Chapter 8 #2
“I am not. From what I understand, ye think I am going to give ye information about my father’s plans. If we’re going to talk, I want to have a bath first.”
“That’s not possible. I can get ye more water…” She broke off as Struan leaned forward, coming almost nose to nose with her.
She found herself swallowing hard, fighting the urge to lean back.
Backing away would show weakness, so she held her ground, even though the tips of their noses almost brushed.
His eyes seemed even more vivid this close, with specks of gold, green, and even brown jumping in the blue.
A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead.
“Take me to a gallows or a bathtub,” he whispered. “The choice is yers, lass.”
Una clenched her jaw. Turning away at last, she locked eyes with one of the horrified-looking guards.
“Are the washrooms empty?” she demanded brusquely. “If not, empty them. Fetch hot water and drying sheets.”
Shortly after, Una stood, arms tightly folded, in the Keep’s washroom.
There were two, one for the men and one for the women.
Of course, respected guests had tubs in their own rooms, in front of their own fires.
The washroom consisted of several large copper tubs, set in a line in front of a blazing fireplace, and could be filled with water at will.
There were washbasins by another wall, and drying sheets of all sizes hung everywhere.
Sheets could be rigged between the tubs to provide a semblance of privacy.
A permanent fog of steam hung in the air.
It was empty. The guards were to wait outside. One tub was full of hot water, steaming and inviting.
“That’s yers,” Una said bluntly, pointing. “In ye get.”
Struan strolled over to the bath and trailed his hand in the water. Smiling to himself, he reached up, tugging the back of his shirt collar in preparation to pull it off. Pausing, he glanced over at Una and lifted an eyebrow.
“Did ye plan to stay and watch?”
Color rushed into her cheeks, making them burn.
“Nay, of course not!” she yelped, backing towards the door. “I’m… I’m just going to fetch ye some fresh clothes.”
Backing out of the door and slamming it behind her, Una was sure she could hear his amused laughter following her, making her flush more. Clearing her throat, she turned to the two guards.
“I’ll be back soon,” she said shortly, and hurried away without waiting for a response.
It took Una about twenty minutes to track down a set of fresh clothes that looked like they could fit Struan. The two guards were playing cards as she walked by and barely glanced up at her. Shouldering open the door, Una began to talk.
“It’s nothing fancy, but the shirt is clean and the trousers…”
She trailed off. The washroom was empty.
Una’s heart began to thump. Dropping the clothes unceremoniously on a low table, she hurried over to the bath.
The water was beginning to cool and looked as though it had been bathed in.
One of the drying sheets was damp. There was no way to leave the washroom except by the door she’d just entered. There was nowhere to hide.
Swallowing back panic, Una rushed back to the door, throwing it open with a thump. The guards barely looked up.
She was ready to bellow at them but paused, holding her tongue.
Astrid just made me responsible for him. These men might run straight to her and tell tales.
Surely he couldn’t have gone far. Her heart pounded so hard she felt sick. Scurrying off down the hallway, her scampering feet echoing, Una prayed harder than she ever had. There were a thousand places for him to hide in the Keep, and then…
She skidded around a corner, and there he was.
Struan stood, shirtless, with moisture still glimmering on the powerful curve of his back.
He was barefoot, wearing only his old, grubby breeches, and clutching his old shirt.
He was talking to a maid, some round-faced, ordinary-looking girl of about nineteen or twenty that Una didn’t recognize.
As she watched, the girl giggled at something Struan had said, peering up at him through her eyelashes.
She wound a lock of hair, escaped from under her mob cap, around her pointer finger, and bit her lip.
Something angry shimmered inside Una, a fierce and illogical desire to storm up to the maid and shove her away.
“Struan!” she shouted, and the girl flinched.
Struan, to his credit, did not. He made a dismissive gesture, and the girl scurried away. Turning to face her, he grinned.
“What is it?”
Una stormed over until she was close enough to feel his breath on her. She was so angry it shimmered inside her, but beneath the anger, almost powerful enough to overwhelm it, was relief.
“What do ye think ye were doing?” she snapped. “Wandering off like that.”
“I thought I was free.”
“Ye thought wrong. Ye aren’t going to be executed publicly, but ye are hardly free to go yer own way. What were ye doing?”
He only chuckled, grinning wider. “Ye thought I had escaped, didn’t ye?”
Una clenched her jaw, glaring up at him. “My neck is on the line for ye. Remember that. What were ye saying to that lass?”
He blinked, hesitating just for a moment.
“Soap,” he said at last, and held up a neat square of hard soap. “Ye did not give me any, and I wanted to be clean.”
He smelled clean, a faint scent of lavender coming off him—they often used dried lavender to scent the bathwater in the washroom—and underneath it, a breath of crushed grass.
Una found herself stumbling back, her breath catching in her throat.
“Very well,” she stammered, feeling color rush to her cheeks. “Back to the washroom, then, before anybody knows that ye are gone.”
“As ye like,” he murmured, inclining his head.
Una was glad to put her back to him. She strode ahead, relieved to hear his footsteps following her.
The guards—useless creatures—didn’t glance up as they approached, too absorbed in their game.
Una slipped into the washroom first, and Struan followed.
She closed the door at once, leaning back against it with a sigh of relief.
He stood where he was, staring down at her.
It was gloomy in the washroom, with the fire doing little to light up the space.
There were hardly any windows, and the ones that were there were closely shuttered up for privacy.
The gloom threw odd shadows across Struan’s face, but his eyes glittered sharply.
“I meant what I said,” Una whispered. “My neck is on the line. Ye might not like me, but it’s only fair—”
“Who said I don’t like ye?” Struan responded, his voice low and deep. He took a step forward, eyes still intent on her face.
Una felt as though she were frozen in place, the damp wood of the door pressing against her back. Struan leaned forward, pressing two fingers against the underside of her chin. It was the lightest of pressure, barely more than a skimming touch, but Una’s breath stuttered in her throat anyway.
“Without ye, I’d have been dead long ago,” Struan whispered, leaning closer. Una did not move, either towards him or away. Her brain seemed to have switched itself off. “And while I might have insisted the opposite, I do not want to die, Una.”
Before she could summon the courage to say something—anything—in response, he leaned forward and kissed her.
It was a strange kiss, soap-scented, and Una could taste the faintest hint of lavender on her tongue.
His lips were warm and soft, applying only the softest pressure.
His fingertips danced across her jaw, the pads of his fingers sliding down her throat.
His forefinger brushed the place where her pulse hammered against her skin…
It was too much. Una broke away, gasping for breath. Had she been holding her breath? She stared at him, probably looking wild-eyed, like a cornered deer. Struan’s expression was difficult to read in the gloom, but the best word she could think of was wary.
Without another word, Una abruptly wrenched open the door and tumbled out into the safety of the hallway outside. Pressing a shaking hand against her mouth, she glanced around to see if the world was still spinning normally after such a thing.
The guards were still playing their card game.
When one spoke, it gave her the fright of her life.
“When he’s done in there,” one man said, eyes on his cards, “Laird Kenneth wants to see him.”