The Red Plaid #3
“Ach, I’ve forgotten the chamber pot!” Gellie exclaimed, slapping her forehead with her palm.
“Run up and fetch it, will ye? I’ll see this covered afore all’s ruined with water.
The pot should be behind the changing screen.
And since you’ll be up there, take a last wee look around, just to be certain, aye? ”
With a good-natured groan, Sorcha pushed the damp strands of her auburn hair back from her face and trudged once again up the narrow stairs for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning.
At first glance, Lady Margaret’s chamber stood empty, save the wood-paneled screen in the corner which shielded the chamber pot.
But as she moved to retrieve it, a glint of silver caught her eye on the floor near the fireplace.
It was a thimble, finely wrought and half hidden in the rushes.
“Thank the heavens,” Sorcha murmured, quickly pocketing the thing. She could only imagine Lady Margaret’s fury upon discovering its loss
She’d scarcely thought it before the woman’s distinct, disapproving tones rang just outside the door.
Sorcha panicked.
There was only one place to hide. She made it behind the screen with only seconds to spare.
Through a small crack between the panels, she saw Lady Margaret enter, her bony frame draped in a rich brocade gown with a fur-trimmed collar. Her brother, Hugh, sauntered close behind, wearing the deep red Cunningham plaid and dusting his white sleeves.
“And with your habit of bending the truth, Meg,” he was saying in an acidic, nasally tone. “’Tis hard to know where the truth lies.”
Lady Margaret didn’t immediately react to his pointed barb. She paused in the center of the chamber and quickly scanned the room.
Sorcha held her breath.
Apparently satisfied, Lady Margaret faced her sibling with a scowl.
“I’ve no cause to lie, I despise him and well ye know it,” she spat.
“I’m more than four months gone now, and these high-waist gowns will only hide it for so long.
‘Tis time ye free me, as ye vowed. He may be a Montgomery, but he’s no fool.
He’s nae returned to my bed in over a year, so he’ll know the bairn canna be his. ”
Sorcha’s eyes widened.
“Then only ye know?” Hugh asked, catching her by the shoulders.
“Aye.” Lady Margaret shoved him away. “Except that I told Gordan, who did the fathering, ye halfwit.”
Hugh chuckled, a mirthless sound filled with malice. “Then ‘tis time,” he said, striding to the open window to peer into the distance. “I’ll see ye free, Meg, just as I swore on your wedding day.”
As a cool breeze drifted into the room, his sister smoothed her skirts. “Aye, well, I’m not free yet,” she replied tartly. “See it through and with haste. I canna bear the man’s touch, Hugh. I’m done with it.”
“Ye’ve played your part well,” her brother answered, still gazing out the window, his shoulders straight and his body rife with elation.
“Then I’ll go with ye to Aiket afore Lainshaw,” Lady Margaret said.
“Aye,” Hugh agreed absently. “Gordan’s there.”
“I know,” she said, lifting her chin high. “I’ll have him at my side, to see this through.”
With a dark smile, Hugh delivered a wide, sweeping bow. “Then shall we, Meg?”
She didn’t reply. Gathering her long skirts, she swept through the door, the back of her gown dragging on the flagstone floor.
Sorcha closed her eyes, willing Hugh to follow his sister quickly. At first it seemed he was, but then his footsteps stopped abruptly.
Dismayed, she opened an eye and peeked through the crack.
The man stood only a few feet away, his head tilting her way as he eyed the screen in open speculation. Slowly, his brow lifted in a calculating arch.
Sorcha froze, her breath shallow and silent. Surely, the man couldn’t hear her.
“Sorcha?” a voice called from the stair.
Gellie.
A sly look crossed Hugh’s face. Running his hands over his brown, slicked-back hair, he spun on his heel and left without a backward glance.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Sorcha half-collapsed against the wall.
“Sorcha? Where are ye?” Gellie’s voice grew louder.
A moment later, the raven-haired lass yanked the latticework screen to one side. “Ach now, are ye lost—” she began, but taking one look at Sorcha’s face, interrupted herself to ask, “Have ye seen a spirit, lass? You’re as white as snow!”
“’Tis nothing,” Sorcha lied. What could she say? That she’d just overheard Lady Margaret’s confession of a torrid affair and her plan to leave the Montgomery earl?
Collecting the chamber pot, she swept past Gellie and ran out of the room. At the head of the stairs, she caught a glimpse of red from the corner of her eye.
She whirled, but saw nothing.
Gellie was close behind, her brows drawn into a line. “Are ye a wee touched in the head?” she asked, concerned.
But Sorcha hardly heard her.
Had the red plaid belonged to Hugh? And if it had, just what would he do if he suspected she’d overheard? She bolted down the stairs as fast as she could. She didn’t care to hear other’s secrets—particularly such revealing ones.
A wave of longing for Heather House and its simplicity struck her, and suddenly, she couldn’t leave Mugdock Castle soon enough.