Chapter Six #2
After another glance around assured her it was only them and Murdoch in the narrow anteroom, she stuck one of her feet out from under the cloak. “My boots are filthy. I don’t want to track up your floor.”
“Dinna worry about soiling the rushes. That is what they are there for.”
“The what?” She shuffled her feet back and forth in the grassy covering that was still a little green. It must’ve been cut only a few days ago. If she could get most of the mud off here in the entryway grass, maybe it wouldn’t look so bad. “What did you call the hay?”
“Rushes. They’re used to keep the floors clean. When the proper time comes, the servants sweep out the old and replace them with fresh. Is that not what ye do in yer Nashville?”
Only in the barn stalls. But she didn’t say that out loud. “We cover our floors with cloth or sometimes just leave them bare. It depends on the room and how we want to keep it clean—either by sweeping or—” She clenched her teeth, cutting herself off.
He arched a brow, obviously waiting for her to finish. “Or?”
She couldn’t very well say, vacuuming. “Sweeping or mopping,” she said. Surely they called it mopping in this century.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, rubbing the inner corners of her eyes and wishing she’d stuffed a bottle of aspirin in her pocket before leaving the cottage this morning.
That strange, drumming pressure, that sickening shift in the very feel of the air, had returned, making it hard to concentrate on choosing her words carefully. Pain shot through her head.
Without a word, Drummond swept her up into his arms and settled her against his chest, carrying her like a baby as he crossed the cavernous room filled with long trestle tables.
“What are you doing?” She caught the stares of the young women and men who’d paused in putting out fresh candles, stoking the roaring fire in the enormous hearth, and wiping down the tables and benches.
They all watched her with open-mouthed interest. “People are staring,” she said, cringing at the panic that made her whisper sound like a hissing snake.
“I am lord and soon-to-be chief here,” he said without slowing. “I do as I will.” He gave her a smug grin that warmed her faster than that hot sip of whisky. “And seeing to yer comfort is my will.”
She stared up at him, then realized she was licking her lips as if ready to eat him alive. She bit her bottom lip to stop herself and nervously chewed on its corner. “I…uhm…don’t want to be any trouble.”
His smile broadened; he appeared to enjoy the delicious discomfort he caused. “Ye are my trouble, lass. Never forget that.”
She had no response for that. Witty comebacks of this sort were not her wheelhouse.
She’d conquered the art of friendly banter with her drivers, coworkers, and even strangers.
But impressive wordplay with a gorgeous male with the chivalrous manners of a fabled knight in shining armor was not in her bag of tricks.
She hadn’t even managed it all that well with the regular guys she’d gone out with—hence her permanent case of virginity.
He climbed so many flights of steps that she lost count of the floors, then finally stopped at one of them, shouldered open the door, and strode down a torchlit hallway.
“My chambers are here, and here is where I feel ye shall be the safest—where I can personally guard ye or entrust yer care to those whom I know are my most loyal servants.”
That really worried her. Was he saying she couldn’t trust everyone here at the castle?
Of course, considering her circumstances, she really shouldn’t trust anyone with the truth—not even him.
“I wish you’d left me at that fairy hill.
You know I don’t belong here, or you wouldn’t be so concerned about which floor I was on. ”
His chin jutted higher, but the intensity of his stare remained focused on her. “Ye dinna belong at the sidhe hill. Not any longer. Ye belong here.”
If her head wasn’t pounding so viciously, she could make a better argument for both their sakes.
But as it was, she needed to close her eyes to keep from throwing up all over her stubborn protector.
That strange pressure had gotten worse. It was as though the world were imploding and crushing her in the process.
“Griogair,” he said to someone up ahead, “this is Lady Evie Waterton. She is priceless to me, ye ken?”
“Aye, m’lord. I ken it well, and it shall be done.” The man’s voice was as deep and booming as a bass drum.
“Please send for Mistress Martha. Lady Evie requires the woman’s healing.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Another door creaked, but she kept her eyes shut.
Somehow, it felt safer that way. Now she knew what a rabbit paralyzed by fear felt like.
She pressed her forehead to Drummond’s chest and wished she’d wake up from this nightmare, even though it meant she’d never see him again.
And while that thought already triggered a terrible sense of loss, at least she’d be alive and back where she belonged.
Maybe he could come back to her in a safer dream.
She dug her thumbs into her temples, massaging her poor, aching head. I have lost my ever-loving mind.
“Griogair will keep ye safe,” Drummond said as he lowered her onto something soft and cushiony. “He is my hostarius, my doorward. I may not be the King of Scotland, but the Bruce values me enough to assign the man to me.”
“That’s quite an honor,” she said, even though the sound of her own voice shot through her skull like an out-of-control jackhammer.
Rolling over onto her side, she sank deeper into what felt like a pile of satiny pillows.
She risked opening one eye for a split second, but immediately regretted it when the world started spinning faster.
Please don’t let me throw up on his bed.
Though that might make him think twice about bringing home strangers he found in the woods.
Maybe if she’d done that back at the hill, he would’ve left her there.
Bile burned at the back of her throat, threatening to humiliate her.
She clutched her fists to her chest and concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths.
“Ye were better for a while,” he said. “I had hoped the sickness had left ye.” The gentleness of his touch as he combed her hair back from her face almost made her shiver—in a good way. “Is it as bad as before?”
“The same, I think,” she whispered. It was strange how she’d suddenly felt bad again.
She’d recovered and been fine until she walked into the keep.
“I don’t know why it came back. I’ve never been one to get such terrible headaches.
” Maybe she was allergic to the fourteenth century.
Wouldn’t that be freaking great? “I’m sorry.
” For some inexplicable reason, she felt as though she’d let him down.
“Dinna be sorry for that which ye canna control.”
The floorboards creaked beneath the weight of his steps, but she was afraid to open her eyes to see what he was doing.
From somewhere nearby came the sound of water splashing into a container, then more floor creaking followed. A cool, damp cloth was tenderly dabbed across her forehead, then settled in cool, comforting folds across her eyes. “Would ye be able to sip a bit of water?”
“That would be nice, thank you.” It was worth a try. How in the world did she expect to make it back to the fairy hill if she couldn’t even open her eyes or remain upright? She held the cloth against her eyes with both hands.
He slid his muscular arm under her shoulders and gently lifted as he pressed the cool rim of a cup to her lips. “Drink, lass. ’Tis from the sweetest burn in all the Highlands. Old Thomas says it’s blessed by the Goddess Bride herself.”
Just one cautious sip convinced her that Drummond was right. It was sweeter than any spring water she’d ever tasted. She took another drink, deeper this time. Then another until her stomach rumbled, warning her she’d taken in enough. “Thank you. That was good.”
He eased her back down onto the pillows, then adjusted the wool cloak to better cover her. “Mistress Martha and her maids will get ye sorted with a dry shift. For now, I’ll stoke the fire to dry and warm ye as best we can, aye?”
“Thank you.”
He was so attentive. A wave of guilt about planning to leave as soon as she possibly could threatened to drown her.
She liked him. A lot. Already. But surely once his people started asking questions about the strange woman he’d brought home, he’d want to be rid of her.
He didn’t strike her as a man who tolerated unrest among his people.
And what about his friend, the king? What would his king think about such an odd woman?
King Robert the Bruce would probably order a witch barbecue, where she’d be the main course.
Hadn’t the man killed his way to the throne?
And hadn’t he done it in a church? She rubbed her eyes, wishing she’d paid more attention to those history courses she’d taken as extra electives in college.
The thunk of wood being chucked into a fire reminded her of the last Christmas she’d spent at Granddaddy and Grandmama’s farm.
Crackling and popping, the fire caught and filled the room with a comforting warmth that helped ease her fears and worries—at least a little.
This wasn’t so bad. She was dry—well…sort of.
She was definitely out of the weather. A relieved sigh escaped her.
Warm and safe made everything better, more manageable.