Returning to her chamber, she kicked off her boots, turned down her stockings, loosened her stays and, with her new book in hand, took to the comfortable chair in front of the fireplace. She was quickly absorbed in The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe.
As the evening closed in. Selene endured bathing in yet another lukewarm splash, after which she begged off supper in the great hall with a non-existent headache as an excuse.
A maid brought her a bowl of hot chicken broth and bannocks and she continued her pleasant respite by the fire with her book, relishing the seclusion and the time to take stock of her situation and all that had happened that day.
It was late when she at last felt her eyelids drooping, donned her shift and took to her bed.
To her despair, sleep was denied her as a loud thunderstorm rolled in.
The entire castle groaned and creaked as if it had a life of its own, every shift of the ancient timbers seemed to rattle through her bones.
Footsteps echoed somewhere in distant corridors.
The storm outside clawed at the windows, thunder furiously hurling itself across the sky.
She shivered, closing her eyes tightly as the lightning flashed.
And on top of it all, her stomach was grumbling with hunger.
She was regretting her refusal to join Laird Kenneth and others for supper in the great hall and, instead, partaking only of broth and oatcakes served in her chamber. Her sparse meal had seemed sufficient hours ago, but now she was forced to admit she was feeling somewhat peckish.
Indeed, she was absolutely ravenous.
She pulled the covers up under her chin and counted backwards from twenty. But still she wasn’t at all sleepy and the grumbling in her stomach was worsening by the minute.
Finally, she pushed the covers aside and lowered her feet to the floor.
Enough. I’m not a terrified child. It’s only weather, and I refuse tae die of hunger when all that’s required is tae find the kitchen.
She grabbed the first thing she could find to throw about her shoulders, the rough plaid blanket she’d earlier discarded and flung over the back of the chair by the fire.
It was far too large, almost swallowing her and trailing on the floor as she wrapped it around herself.
Her hair was a wild tangled mass on her head.
She tried to smooth it, but gave up. What did it matter if she looked like hedgehog?
No one would see her. And what did it matter if they did?
She opened the door of her chamber and peeped out.
The hallway was cold and dimly lit by an oil lamp on a small stand beside her door.
Taking the little lamp in hand, she padded forward slowly, trying not to think about ghosts, murderers, or actual lightning demons – all things her imagination insisted were very real possibilities.
She wandered on hesitant feet down one of the passageways, coming to a dead end against a stone wall.
She retraced her steps, even more determined to find her way to the kitchen.
What a dreadful, vast, rambling, cold place this castle was, compared to the elegant manor house she’d been raised in. She huffed quietly, consoling herself with the knowledge that soon Halvard’s letter would come and she’d be free to reunite with dear Elsie.
Finally, after what seemed like an almost endless series of passageways, she caught the faint, comforting aroma of hearth smoke and baked bread. She had found her way to the kitchen.
Once she entered, instead of the orderly array of spices and familiar condiments she expected, was greeted by a confusing collection of pots and jars containing unfamiliar dried things, pickles and preserves, conserves of fruit, honeys, jams and pastes.
She discovered an enormous loaf of oatbread in a large tin, and was rummaging through cabinets in search of butter when she heard a rustling, followed by the sound of tiny scampering feet.
She let out a little squeal as she caught something moving in the corner.
A mouse? She swallowed hard. Or was that simply her imagination playing tricks?
Stomach growling, she resumed her search through the cupboards in the hope of finding something, anything familiar.
It was then a rough hand was suddenly clamped over her mouth.
She gasped, fighting for air. In the next second she was hauled backwards and pinned to the floor, her heart slamming against her ribs.