Chapter 13
Claire walked into the kitchen that morning, still yawning. Although she had finally managed to sleep because of sheer exhaustion, she had been haunted by nightmares all night. Now she was rubbing her eyes, trying to force herself into wakefulness by sheer force of will.
Suddenly, she heard Agnes’s voice calling her name.
“Claire,” she said, beckoning her with a crook of her finger. “Come wi’ me. I have somethin’ tae tell ye.”
Claire’s mouth fell open, and a terrible sense of dread filled her. She was being let go—this was her last day of working at Glengar Castle. What would she do now with nowhere to live and hardly any coin?
Then she remembered Iain Ross had bought her. He would not just release her, so he must have other plans in mind for her. Claire’s heart sank. Was she going to become his mistress—his kept woman—whether she liked it or not?
She was filled with a sense of dread the likes of which she had never felt before.
She followed Agnes to her little office and sat down in the chair that was offered to her. She was trembling all over.
“What is going to happen to me?” she asked fearfully, before Agnes could speak.
“Ye are goin’ tae become the Laird’s personal attendant,” Agnes answered.
She looked at Claire through narrowed eyes as she spoke.
“Attendant?” Claire was puzzled. “What kind of attendant?” her heart was thudding as she waited for Agnes to answer her question.
Agnes shrugged. “He didnae say,” she replied. “Ye will have tae ask him. Ye will be moved tae another chamber so ye can have a desk tae write on—that is a’ he told me.”
Her tone was disdainful. Clearly Agnes had other ideas about what constituted a personal attendant because it showed on her face. Claire knew exactly what they were, as she was thinking the same thing.
Claire left through the kitchen, where a crowd of her fellow maids had gathered for breakfast. Many of them looked at her with spiteful glares, and there was a general air of hostility. Clearly they already knew the news, although Claire had no idea how.
There was no such thing as a secret in this place, though, she reflected. It was most likely that someone had been listening at the door.
Of course, it was Lorna who spoke first. It always was.
“Sassenachs get the best treatment,” she said, her lip curling up in a scornful sneer. “All o’ us have been here far longer than you, madam.” She stressed the word contemptuously. “But he never asked any o’ us.”
Claire had been about to protest, but now Lorna had handed her a weapon—a deadly one. She looked at her enemy with a poisonous smile, holding her eyes for a few seconds before she spoke, and watched with satisfaction as Lorna cringed back in her seat.
“There is a reason for that,” she said silkily. “Do you know what it is?”
“No,” Lorna answered, “but I expect ye are goin’ tae tell us.”
“Indeed I am,” Claire answered. “It’s because I am the only one here who can read and write.”
She had no idea whether her duties would include writing for Iain Ross, but it was a good way to put the spiteful woman in her place by making her feel stupid.
Lorna was utterly nonplussed and said nothing for a moment, then she began to eat her porridge quickly and left, followed by some of the other women.
They all glared at her, but Claire paid them no heed.
She had put them all in their place with one sentence.
She had no doubt they would hate her even more from now on, but she was past caring.
She would have the personal protection of the Laird.
As she finished, Agnes came up to her with a tray loaded with enough food to feed a small army. “Laird’s breakfast,” she said tersely, before turning and walking away.
Lorna looked at the food with astonishment. There was porridge, black pudding, eggs, bacon, and sausage on one plate, and on another were fillets of herring fried in oatmeal, with two large buttered bannocks beside them.
Agnes placed a glass of ale on the tray, then said, “Off ye go.”
Claire walked upstairs to Iain’s chamber, and knocked on the door, carefully balancing the heavy tray in one hand. A myriad of questions tumbled through her mind. Would he still be in bed? Would he be fully dressed? Would he try to kiss her?
Claire’s heart skipped a beat, and she took a deep breath to calm herself before she opened the door. Claire was deeply disappointed, then she told herself to stop being so foolish. They had kissed once—she should not have expected special treatment just because of that.
To her surprise, the room was empty, so she set down the tray on a table and looked around with avid curiosity to see what kind of chamber Iain slept in.
It was a very masculine space decorated in muted shades of cream and brown, with dark rosewood furniture.
The bed was dressed in a plain cream quilt and pillows, without lace trimmings or frills, and had no carving or decoration of any kind on it.
A row of medieval swords, daggers, and longbows hung on one wall, and Claire shook her head, wondering why men always needed reminders of violence and war in their lives.
However, the other walls were decorated with paintings of local scenery, still life, and a few portraits, all of which gave the room some life and colour.
There was one portrait hanging above the plain white marble fireplace, that of a beautiful woman with dark hair, pale blue eyes and strong, angular features.
She almost looked like a feminine version of Iain, and she supposed that this was his mother.
Claire had the impression of a woman of great intelligence and strength of character.
Books were stacked here and there in no particular order, and as Claire looked at the titles, she could see that Iain had a very inquiring mind that seemed to be interested in every subject under the sun.
There were volumes on history, geography, philosophy and many other subjects—even poetry, which amazed her, since she could not quite reconcile a warrior Laird with this kind of literature.
A pair of comfortable chairs sat on either side of the fireplace, each with a table on which rested a few more books. Claire picked one up and saw that it was one of her favourite romances, On Wings of Love, which she had just finished reading.
Why is he reading this? she thought, frowning. He knows I have just read it. Men don’t read romances. Does it mean something?
She put the book down, then browsed around the room a little more, even daring to look in the big wardrobe where Iain’s clothes were kept.
It smelled of him even more strongly than the room did, and she took a deep breath, savouring the scent.
Claire wished she could put it in a bottle to keep with her all the time, then laughed at herself for being so fanciful.
A few more moments passed, and Claire sighed, looking at the mountain of food on the tray. It was probably cold by now, and she had no idea whether Iain would eat it.
She had no further time to reflect, however. She was startled by a loud bang, and whipped around to see Iain storming through the door, which he had crashed through so hard that it had banged against the wall and was rattling on its hinges.
Iain was glaring at Dougal with a face like a thunderstorm, and Dougal’s lips were drawn back in something that resembled a snarl.
Claire was terrified as she watched them, since it seemed, by the looks on their faces, that they might seriously lash out on each other, and she did not want to witness that.
“It’s time,” Dougal yelled. “The clan cannot wait any longer—there must be an heir, and you must provide it. You have delayed long enough!”
Iain’s ice-coloured eyes were dark with fury. “I said no!” he roared, thumping his fist on the desk to emphasise his words. “How many times must I say it?”
Dougal stood still for a moment, then said in a voice that throbbed with rage, “Keep your mistresses and your fancy women. Have a whole harem of them if you want. Just do your duty!”
“I have no ‘fancy women’!” Iain shouted. “And I want none. All I want is for you and the rest of the festering council to leave me alone.”
When Dougal looked as though he might approach again, Iain swept the tray of food from the desk with one mighty swing of his arm. Claire screamed as dishes, cups, and plates shattered on the floor, splattering and spraying food in every direction.
The furniture and floor had been sprayed with ale, eggs, fish and porridge, mixed with shards of glass and pottery, and what had been a delicious pile of food was now only filthy, inedible rubbish.
In an attempt to escape the danger of the room that had now become a battlefield. Claire tried to edge around the side of the chamber to get to the door, but she tripped, then staggered backwards and flopped onto the floor with a thump.
It was only then that Dougal and Iain noticed her. Both of them made a move towards her to help her up, but Iain pushed Dougal out of the way.
“Get out of here,” he yelled. “I will take care of Claire. Go away and tell the elders my answer. Don’t come back.”
Dougal looked down at Iain for a moment with a thunderous glare, then growled, “You have not heard the last of this,” before he whipped around and marched away.
Iain turned his attention back to Claire, looking at her face, then her hands and arms for any sign of injury. Fortunately, there seemed to be none.
“Are you hurt?” Iain asked anxiously.
Claire shook her head, attempting a weak smile. “No, I am fine, my Laird,” she replied, trying to rise to her feet.
Iain took both her hands in his and gently helped her up.
“Are you sure?” he asked again, and his eyes held so much concern that Claire was touched.
“I really am all right,” she replied quietly.
“If you feel sore anywhere, go to the healer and tell her I sent you,” he instructed.
He looked angry, still trying to calm down from the vicious encounter with Dougal, and it occurred to her that she might not be the only one who was wounded.
“How are you, my Laird?” she asked him cautiously. “Did he upset you?”
To her shock, he glared at her suddenly and snapped, “We are not talking about me. I am fine. No need for concern.”
His face was still thunderous with rage, and Claire felt hurt that her enquiry after his health had been met with such an ungrateful response.
Claire nodded and began to clear up the mess on the floor, but she had become distracted and careless, and inflicted more cuts and grazes on herself.
She ignored the pain, however, unwilling to invite more of Iain’s censure.
Then she gave an unconscious gasp as a shard of the pot cut her skin deeper than any of the others.
“What have you done?” Iain came over to her side again to inspect the new injuries to her hands, but Claire was in no mood to be pacified.
“I am fine, my Laird,” she replied. “There is no need to worry about my cuts and bruises. I am only one of your servants, after all, and we suffer these kinds of injuries every day. Do not concern yourself with me.”
Iain frowned and tried to grab Claire’s hand again, but she snatched it back and glared at him.
“I am quite well, my Laird,” she said angrily, reaching for another piece of broken crockery, only to cause another cut.
Claire gave a quick gasp and put her finger in her mouth, then took it out again to resume her work.
Dammit! Iain thought.
He felt wretched that Claire had reached out and asked about his welfare and he had responded by snapping at her.
Iain, you are a nasty piece of work sometimes.
Iain knelt down by her side and took her hand tenderly in his. She was bleeding from an inch-long cut on her middle finger, and her face was screwed up with pain.
Iain took out his handkerchief to clean up the blood.
“I am so sorry you are hurt because of me, Claire.” His voice was husky, and he was frowning regretfully.
“It’s not your fault,” she replied. “I was clumsy. You are not to blame.”
“I would never hurt you.” Iain looked deeply into her eyes then, to her shock, he kissed the bleeding finger. He helped her to her feet.
“I will take you to the healer.”
Claire shook her head. “No, my Laird. There is no need for a fuss. It’s only a little cut, and I can go there myself if I need to.”
“Then go now,” Iain ordered firmly.
“But truly, there is no need.”
Claire was becoming irritated. That was when Iain did something utterly shocking; he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close to him.
Claire was about to push him away, but his warm strength seeped into her, and she made no move to fight him. She was tense, however. After all, this was the man who owned her.
“I think you should trust my judgement,” Iain said sternly. “I am in charge, and I am the one who caused this. Have the wound cleaned before it becomes infected, then come back to me.”
He was still holding her, but as he released her, Claire saw that the expression in his blue eyes was soft and a little anxious. Claire suddenly felt that he was truly concerned for her, and her anger melted away. When he let go of it, her hand suddenly felt cold.
She longed to tell him that she was fine, that it was not his fault, but she simply followed the corridor to the healer’s quarters.