Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Cairstina
What an interesting place this is. I know I’ve been taken against my will, but last night I slept better in a strange bed with that itchy blanket than I’ve slept in my own bed at home for ages.
Damn, it was almost restful, if not for the itchiness and weird sensation on my body from the blanket.
Allergic to wool? How odd for a Scottish woman.
I mean, historically speaking, weren’t we all raised with wool?
In any event, that godforsaken blanket’s gone, and I’m wearing clothes that are worn and faded, but nicer quality than I’ve ever worn before.
The leggings fit me well, the sweater’s warm and cozy.
And when he opens the door to go downstairs, the smell of brewing coffee, frying sausages, and black pudding fills the house.
My mouth waters. My brother spends all of our money on gambling and liquor, and the little pension my mother gets barely pays utilities.
When they eat, they leave me only enough to get by on.
I wonder if the people in this house know how very lucky they are.
I look about me, trying to take in every detail. Outside, every window is nothing but brilliant white snow and mountaintops. The entire house seems to be made of wooden logs, and the scent of pine and oak makes it feel rustic and homey, but elegant.
I walk down the stairs beside him until we reach the main landing. It looks so different here during the day. At night, it seemed like a hunting lodge of sorts, and I expected to find antlers hanging on the wall, but it looks far more sophisticated and modern during the day.
Beautiful landscape paintings hang on the walls, and the carpets are dyed brilliant shades of purple and blue that somehow all go together.
Though the scent of food and coffee hangs in the air, I can smell the deep scents of candle wax and freshly polished wood.
The rail I hold onto as we go down is smooth under my palm, and freshly polished. It’s a sensory explosion.
Voices come from the kitchen as we approach.
I can see through an open door a large, formal dining table, but the room is darkened and empty.
Instead, the kitchen is bright and welcoming, and I walk beside Leith to follow him inside.
I stop short in the doorway, ashamed that I didn’t figure out before that we wouldn’t be alone.
Why would we be, in a huge house like this? Who did I think made the food?
Still, I don’t expect to see an older man sitting at the table, uniformed staff milling about the room, and one of the girls from earlier sitting beside the older man. She stops short when I walk in the room, a glazed pastry halfway to her mouth.
She quickly schools her features, then takes a large bite of pastry. It flakes to her plate. I watch, mesmerized, as she licks the icing off her fingers one by one. The older man hasn’t looked up from his paper yet.
“Do you like pastry?” she asks.
I blink, then shrug my shoulders. Not sure I’ve had pastry, but I do love sweets. I’ll take whatever they give me, though the savory, hearty scent of sausages is what really has me interested.
“Sit,” Leith says, pointing to an empty seat at one end of the table. This large, rustic table’s big enough to seat a dozen people, tucked away beside a roaring fireplace. A good distance away, the kitchen staff is busy chopping and stirring, but I can feel their eyes on me.
I do what he says, folding myself into the seat as the older man looks up.
He gives me a curious look, but scowls as he sips his coffee, his hand trembling a bit when he does, but he quickly puts his mug back down as if to hide the show of weakness.
“What are you called?” he asks. His voice is rough, but a bit shaky with age.
No. Why do they all ask me my name?
My heart sinks. I sort of convinced myself that I’d be able to make a good impression or something, after the run-in with Leith the night before.
I fold my hands on the table in front of me and stare at them, unspeaking. Leith sits down heavily beside me and shakes his head.
“I couldn’t get it out of her either,” he says, and I can tell by the tone of his voice it takes something for him to admit this. Is he afraid the old man will lose respect for him? Why? It’s odd to me.
“What do you mean you haven’t gotten it out of her?
” The older man leans back in his chair, and even though he’s older and frail, I can tell he’s a powerful man even now.
His arms are large and muscular, covered with faded ink.
Some markings match Leith’s, and as my eyes travel upward, I note the large breadth of his shoulders and neck.
Is this what Leith will look like when he’s older?
Why do I care? What a strange thought to have.
“Brought her home last night, as you know,” Leith says. “I interrogated, asked the standard questions, and the girl hasn’t made a peep since we saw her.”
“Did she make a peep before you saw her?” the girl asks. I can tell by the way her eyes dance and her lips twitch, the entire situation amuses her.
“Shut it, Islan.”
She sticks her tongue out at him, and the older man beside her growls.
“Enough, Islan.”
She turns a faint shade of pink, and she gives me a mortified look. I’m not sure if she’s embarrassed she was chastised or what her story is, but I think it odd they all defer to Leith. Do even the servants, the men he was with last night, and this older man here do the same?
Leith scowls as he places food on his plate from the platter at the center.
Several fried eggs and sausages, grilled tomatoes, fried tatties, and a few slices of buttered toast with a crock of marmalade.
My stomach rolls with hunger at the sight of all this delectable food. Are they trying to butter me up?
He takes a second plate and places food on it, and for a moment I wonder why, until he pushes it over to me. I blink in surprise, then take the plate eagerly.
Islan smiles at me and points to her pastry. I nod eagerly. She grins, hops up from her chair, and skips over to a platter on the counter.
“Here, love,” she says with a grin. “Our kitchen sells their pastries and baked goods, and they need, shall we say, some people in their quality control department.” One of the older, uniformed women, stirring a large pot at the stove, chuckles to herself.
Seems this is an excuse Islan uses often to “sample” the wares.
She continues. “Since we’re here today, we’ll be the ones that give feedback, mmm? ”
As long as the feedback entails nothing more than a thumbs up, I can handle it.
She holds a large tray filled with golden pastries, folded into little v-shapes, puffy and sparkling with a thick crust of sugar.
My mouth waters, and I swallow. I want everything, but I don’t want to be greedy.
Nor do I want to bring any more attention to myself than necessary.
I nod thank you and motion for her to take the tray away.
“Leith, you know my expectations,” the older man says.
Leith holds the man’s gaze. “Aye, Dad.” His voice holds a counter note of authority when he speaks. “And you know mine.”
His father’s eyes go wide for a moment. You can learn a lot about a person from their eyes. Someone like me learns to read gazes like others read the stars or tea leaves, with the knowledge that they reveal far more than at first appears.
At first his father looks surprised, then his expression quickly fades to anger. It’s either a fleeting thought or one he masters quite quickly, for the next moment he looks at his son with respect.
They lock eyes for long minutes, until finally his father looks away first. Is he admitting defeat, then?
“Aye, son, I do,” he says. “And you’re right to pull rank as the Captain.” He says something under his breath I don’t catch, but Leith isn’t one to let even his father avoid honest confrontation. There’s a new hardness to his voice now.
“Come again, dad? Wee bit of a breeze outside that window right now, I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that.”
His father lifts his head up a fraction of a centimeter higher and holds Leith’s gaze, unwavering. His words are guttural and ancient, like the locks on a treasure chest. Powerful, but weakened with age.
“Am mac mar an t-athair.”
I know immediately it’s Gaelic. Though I don’t hear it often in my home, I like to think I’m well-read and educated.
I know it’s the founding language of Scotland, perhaps derived from the Irish.
It was the major language of the Kingdom of Alba back in the day, and though it’s evolved with time, it’s still ancient and revered.
Leith nods. “Agreed.”
Though it’s imperative I pay close attention to every detail, my primal needs kick in. I’m starving.
I dig into my eggs and sausage with vigor, quickly finishing my food before they take the plate away or remember I’m their prisoner and don’t deserve good vittles like these.
The eggs are cooked perfectly, crispy around the edges, creamy in the center, hot and salty.
The sausages are plump and fairly burst in my mouth with flavor, but the pastry almost makes me wish I could actually speak.
I’d tell them it’s the most delicious pastry I’ve ever put in my mouth.
I never get food like this at home, of course, but I’ve hardly ever had anything like this in my life.
Golden brown and rich, the buttery pastry melts in my mouth with the sweet tang of raspberry preserves and icing and thick sugar crystals.
It seems almost disrespectful to eat such a thing in silence as I do.
No moaning or licking my lips, but I hope whoever made this heavenly concoction can tell how much I loved it by the way I haven’t left a single crumb on my plate.
When I’m done, I finally sit back, surprised to find Leith’s gaze on me.
“That’s a good lass. A very good lass,” he says, looking at my plate with approval. I blink in surprise. What an odd thing for him to say. Did he expect I’d starve myself on his watch?