Chapter 3
Fifteen minutes later, as Agnes attempted to settle on a reading chair by the fire, to soothe a baby that was becoming rather short-tempered in her hunger, the door opened.
She jumped, half-expecting to see the muscular giant with the tuggable beard and cold grey eyes. Instead, a tiny woman bustled in.
Agnes herself wasn’t exactly blessed with great height, but this newcomer was almost a head shorter. Yet, her radiant smile could have filled entire halls with warmth.
“Apologies for the delay, miss,” the woman said, carrying a small jug with a strangely twisted cloth over the top. “Brought some warm goat’s milk for the wee’un. Should be good enough for tonight, but I’ll find a lass with milk to spare for the bairn tomorrow.”
The idea briefly horrified Agnes. A stranger, feeding Lizzy?
Is that so different from a wet nurse?
She supposed not, and urged herself to form a few words of gratitude. “That is very kind, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Och! Ma’am, is it?” The tiny old woman cackled. “Iona will do just fine. ‘Tis me name after all, and I tell ye, it has served me well enough these past fifty-somethin’ years.”
Agnes flushed. This had all been so much easier when she had rehearsed how her plan was going to go.
“Thank you, Iona,” she said, and held out her hand for the strangely covered jug.
Iona chuckled, as if sensing her confusion. “Ye just tip it a little bit, let the cloth soak, and the wee’un will suckle it. Back and forth ‘til there’s nothin’ else left, or this beauty decides she’s done.”
She paused to gently stroke Lizzy’s cheek with a hooked finger. Immediately, Lizzy tried to suckle on it, and both women chuckled at the sight, shattering any awkwardness.
“Truly, thank you,” Agnes said as she began to follow the woman’s instructions.
“‘Tis the least I can do,” Iona insisted, smiling at Lizzy as she began to suckle. “Actually gives me somethin’ to do. Somethin’ different, I mean. It’s been too long since this castle has seen a guest, so I for one am glad ye’re here.”
Agnes flashed a wry smile. “I had a feeling that the Laird wasn’t too fond of hosting.”
“Och, daenae mind him,” Iona urged. “Now, while ye’re tendin’ to the bairn, I’ll fetch ye somethin’ to eat. And me husband is comin’ up with some hot water for a bath for ye, so while ye’re soakin’ away yer days of travel, I’ll be readyin’ yer room.”
Agnes frowned. “Readying a room? Is this not to be my room for tonight?”
“Och, nay, this is the Laird’s bedchamber,” Iona laughed. “But he’s given ye the use of it while ye refresh yerself.”
Confusion ripened in Agnes’s mind. “Well, do not go to so much trouble, Iona. I can manage without a bath for tonight, and I am not so very hungry. I would hate for you to disturb the maids on my account.”
“Maids?” Iona snorted. “What maids?”
“There are no… maids here? But I thought lairds were like… dukes?”
Agnes could not begin to fathom how an entire castle ran without maids. Staff. Servants. When she had told the Laird that she knew how to run a household, she had said it to fill the awkwardness, but perhaps he really did need someone who knew what they were doing.
However, she didn’t get to press the matter, as the man himself marched into the room.
“Dukes?” the Laird snorted derisively. “We’re nothin’ like those feeble, fancy lads.”
Accidentally proving his point, he carried two enormous buckets of steaming water in either hand, barely seeming affected by the weight. Had Edwin attempted to wield such weight, he would surely have buckled and scorched himself until he was naught but blisters.
Twice as impressive was the manner in which the Laird set down the buckets, grabbed the not-inconsiderably sized bronze tub from the corner of the room, and heaved it into position in front of the fire.
Agnes watched his muscular arms flexing beneath the shirt he had finally seen fit to don, and realized, as he poured the buckets into the tub, that she had been holding her breath.
He left again without a word, and the ability to exhale quickly returned to her.
“Finely crafted, is he nae?” Iona teased, mischief in her blue eyes.
“If you mean that he is strong, then yes,” Agnes hurried to answer.
And strong is what I need.
“But I thought your husband was bringing the water?” she added.
“Me husband will be along. He’s just a little slower.
” Iona chuckled and wandered off to a cupboard, where she rattled some jars and bottles around, searching for something.
“There’s nay harm in lookin’, miss. A young lass like yerself should secretly appreciate a man when he looks like His Lairdship.
Me own husband was a strappin’ ox of a man when we were first wed.
Couldnae take me eyes, or me hands, off him. ”
Agnes stared at the busy back of the woman, too shocked to speak.
Did everyone here speak of private matters so freely?
Was there no such thing as decency north of the border?
Or was the problem actually south of the border, among a stuffy society that would raise hell if a young lady happened to glance at a gentleman for a moment too long, much less one who dared to take a lover?
Oh, Christine…
Her throat tightened at the thought of her poor sister.
The Laird’s return snapped her out of her melancholy, as he brought two more buckets. Another man was with him, presumably Iona’s husband, easily carrying two buckets of his own, though he must have been in his fifties too.
Back and forth the men came and went until, at last, only the Laird returned to fill up the last bit of the tub.
“Ye can bathe and sleep here,” he said tersely. “Nay use wastin’ another room when I’ll be gone ‘til mornin’.”
He moved as if to walk out, but Agnes called to him, “Gone? Where? I interrupted your slumber earlier. Surely, you are eager to get back to sleep?”
And why had he been sleeping down there in that odd little room if he had this grand bedchamber for himself? She could not imagine choosing the former over the latter.
He turned, his wolf-like eyes seeming to pierce right through her. “Monsters daenae sleep, lass.”
“The book didn’t say you were one,” she remarked. “It just said that you were—”
“Well then,” he interrupted sharply, his expression darkening, “maybe ye should complain to whoever wrote it.”
The chilling comment made the fine hairs on the back of her forearms rise into gooseflesh.
He left her with her unease, striding out.
Iona, who had been watching with a glint in her eyes, followed him out of the room, calling back, “I’ll bring ye the food I promised. A fine feast for a fine guest.”
“There’s really no need,” Agnes insisted. “Thank you, but I am so weary from the journey that I think I will just go straight to sleep.”
She had no idea if the old woman had heard her or not, as the door closed and she was left alone, staring at a wonderful four-poster bed perfectly made with fresh linens and thick woolen blankets, and pillows so plump that they looked too tempting to resist.
“What do you say, Lizzy?” She smiled at her niece. “Shall we sleep?”
The baby was already one step ahead, her eyes closed, breathing softly.
Tomorrow will be better, Agnes promised silently. If the Laird thinks I will just go elsewhere after everything I have done to get here, he is sorely mistaken.
Leaning against an oak tree, at the edge of the forest that surrounded the castle, Gordon’s gaze fixed on the one room where firelight glowed.
In its flickering illumination, a silhouette appeared—feminine curves to tease the eye, the shape of her becoming clearer as he watched the outline of her cloak fall and then her arms stretch up as she pulled off her dress.
A perfect hourglass…
He clenched his fists and turned around, marching toward the loch before he could see anything more.
On the way through the shadowed woods, he muttered to the night creatures, “The lass is bloody trouble.”
Surprisingly refreshed after a night in an unfamiliar bed, with no certainty of where she would end up today, Agnes found her way—with the help of Iona, the housekeeper—to a small hall.
“Shall we have something delicious to eat?” Agnes said in a funny, high-pitched voice to Lizzy, who sat on her hip. “I’m afraid it will have to be milk again for you.”
Lizzy gurgled cheerily, also surprisingly unperturbed by her new surroundings.
Opening the door, Agnes frowned into the gloom beyond. The curtains were drawn, refusing to let any light in, while a few candles flickered across a dining table. Rather pointless, really, when there was free sunlight to be had.
“It’s rather dark in here,” she noted, spotting the large shape of the Laird about halfway down the table, brooding over his breakfast. He ignored her, pushing a piece of meat around his plate.
“Well, anyway, good morning to you,” she greeted him, smiling.
He made a noise that might have been a grunt of acknowledgement or a rejection of her greeting.
Deciding that the spot opposite him would make her impossible to ignore, she sat down and squinted at the array of food.
There appeared to be some cut apples and a bowl of blackberries, with a pot of cream beside it, savory cold meats alongside fresh bread that smelled heavenly, and a slab of butter waiting to be tasted.
Agnes’s stomach grumbled.
I wonder if he drank too much last night.
Her father had done that for weeks after her mother died, forever sitting in dark rooms, day and night, reeking of liquor.
She tried to subtly sniff the air but could not smell anything strong.
“Didn’t you sleep well?” she asked outright, plucking up some apple slices and tipping some blackberries onto her plate.
“Nay,” the Laird muttered, his head lowered.
“Why not?” she pressed, pouring the cream onto the fruit.