Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She was up and, garbed in her warm robe, had seen to the fire, when the same little maid who had brought her breakfast before, entered with a laden tray.
“Thank you,” Selene grinned. “As you see, I’ve not taken a hurkle-durkle this morning.”
“Nay, ye’ve nae, milady.” The girl gave her a shy smile and bobbed a curtsy before she left the room.
After taking her time to consume the tasty breakfast, Selene selected a clean gown to wear for the day. It was another simple woolen gown in a soft forest-green shade, with green and white sleeves. The only problem was that the lacing was all at the back in quite an elaborate crisscrossing.
After pulling the gown over her head and sliding her arms into the sleeves Selene reached behind her back. She tugged the laces with a muttered curse that would have made her old English tutor faint dead away.
The storm had finally blown itself into a simpering breeze and now played gently at the shutters on her windows. But the calm of the morning did not match her frustration. Not when the lacing on her gown behaved like a slippery eel, sliding from her grasp every time she attempted to fasten it.
She twisted, one elbow knocking into the bedpost, trying to lace the ties at the small of her back. Once again, the cord slipped from between her fingers.
“Stop trying to escape me, you wretched thing,” she hissed, dragging the cord with far more force than elegance.
The bodice tightened at last. Then, maddeningly, the tie slipped from her fingers and the hard-won lacing quickly came apart. Before she could recapture it, the entire top half of her gown had surrendered, flopping with a thump to someplace below her ribs.
“Dammit,” she snapped at the empty room, breathless and flushed. Her hair, still unpinned, slid over her bare back, getting in the way of her twisting fingers, doing nothing at all to improve either her dignity or her patience.
She was wrestling for purchase on the laces again, half turned toward the mirror, when the door burst open without so much as a token knock.
“Selene, I—”
Kenneth stopped dead and blatantly ogled – yes, ogled – her.
Silence cracked through the room like whiplash. Selene froze in a mortified half-twist, the bodice collapsed at her waist, her breasts exposed to the cold air.
And to Kenneth’s gaze.
He stood rooted in the doorway, eyes widening, then narrowing as if he meant to look away but his willful eyes had failed to receive the command.
Selene squealed. Heat flooded her face in a sudden rush so violent she was surprised the room didn’t steam up with her ire. She snatched the fabric of her gown from her waistline where it now hung, and hauled it up over her chest.
To add to her humiliation, she was aware of the way the cold had caused the delicate nubs of her breasts to pucker in a most unseemly manner.
“Get out!” she barked, clutching tightly to the bodice, as if doing so was the only thing that could keep her alive.
Kenneth’s mouth opened, yet no sound emerged. He clenched and unclenched his fists by his side, looking absurdly like a warrior ambushed on his own battlefield – startled, braced to retreat, yet entirely unwilling to do so.
“Out!” she repeated. A hot blaze of anger replacing the harsh sting of embarrassment.
He swiveled as if to obey while she tugged feverishly at the disobedient laces. To her chagrin, the ties slipped even further. She clutched at the bodice, a strangled sound of pure despair escaping her.
“Ow.” She glanced up at the frozen figure of the laird. “Don’t just stand there. Help me with this hateful thing.”
Kenneth took a tentative step toward her.
“For the love of—” She threw her head back, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back like an errant, turbulent cloud. “This gown is the devil incarnate.”
A heartbeat passed. Then came his voice, low and strained. “Ye should keep still. Ye’re making it worse wi’ yer wriggling.”
She whipped around, fixed him with a thunderous glare, the bodice held tight to her chest. “Well, will ye assist or not?”
“Och. Lass. Ye dinnae ken what ye’re asking of me,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he strode toward her, a tiny grin quirking his lips. “Ye ken ye’re asking me tae toss propriety aside?”
She huffed. “Where will propriety be if I am forced to walk the castle with the bodice of my gown unlaced?”
“Selene.” His tone was clipped. “If ye pull at those laces again ye’ll tear them clean off. I’ll assist ye if ye hold still.”
His fingers brushed the bare skin of her back.
The devil take the man.
She should never have asked him to help her. She should have ordered him out again. She should have done anything but stand frozen as he stepped behind her and helped position the fallen bodice back into place.
And she should never, ever, have delighted in his touch the way she did.
It was the merest, feather-light touch – but it might as well have been fire. Her breath caught sharply in her throat. Behind her, Kenneth inhaled once, slow and ragged, as though he was in the midst of fighting an unseen battle.
His hands moved with delicious care – straightening the fabric along her ribs, guiding the wool over her shoulders, drawing the laces firmly into line. Each pull tightened the air around them until the room itself seemed to hold its breath.
“There, ‘tis done.”
She wrenched herself from his reach as if his touch scorched her flesh. “Next time…” She gulped in a deep breath, “…you should learn to knock.”
A faint, traitorous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Next time,” he returned, “ye should remember ye were the one asking fer help.”
“I did not—”
He lifted one brow and she closed her mouth with a snap.
They stood gazing daggers at each other in charged silence, their breathing far too loud in the narrow room.
Her heart was pounding. She was furious with herself for asking for his help – for letting him touch her.
Yet she was more furious still because some wild, reckless part of her had reveled in his touch and not wished him to stop.
Shaking his head, Kenneth retreated to the doorway like a man who had only just discovered the way out. He cleared his throat and levelled his gaze at her, meeting her eyes.
“I beg yer pardon, Lady Selene. I trust ye will forgive these rough Highland manners of mine. I shall be sure and knock loudly next time I visit ye.”
She huffed, but her features softened at his contrite words and an almost-smile curled her lips. “I shall forgive you this time, Laird Kenneth. But only because you were so kind as to fasten the laces for me.”
He made no attempt to hide his unrepentant chuckle.
“I came tae tell ye I’ll be riding fer the village shortly.
The men are repairing the crofters’ cottages after the flooding.
Roofs need rethatching and the walls need more peat tae strengthen them.
” He paused, reeling in his smile. “I thought ye might wish tae see how we dae such things in the Highlands.”
She blinked. Whatever leftover indignation she’d been clinging to dissolved in an instant. “Maureen will be there?”
“Aye,” he said. “Helping the women prepare food fer the workers.”
Excitement sparked, her eyes brightened. “Then yes,” she said quickly. “I would like tae come.” Now she was smiling. “I’ll be ready in just a moment.”
Kenneth gave a brisk nod. “I shall await ye in the courtyard.”
He stepped into the passageway, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
Selene stood unmoving in the center of the chamber, her heart thundering against her ribs at the prospect of another adventure.
The ride to the village passed in a quiet, companionable ease Selene wouldn’t have believed possible only days before.
She had grown used to the warmth of Kenneth’s body against hers, the sure way he handled the reins, the steady rhythm of his breathing as Arvak moved over the soggy earth.
The storm had washed the land clean, leaving the air bright and sharp, smelling of heather, sea-salt, and peat.
When they crested the rise, the village unfurled beneath them – small stone cottages huddled against the wind, the bending figures of the crofters already hard at work.
Men were hauling stones to rebuild the low walls, bracing them with fresh earth.
Women gathered reeds and heather for the roofs, their baskets brimming.
Children darted between them, carrying bundles of grass twice their size, laughing with pride at their effort.
Kenneth dismounted first and turned to lend a hand as Selene slid from Arvak’s enormous back.
A waiting lad took the reins and Kenneth strode toward a group of men struggling to lift a large stone slab. Several of the women came forward to welcome Selene with curtsies and beaming smiles.
She greeted them with her own smile, gratified that she was welcomed today in a manner quite different to the cold, suspicious stares that had greeted her when she had first visited the village.
Kenneth’s sleeves were rolled up within moments, revealing strong forearms quickly streaked with mud as his hefted squares of cut peat being used to repair the walls of a cottage that had been awash in the flood only days before.
Maureen was working with a group of women sorting piles of bracken and heather into neat bundles for thatching. Together they sorted the flattened bundles into roughly equal size, tying them with twine ready for the men who were already on the roof.
All the while, Selene’s traitorous gaze drifted toward Kenneth. Watching him work was… distracting. His strength seemed effortless, his focus unwavering. Each time he braced his weight to lift a stone or adjust a wall’s foundation, a ripple of heat curled low in her stomach.
Once or twice, he glanced up and before she could hastily look away, he caught her gaze with his searing grey-blue eyes. She felt her cheeks burn, yet it was impossible not to curl her lips in a smile.
Once there were sufficient bundles ready for the thatcher, Selene and Maureen headed to one of the cottages where food was being prepared.
They were joined by two other women who introduced themselves as Margrit and Jonet.
Margrit was by far the senior of the two, a stout, shiny-faced, smiling woman who was cheerfully giving orders.
Margrit curtsied to Selene and Maureen and then proceeded to instruct them in what they were to do.
“Ye,” she nodded to Maureen, “Ye can scrub and peel the neaps,” she pointed to a basket filled with turnips, “And ye,” she addressed Selene, “Ye can get on wi’ preparing the carrots.”
They set to work at once while Jonet prepared the oats and barley for bannocks and oat cakes to be baked on the hob over the central fire.
Smiling to herself, Selene set about peeling and chopping and soon had a large pile of vegetables in the bowl while Maureen labored over the neaps. Another Scots word she’d learned.
Margrit tossed them into the giant cauldron suspended on a hook above the flames where a mutton stew was bubbling. She added some wild mushrooms, garlic, onions, and assorted wild herbs to the mix and before long a delectable aroma swirled in the air of the tiny cottage.
She winked at Selene and Maureen as she stirred the pot. “There’ll be some hungry bellies here soon. Those men need feeding.”