Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
A s Catherine left Mae's room, her mind was focused on the path ahead. She wandered through the dimly lit corridors of the castle, her steps echoing softly against the stone floors. It was in this quiet space that she encountered Sally, coming out of her bedchamber, a pail of ashes in her hand.
Sally's warm greeting brought a small smile to Catherine's lips. "Good evening, Catherine," she said.
Catherine paused, her fatigue evident in her eyes, and she spoke softly, "Sally, do you think it's possible for me to have supper brought to my room tonight? I'm really tired and just don’t think I can face the dining hall tonight."
"Aye, of course. I'll be quick as can be with a meal for you, but perhaps, if you are feeling a bit piqued, you might like some warm water brought up for a bath? Lady Mae and Lady Jennifer do enjoy one when they are feeling out of sorts. Is it the same for you?”
Catherine felt a swell of gratitude for the woman. "Thank you, Sally. Actually, a warm bath sounds heavenly right now."
“I thought it might. I’ll have the tub brought to your room and bring up that meal as soon as I can as well.”
In the solitude of her room, Catherine prepared herself for the evening ahead. She changed into the dressing gown, which was like a robe and settled herself near the window, gazing out at the moonlit landscape beyond. The castle seemed to hold both mystery and familiarity, a place where the past intertwined with her present.
Catherine pulled out her journal from the table by the bed and opened it. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow across the pages as her quill scratched the parchment. She was engrossed in capturing the intricate details of the life she had found herself thrust into – the simplicity of 17th century Scotland that contrasted so starkly with the world she had left behind.
With each stroke of her quill, she recorded the observations she had made – the sound of horses' hooves against the muddy courtyard, the scent of the hearth's embers that permeated the air, and the gentle hum of voices speaking in the Scottish dialect.
As Catherine wrote, a sense of wonder and fascination colored her thoughts. The tapestries that adorned the walls, depicting scenes of the Scottish countryside, held stories of their own. The authenticity of the furnishings, the rough-hewn textures of the wooden beams overhead – every aspect of this world seemed to breathe with its own history.
A gentle breeze rustled the curtains, and Catherine paused in her writing to rise from her seat. She approached the window, looking out at the loch that lay serenely in the distance. Moonlight danced on the water's surface, creating a pathway of shimmering silver.
In this moment of stillness, Catherine's mind drifted to her own time, to the modern world she had left behind. The reality of her situation still felt like a dream at times – a beautiful, complex dream, but one that she struggled to fully grasp. How could she truly be here, in a time she had only ever read about?
Her reflection was interrupted by the distant call of a night bird, a haunting sound that seemed to echo through the night sky. She closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself to be enveloped by the ancient landscape outside her window. The breeze carried with it the scent of the earth, a reminder that this was a tangible reality, not a mere fantasy.
With a sigh, Catherine returned to her writing. Her journal lay open, waiting for her to continue the tale she was weaving – a tale of a woman caught between two worlds, navigating the complexities of the heart and the mysteries of time.
As the evening deepened, casting the room in a cozy ambiance, Catherine's solitude was interrupted by a soft, rhythmic knock at her chamber door. She rose from her seat with a curious smile and opened the door to reveal two maids, their faces aglow in the flickering candlelight. Between them, they maneuvered the tub into the room. With care, they positioned it near the hearth, ensuring it caught the warmth of the crackling fire.
A moment later, several more maids entered with pails of water that had been warmed and they filled the tub. Catherine watched the steam curling up from the tub of water as it rose in level.
Just as the tub was nearing its brim, Sally entered, bearing a tray laden with sustenance. The aroma of stew, freshly baked bread, and other treats wafted through the air, making Catherine's stomach growl with anticipation. The tray also held a bottle of whisky and a glass for which Catherine was grateful for. The whisky was just what she needed to calm her nerves.
Sally set the tray down on the table. “There you are, Catherine, is there anything else I can get you?”
“Thank you, Sally, I’ll be fine now.”
“Then I’ll send the staff back up in two hours to fetch the tub. Have a good night,” Sally said with a wave before departing.
Catherine settled at the table, her appetite heightened by the day's activities. She savored each bite, as she relaxed at the table, eating. Her eyes occasionally drifted to the tub, which was a vessel of warmth and indulgence awaiting her.
As the last morsel of bread disappeared from her plate, she pushed her plate away and rose. With a contented sigh, she approached the tub, the warm water inviting her to sink into its embrace.
Removing the dressing gown, she gently eased herself into the tub, the water enveloping her in a cocoon of comfort. The flickering firelight danced on the water's surface, creating a mesmerizing interplay of light and shadow. Catherine closed her eyes, allowing the warmth to seep into her bones, the cares of the day dissipating like morning mist.
In the heart of the night, when the moon's silvery glow painted patterns on the floor, Catherine stirred in her sleep. A vivid dream had stirred her senses, one that left her pulse racing and her body aching with sensations that felt all too real. The remnants of the dream clung to her mind like the tendrils of fog on a Highland moor.
In the dream, Eamon's intense gaze had captured her, and before she knew it, they were locked in a passionate embrace. The heat of his body against hers, the urgency in his touch, the unspoken words exchanged through their feverish kisses – it all felt achingly real. But as they indulged, Sir Kellan entered catching her with Eamon, then storming off.
It all felt so real to Catherine. She didn’t have feelings for Sir Kellan, but she feared that he might have them for her and that was what the dream was telling her.
With a sigh, she shifted in her bed, the linens cool against her flushed skin. The moonlight filtering through the window cast shadows that danced on the walls as she lay there wondering what to do about Sir Kellan.
The next day dawned with a sense of unease for Catherine. The dreams she had experienced during the night had stirred something within her, leaving her distracted and preoccupied throughout the day. Her usual tasks felt like mere background noise to the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that tugged at her consciousness.
As she moved about the fort, engaging in conversations and going through the motions, her mind kept circling back to those dreams of her and Eamon locked in a passionate embrace – dreams that had felt so real, so intense, that they left her body thrumming with a yearning she struggled to comprehend. It was as if the boundary between her subconscious desires and the waking world had blurred, leaving her in a state of perpetual distraction.
And she still didn’t know what to do about Sir Kellan. All she knew was that she wanted to be with Eamon, whether it was proper or not. But did he feel the same?