Chapter Twenty-Nine
Morgan had made a point of telling his men that he’d been injured saving the life of one of his warriors and reminded them the attack on the Mackenzie clan was false, anyway.
Since he’d already had a good relationship with the men before he’d been injured, he regained their support easily enough.
Plus, they’d all given him their pledge of fealty which bound them to him.
The men seemed to have no problem accepting him as laird and were anxious to get back into good condition for battle.
Although, he still had an uneasy feeling with Patrick’s attitude as well as the few men who seemed loyal to him even though they’d also pledged fealty.
Despite him trying to push Emma out of his mind, her face when she’d said, “They loathe me” kept popping into his thoughts.
He knew he hadn’t given her the help she needed to adjust to her new role, but between the pain he was fighting all day trying to get back into shape on the lists, the exhaustion at night—even though he always made time to pleasure his wife—and his own feelings of incompetence, he was barely holding on himself.
He entered their bedchamber, holding his ribs.
Emma sat on their bed; it was obvious she had been crying.
“What’s amiss, Emma?”
She hopped up, her tears turning into anger. “I ken ye are trying to find yer place here, but there is no place for me. I was taken down by the cook today! With all the kitchen lasses laughing.
“Again I tried to meet with the chatelaine who refused to open her door when I knocked. I assigned two maids to clean our bedchamber.” She waved her arm around. “Ye can see that a wonderful job they did.” She wiped her nose with a piece of linen.
“And then I asked one of the serving maids to bring my meal at the nooning and she ne’er came back.”
She began to pace back and forth. “At Castle Leod I was wanted. And respected.” She stopped and glared at him. “I visited the healing hut today—for the fourth time since I arrived—and was told I was no’ needed.”
While she spoke Morgan stripped his sweaty clothes off and walked to the bowl of water on the shelf next to the fireplace. “This water is cold.”
Emma leaned forward. “Haven’t ye been listening to me! No one cleans our room. No one sweeps out the fireplace. No one brings warm water. No one empties the chamber pot. No one changes the dirty rushes, or fixes the bed coverings.”
“Did ye send for someone to come and clean?” He continued to wash himself with the cold water while he spoke.
“Aye. I told ye I did. No one arrived. I came up here to do it myself since I am no’ helpless. Ye entered no’ long after I did.”
Morgan began to dress in clean clothes. He was weary to his bones.
Trying to prove himself as laird, a position his uncle had never taught him about, always wishing he would produce his own son, as well as showing strength before his men and pushing back on whatever it was Patrick was planning, was taking its toll on his recovering body. “Ye need to give it time, lass.”
Tears flooded her eyes. “How long? A year? Two years? After our first bairn is born?”
He turned and smiled at her. “Aye. That would certainly have them accept ye, and we’d have a good time making a bairn.”
All the air seemed to leave her lungs. She pointed to the door. “Get out.”
With the look on her face, he decided to take her suggestion and leave. All he wanted at this point was to appear downstairs for dinner, looking fit and in charge, then come back to his bedchamber and settle in front of the fireplace with a mug of whisky in his hand, and Emma beside him.
Or on his lap.