Like Ladies
Sorcha shivered, eyeing the pool of water forming under her wet gown in dismay.
She’d wrung the thing and tossed it over a chair to dry, but at the current rate, it would take a day or more.
She sighed. As she soaked in the warm bath water, she didn’t relish the thought of donning a cold, wet garment again.
As Gellie kept up her one-sided conversation, Sorcha sank deeper into the relaxing warmth, listening to the fire crackle on the other side of the thin curtain shielding them from the rest of the kitchen.
The wooden tub was old, and the linen cloth lining the interior, worn, providing little protection from the splinters, but she didn’t mind.
If it hadn’t been for her stomach lusting after the tantalizing scent of the roasting meat wafting by, she just might have stayed there forever.
“And that braw Alec.” Gellie succeeded in snagging her attention. “Seems he canna keep his hands off ye, ye lucky lass.”
Sorcha glanced up, shocked. “He’s a greedy, dishonerable Montgomery,” she corrected, annoyed at the heat blooming in her cheeks. “The kind of man who’d do a chivalrous deed and expect payment for it.”
“Payment?” Gellie repeated with a suggestive laugh. Prancing slowly before Sorcha, she swung her hips from side to side. “Aye, most ladies would gladly pay. I confess, I’m a wee bit jealous of ye.”
The color on Sorcha’s cheeks deepened. “Not even two days ago, ye swore the Montgomerys were vipers, aye, and brutal? That we’d be in danger of their ravishing ways?”
“Aye, but I dinna ken Montgomerys were so braw, now,” she confessed, fanning her cheeks. “I just heard the tales and such. But if truth be told, lass, with that lad, where’s the harm in a wee bit of ravishing? Aye?”
Sorcha looked away.
There was no denying Alec was handsome. Exceedingly so. And fatally charming as well. His distracting grin and laughing jade eyes occupied her thoughts far more than they should. Grimacing, she repeated fervently, “The man’s a Montgomery.”
She’d reminded herself of that fact numerous times already that day.
A woman’s voice interrupted from behind the curtain, “I’ve dry plaids for ye both.”
“Plaids?” Sorcha sat up eagerly, sloshing water from the tub. “Dry?”
“He said that this one’s for the lass named ‘Gellie’,” the woman answered, thrusting a brown Mackenzie hunting plaid through the curtain.
With a squeal, Gellie plucked it from her hands and wrapped herself in the soft, dry wool.
The woman paused before continuing, “And this one’s for the Cunningham lass.”
The Cunningham lass? Why not her given name, like Gellie? ‘Twas oddly … hurtful. But, as the woman inserted her hand through the curtain once again, she understood at once.
A long, beautiful swath of cloth fell from the woman’s fingers, distinct red and green stripes woven over a bold blue background. The plaid of a Montgomery.
“No,” Sorcha objected, rising from the water and reaching for the linen toweling instead.
The man was toying with her. Anger mixed with an odd current of excitement at the thought, and she buried her face in the toweling, ashamed to be feeling anything other than revulsion over the thought of wearing his plaid.
Ach, her mother … aye, her mother would’ve been mortified.
Reaching for her wet dress, she began to wring it once again.
Gellie snatched the plaid on her behalf and, thanking the woman, viewed Sorcha with shining eyes. “He sent ye his plaid. How can ye refuse? ‘Tis as good as a confession of love!”
Collecting her thoughts, Sorcha calmly pointed out, “The Mackenzie sent ye his.” She gave her dress another twist.
“’Tis not the same, ye daft fool.” Gellie snorted over her shoulder.
“Aye, the Mackenzie’s a fetching scoundrel, but ‘tis plain as day he’s not interested.
He’s no doubt keenly aware my heart’s already taken.
But Alec, now, his eyes are fastened on your every move, and he canna keep his hands off ye. ”
His hands. Aye, and his strong arms. He’d caught her as she fell. Her heart quickened even as she frowned to be thinking of him once again.
“’Tis plain as day he wants ye,” Gellie finished, tossing the plaid over Sorcha’s shoulders.
The cloth was dry, warm, and smelled of pine and smoke, altogether pleasant.
It took every ounce of willpower to shrug it off.
As it fell to the floor, she replied, “Wants me? ‘Tis not me he’s wanting. He’s only just met me, Gellie.
‘Tis the reward he’s hankering for.” The thought was oddly depressing.
Even more than wearing an ice-cold shift and gown.
Gellie rolled her eyes. “Now and then, all it takes is one wee look and a true love flowers,” she said.
“Not with a Montgomery,” Sorcha grunted, struggling into her wet gown. She emerged a moment later, her teeth chattering.
“Aye, your lips are the same bonny shade of blue as your dress now,” Gellie clucked, wagging her head. “Let’s get ye to the fire then, ye pig-headed lass, and a warm meal in your belly, no?”
After tying the last sodden lace, Sorcha tossed her Cunningham plaid over the chair to dry and, snagging the Montgomery one from the floor, folded the offending material as she followed Gellie to the inn’s central room with chattering teeth.
There was scarcely space to stand even. With the rains outside, it seemed every traveler on the road had descended upon the inn for ale and an earful of news.
It took a moment to find Alec and the others, seated at the end of a large, crowded table across from the roaring hearth.
Judging by their wet hair, pink skin, and fresh clothing, they hadn’t waited for the tub but had dipped in the river instead.
Alec’s quick eyes caught on the plaid folded in her hands as she approached. His brows knotted. Locking gazes, he watched her steer around a jester and through a handful of angry shipwrights to the table where he sat.
“Your lover will be fair insulted ye refused his plaid,” he announced when she arrived.
Setting the thing down in front of him, she firmly replied, “And ‘tis not my Alec’s plaid, Montgomery.”
An odd expression crossed his face. “We’re one and the same, he and I. Montgomerys, the both of us,” he retorted, picking it up, he thrust it back into her arms. “Wear it, or ye’ll catch your death.”
It was a clash of wills. One she was determined to win. “Nay,” she insisted, gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering even more.
With a proud toss of her wet head, she dropped the plaid into his lap and headed for the inviting warmth of the fire.
The men grouped around it parted kindly, waving her closer to the flames, and she accepted with a courteous dip of the chin.
As she leaned forward, stretching her palms out to the heat, Alec’s tall form appeared in the corner of her eye, approaching with a quick, firm step.
“Do ye have to be so mulish?” he asked, his brows drawn into a thick scowl. “’Tis just a plaid, lass. Where’s the harm?”
Staring straight into the flames, she stubbornly raised her chin, a wounding anger settling in her breast. “I told ye right well. I’ll not be wearing a Montgomery plaid.
‘Tis something my Alec would never ask of me.” Ach, why had she even begun the folly of having a Montgomery lover?
‘Twas turning into a twisted nightmare of complexity. “He’d never ask me to dishonor my father’s memory, nor my mother’s, in such a manner. ”
Alec stood still, weighing her with a thoughtful gaze. “I gather they met an untimely end because of the feud?” he asked, after a pregnant pause.
There was no challenge in his voice, only a muted inquisitiveness and a note of apology. It made her look him straight in the eye. Aye, there were a wealth of emotions in his jade-green eyes. Sorrow. Pity. Shame.
She swallowed, unable to look away in the lengthening silence that followed.
Apparently taking her silence as confirmation, an expression of sadness crossed his face, and finally, his carved lips parted.
“I’ve truly little to say for myself,” he admitted in a low voice.
“In this feud of enduring hatred, I’ve not suffered the direct loss of close kindred at the hand of a Cunningham. I canna imagine what ‘twould be like.”
The genuineness of his tone struck a chord, and her anger evaporated, leaving nothing but the sudden desire for him to know the truth.
“My father,” she confessed. “My father died in a Montgomery raid, and my mother fled, taking me with her.” She hesitated and, licking her dry lips, added, “She died from a fever, three years ago.”
Bowing, he murmured a soft, “Forgive me, lass. I’ll fetch ye a suitable plaid.” And then he moved away, threading through the crowd.
The exchange was an odd yet a strangely curative one. Puzzled, she returned to the fire, wondering what her mother might have thought of the man. It seemed only seconds later before a dark blue length of material softly enveloped her shoulders.
“Taran’s as vain as a peacock.” Alec smiled down at her, his easy nature restored. “Methinks he travels with every plaid he’s ever owned.”
He didn’t wait for her thanks. His warm, strong fingers gently covered hers, pulling her back to the table which was now spread with platters of meat pastries and a roasted goose.
And after seeing her seated first, he sat down by her side, filling her pewter cup with ale and spearing a pastry to offer it to her on the tip of his knife.
Sorcha hesitated, searching his gaze, but there was nothing but friendliness in it.
“Shall I taste it first, to prove ‘tis not poisoned, lass?” he laughed, arching a teasing brow.
She smiled, her lips mirroring the wide curve on his own face. And as she took a bite, she caught Gellie’s knowing grin from across the table, but even that couldn’t dampen her unexpectedly soaring spirits.