Chapter 6
Chapter Six
W aking up swaddled in soft linen atop a feather-stuffed mattress had to be the best part of living in fourteenth century Scotland, Lucy decided a week after arriving at Gealladh.
The sheets smelled like sunshine, and the mattress like fresh herbs.
One long bolster-type pillow, also made of linen and stuffed with feathers, ran from one side of the top of the bed to the other.
She was positive it had been scented with dried lavender, especially as she found a few buds working their way out of the hand-sewn seams.
The fact that the very clean, fragrant bed she shared with the laird seemed entirely at odds with the rest of the stronghold did not escape her, either.
At least I sleep well here.
Since she found herself alone in bed that meant Tair had already gotten up, dressed and left the bed chamber.
Since he’d forced her to start sleeping with him he never lingered or tried to press the lovers-or-enemies issue, which should have comforted her.
Instead it made her a little restless. She was having a very hard time keeping her hands off the man, and more than once woke up plastered against his side or even sprawled on top of him.
He didn’t seem to have the same problem, and when he woke to find her clinging to him, he’d just raise his brows as if to ask if she had decided.
Knobhead.
Lucy lifted her right hand and found it bare, confirming he’d gone.
He always woke up first and unlocked the shackle he made her wear before he left to start his day.
Or was he trying to avoid staying in bed with her?
Maybe his willpower wasn’t as fantastic as she’d assumed.
More than once she’d woken in the middle of the night spooning with him, the hard bulge of an erection pressed firmly against her bum.
Lucy yawned as she sat up and pushed her hair back from her face.
She’d gotten used to the radiant warmth of the hearth, and the scent of the fire, which added more coziness to her mornings.
Medieval Scotland was the ultimate home of hygge, which reminded her of the winters she’d spent in the UK.
Not having an alarm clock to shut off or a cell phone to answer calls from her service was making her lazy, but she liked that, too.
She climbed off the big bed, wrapping herself in the black and gray tartan Tair always left draped on the end of the bed.
It smelled of the laird, but then, everything in the room did.
She really liked that if she closed her eyes it smelled as if he were still in the room with her.
When Lucy walked over to the tall, narrow tunneling slit in the three-meter-thick wall that served as the bedchamber’s only window, she saw about a hundred of the MacRune clansmen in the lists.
Most were gathered in clusters around four huge circles drawn in the hard-packed dirt.
Inside the circles two or more men were fighting as if their lives depended on it.
Since they were using real weapons she imagined they did.
It didn’t upset her because she watched them every morning, and no one had ever been injured.
The men all stopped just short of delivering a lethal blow, which demonstrated their considerable self-control.
Just like the laird. Did someone train these men specifically to attain so much mastery of themselves?
The door to the bed chamber opened, and an unkempt-looking young woman named Garia came in lugging a steaming bucket of hot water.
She wore a stained lace cap over her tangled hair, and held her head tilted to one side.
One of her eyes didn’t open completely, which made her seem as if she were perpetually trying and failing to wink at Lucy.
As usual her clothing looked as if she hadn’t changed them for a couple of weeks, although they were different than what she’d worn the day before.
Patches of light gray ash mottled her hands and face. She smelled worse than she looked.
Lucy remembered how tidy the three kitchen maids appeared when she’d seen them after escaping the dungeons. That trio had disappeared, or become so dirty she didn’t recognize them anymore. None of the servants she saw since moving in with the laird looked as if they had bathed in months.
“Fair morning, my lady,” Garia said, hobbling over to the washstand and dropping the bucket with a thump. She reached down to scratch her crotch, and did that for much longer than a casual itching.
Lucy tried not to stare. “Do you have some sort of, ah, rash?”
“Och, no, my lady.” The maid glanced down. “I reckon I’m lowpin’ again.”
“Lowpin’?” She’d never heard the word before now. “What’s that mean?”
“My quim’s infested with the wee white bugs,” the maid said, grinning as if that were a joke. “’Tisnae the first nor the last time. I cannae scratch too often, or Seneschal shall see and force me bathe in the loch until I’m rid of them.”
She’d have to add tolerating body lice instead of bathing to her growing list of the many repulsive attitudes of the household staff, Lucia thought.
When they sneezed or coughed they wiped their noses on their sleeves, their aprons, or sometimes the back of another servant.
The maids who attended to the hearths also didn’t seem to care that they left a faint cloud of dust behind them wherever they went.
Yet despite everything she observed confirming modern people’s worst assumptions about how unhygienic medieval people had been, Lucy remained confused.
None of the clansmen looked filthy, or dressed in dirty clothes. The MacRunes might be a rude, sullen bunch, but they were as clean as cats. Why didn’t they teach their staff how to wash and bathe properly? Was all this related to Beinn’s fake scar?
“You don’t have to do that, Garia,” Lucy said as the girl hefted the bucket again. “I can pour the water for myself.”
“Aye, my lady. Only Seneschal shall beat me if I dinnae.” The maid filled the jug, slopping water everywhere before placing the bucket next to the washstand and giving her a squinty look through her half-closed eye. “’Tis anything more you need, my lady? ”
Lucy had already discovered that trying to argue with any of the maidservants was about as productive as slamming her head repeatedly into one of the stone walls.
“Thanks, but I seem to be fine.” For the first time she noted that the stains on Garia’s apron seemed darker, as if she had added more filth in the exact same spots.
The tangled condition of the girl’s hair looked a bit odd, too, as if she had messed it up right before coming in.
“Do say thanks to Sgathan for the show, and have a lovely day.”
The maid’s expression grew puzzled. “Aye, and you, my lady.”
Once Garia left, Lucy inspected the water in the jug, which happily appeared free of lice or any other bugs.
Quickly she washed up and put on her modern garments, which had dried a bit stiff in front of the hearth last night.
She had finally managed to launder the clothing herself in another bowl with some of the caustic gunk that passed as soap here, but the fabric wouldn’t hold up for long being washed with strong lye.
Once her clothes disintegrated Lucy would have to find someone who could make new replacements, or dress like the other women in the fourteenth century.
Maybe she could steal some men’s clothes, if she could find someone in the clan who wasn’t built like a gladiator .
So far they all seemed to be oversize fight-to-the-death types.
Her life at Gealladh wasn’t a nightmare, exactly, but every day her longing for the conveniences she’d left behind in her time increased.
Running hot water, flush toilets and a shower topped her list of things for which she would now kill.
Tea wouldn’t arrive for another three hundred years, and it would take even longer for coffee.
The herbal brews the clan drank did nothing to dispel her morning headaches from caffeine withdrawal.
Having an extra change of lingerie that wasn’t a shift and clothing that wasn’t an oversize burlap sack would have been nice, too.
It could be worse, she thought as she remembered the vision of Justin shooting her and her client. At least I’m still alive to whinge about it.
Cohabitating with the MacRune Clan had been a crash course in medieval times, from the food to the living conditions.
Meals were prepared twice a day, and eaten in four or five shifts as everyone living in the castle couldn’t fit in the great hall, which served primarily as a dining room.
The men all seemed to be on duty every day, and when they weren’t at their posts they retreated to the garrison hall for the evening revelries with whatever servant they had grabbed for the night.
The MacRune were equal opportunity brutes, it seemed, with many opting for male partners.
That seemed a bit odd, considering historic attitudes toward homosexuality.
Or was it all another kind of show for her benefit?
Lucy noted that none of the young men and women who worked at the castle protested being dragged off for a night of sex with a clansman.
Some of the older women looked a little exasperated, as if they were being inconvenienced, while the younger ones seemed thrilled.
Two of the handsomest male gardeners always accompanied one big guard with a scarred face, who kept slapping and squeezing their bottoms as they walked together into the garrison hall.
Both guys looked resigned, as if they were accustomed to being treated callously.