Chapter Two
Greta brought out a platter heaped with venison, carrots, and peas, all drenched in a gravy made of animal fat. She placed it upon the board in front of Teàrlach who was given the head seat. The old woman hustled away, returning a moment later with a loaf of coarse bread. His stomach rumbled, despite knowing this was food right out of Madeline’s mouth.
To his right, as Greta gave a curtsy and departed the room, stood Madeline, on her injured leg. She didn’t make a move to sit, but true to her hospitality, stood ready to assist before taking her own meal. He glanced at her. It made him uncomfortable. There was room enough for her as well as the old couple to sit with him. He didn’t need a laird’s treatment when he certainly wasn’t one.
Sensing his gaze, she lifted her eyes. “What else do you require, sire? I’m happy to fetch it. More wine, perchance?”
He shook his head.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked.
“Aye,” he replied, his brow stern.
Her face paled and she dropped her gaze to her hands. “Pray tell me so I may remedy it.”
“Sit.”
She furrowed her brow, looking back at him. “Sit?”
“Aye. You stand on your poor leg, even though I told you not to. I’m nay a king, Madeline, and I do nay demand the service of one, either. Sit.” He pushed another trencher to the chair at his right, aiming his knife in a downward thrust. “And eat.”
She hesitated, then slipped into the chair, just as a wife would do. He nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea. Where on earth had such a sentiment come from?
He didn’t wait for her to decide to eat and, instead, grabbed the serving fork like a dirk about to deliver an underhanded shiv and jammed it into the meat, dropping the pile on her trencher. He ladled a heap of vegetables on top, then another, finally satisfied she had enough, and returned his attention to his own trencher to shove another bite in his mouth.
…
She almost smiled. His gesture was gentlemanly, but his delivery was like that of a solider in the barrack. Like he was the proverbial barbaric Highlander, minus the rough tartan and feral tresses. She glanced his way again, considering him, looking over his features. She could easily picture his hair longer, a beard circumventing his face, and a thick plaid draped around him. With his muscled arms and his shoulders broad of breadth, he looked both intimidating and comical, hunched over his trencher, stabbing meat on his knife and landing mouthfuls between his teeth to avoid sauce dripping onto his attire. Either way, he seemed too big for the chair.
“To heal properly, you need your strength, even if deer is nay your favorite,” he said while she sat there staring like a bampot. “Eat,” he gestured with his knife again. “The meat will aid in strong healing.”
She supposed he was right, for as a warrior he had more experience with injuries than she, and she ducked her head down, dipping her fingers in a bowl of water to rinse them. She lifted a piece of meat to her mouth, nibbling on the edge. In truth she loved venison, especially cooked so succulently. They dried it at Dungarnock to make it last longer, not because it was better that way, and she had only lied to Teàrlach to ease his mind. Lying wasn’t always bad.
She had lied about staying off her leg, too, even if in truth she had simply omitted telling him the whole of it. But Fingal and Greta left each Friday morn to visit their daughter who had been crippled in recent childbirth. The lass needed help and though the villagers offered her as much help as they could, they, too, had households to which to tend. There was simply no way Madeline would be able to rely on the elderly couple to do everything while she healed, and she had sensed, in Teàrlach’s growing agitation, that such an admission would have angered him.
She completed her piece of venison and focused on the carrots. Greta and Fingal deserved to have some of this venison, and Teàrlach had given her a warrior’s portion, far more than she could ever consume. The mood was intimate, yet despite their shared solitude, she couldn’t help but fret over the candles above burning down at such a rate they would be sitting in the dark for days until Laird Moreville saw fit to send more supplies. That, and the hearth fire had raged since he brought her inside, consuming more wood than Fingal could chop in a day should they continue to burn it so liberally.
“How did you come to be standing so close to the falls?” He finally broke the silence, which struck her as odd, considering she could never remember seeing him chat with his men over a meal at Castle Ayr. In honesty, she wasn’t sure she had ever heard him say much of anything to anyone, except her father. It was curious.
“Oh, I was just enjoying the day. ’Tis my day of birth, and I thought to shirk my duties and take a walk. Of course, God saw fit to remind me of the shortcomings of vanity, as you know.” She smiled, patting her leg.
He paused and looked at her. She glanced up at him, studying her, as if thinking deeply.
“Congratulations on another anniversary. And many more returns of this day to come,” he said, lifting his goblet in the customary felicitation. She blushed and lifted her goblet as well, both taking a drink. “How…” he hesitated, wiping his mouth. Another thing that struck her as curious. He had always seemed so sure. Hesitation wasn’t a behavior she’d ever associated with him. He cleared his throat to have an excuse for the falter. “How many anniversaries does this make for you?”
“Eight and ten, sire,” she replied.
A smile tugged up the corner of his mouth, then dropped. “You deserved your wandering today,” he said. “You should nay have to work as hard as you are.”
She shrugged. “I make do.” After a moment of thought, she added simply, “I would rather live like a peasant and find contentment in an afternoon walk than live like a lady confined to my household. To me, this is freedom.”
…
He gazed at her as she looked at her trencher. Her attitude was admirable, humbling. But no, this certainly wasn’t freedom. She had never had freedom before, so how could she know what freedom was? This was Henry de Moreville taking full advantage of the fact she kept to herself and never complained. Surely, King William thought he was providing better for her, didn’t he? Yet Teàrlach got the sense that what others took for meekness, was actually Madeline’s biggest asset.
Fortitude.
He had no doubt that if Moreville cut her off completely, she would move into a thatched hovel and continue to make do, working quietly and steadily each day. Nay, if it ever came to that, Teàrlach would swoop her up, plop her on King’s back, and ride her straight to Huntington northeast of Londontown, to her sister and wealthy brother-in-law. Chances were, if Mariel of Huntington had any idea the state of her younger sister’s accommodations at Dungarnock, she would drag Madeline away herself.
Teàrlach didn’t eat his fill, but feigned satisfaction and pushed his trencher away. This tower and its three inhabitants had greater need of the food. He had eaten at a tavern along the way midday and before that had broken his fast heartily at his inn.
Madeline, who had barely nibbled her plate, sprang from her chair as if he had commanded it and collected the trenchers, hobbling to the kitchen. She returned moments later, a sheen of sweat on her brow and a wince furrowing her eyes, but made no sound. Her hair, he noticed, as he watched her approach him, still hung in disarray over her rear in blonde waves and her gray-green eyes, like the stormy waters of a firth, were downcast.
“Allow me to show you to your chamber for the night, sire.”
“You must get off your feet, Madeline,” he cautioned.
“I will, as soon as I see you settled. Greta takes a tray of wine to your bedside as we speak. Once you’re satisfied, I’ll retire to my chamber.”
He leveled a disbelieving glare at her.
“I promise, sire,” she said.
He nodded and allowed her to lead the way across the hall to the darkened stairwell leading up to the first floor. She took a step up with her right leg, then dragged her left up beside it. After four steps, Teàrlach reached a hand to her shoulder.
“Madeline.”
She looked at his hand, then at him. He was still an inch or two taller than her, despite standing two steps down.
“Aye?”
He reached his other hand out, turning her to him.
“Your pain is too much to watch. Put your arms around my neck and I’ll carry you.”
“It’s no bother, really—”
He scooped her up without allowing her a chance to protest further, his face ever firm, and after her initial shock subsided, she relaxed against him and snaked her arms around his neck. Ah, the feel of it made his skin tingle. He had never even allowed himself to consider such intimate contact betwixt them, for imagining those things served no purpose. He had fancied her. She had been out of his reach. And then she’d been sent to Edinburgh.
Maybe he was imagining it now, but he sensed she was pleased to be in his arms. Or nervous. Mayhap both sentiments went hand in hand in this regard, for he was certain he had touched her more in one day than anyone had ever touched her. He sensed there was so much more to Madeline Crawford than an obedient woman who kept to the shadows. He wanted to shake his head. It was a silly notion, thinking she might ever notice him. He was known for keeping to the shadows, too, never drawing attention, and he would never have a high enough rank to offer for her. What king would ever give a lady to a barbarous Highlander, no matter how much he appeared to have adopted the more chivalrous ways of the south?
Her fingers working each other in nervous twists were also kneading the back of his neck, her slender arms holding him more and more tightly. And had she leaned into him just a little more? What in the hell was wrong with him? He frowned. Lord, it was a shame when they reached the corridor above. He would have carried her an endless length of staircases just to keep feeling her fingers on his neck. He was a sorry sod.
“Your chamber is on the left, sire,” she said.
He nodded, walked to the door, and placed her back on her feet. The door was already ajar, and he pushed it all the way. It was the laird’s chamber, a room that sat unused. A large bed on a sturdy, if not simple, frame, sat against the wall in the middle, and a hearth, albeit small, sat a few paces from the foot of the bed. Greta bustled around to ensure the linens were straight, then ducked out into the corridor and down the stairs.
“Why do you not use this chamber?” he asked. “Being the only one residing here, I would think you would be entitled.”
She shrugged. “I was able to choose my chamber, sire, and I chose a different one.” She hobbled in. “You’ve a decanter of wine here, and upon the sideboard, there’s a pitcher of water and a basin for washing. You have two blankets, since the evenings grow cold still. Do you require anything else?”
He shook his head. This was much more than sufficient. “Nay. ’Tis quite satisfying. My thanks, Madeline.”
He had done it again, he thought as she turned to leave him in the doorway and retreat to the stairs. He had called her familiarly. She began to go up them once again. Slowly. One step at a time, unaware of Teàrlach watching her, shaking his head. Asking for help once in a while wasn’t a bad thing, he thought, wishing he could scold her but knowing that if he did, he would either hurt her feelings or frighten her. “Do you retire for the night?” he asked from where he still stood in his doorway.
She turned and smiled politely. “Indeed, sire. Was there something you needed?”
“Nay.” He came to her and with no warning, swung her up in his arms once more and began climbing the next set of steps. “Is your chamber above?” She nodded, blushing. “You sleep on the top floor? Why, when it’s such a climb? Is it nay inconvenient?”
She swallowed, relaxing into his chest once more. It mattered not that he still wore his chain mail. He could feel the gentle pressure she placed upon his chest, feel her warmth. His heart hammered his ribs, threatening to thump his accoutrements.
“My reason might sound silly, sire,” she said.
His brows furrowed together, but a smile tried once more to lift the corner of his mouth. Odd. He had smiled more today than he usually did in a sennight. “Indeed, I’m curious now.”
“Well…when I arrived here, I had never been alone to make my own choices. My life had been fairly well prescribed for me. The vantage from upstairs is lovely, and the chamber I selected has close access to the roof. From up there, the stars at night are unobstructed and it’s secluded. I chose it because I could.”
“Could what?”
“Choose.”
He pondered her answer, carrying her the rest of the way in silence. What would it be like to never have a choice? Teàrlach was filled with sadness on her behalf—that choosing her own bedchamber would be so profound of an event. The stairs spiraled and she warmed his arms that enveloped her. They finally arrived on the upper floor. He carried her to the two doors above and paused.
“This door, sire,” she said, pointing, and he nudged it open with his foot.
But if she had expected him to set her down, he carried her in, instead. The chamber was dark. It had no hearth, and the lone torch in the corridor outside her chamber didn’t extend its light far. He walked to her bed, barely visible, and set her down upon the covers. Without asking, he propped up her only two pillows and bid her lean back against them. He strode back to the door and dislodged the torch, carrying it inside, touching the flame to the candlewick beside her bed. It was the only candle, he realized, looking around the chamber.
Everything was proper, tidy, but there was little of it. A small wardrobe stood to one wall, a chair and table in a corner, roughly hewn, which also shelved a washbasin, pitcher, and sewing basket containing mending, and one window with the shutters drawn. The bed stand contained her combs, an extra hair-tie, and the candle. A few bolts of practical fabric sat propped in a corner. That was it. There were no wall hangings, and the stone was not plastered over. It was little better than a servant’s quarters and likely had been intended as just that.
“What else do you require, Lady?”
Her brow was contorted, a sheen of sweat upon her skin. “I thank thee kindly, sire. I’m well indeed. Aside from changing into my sleeping garments, I’m ready to retire.”
He stayed his immediate reaction. If she were a man, a soldier, he wouldn’t hesitate to help him out of his tunic and trousers. Instead, he nodded once, his brow ever firm. “I’ll fetch Greta to assist you.”
He turned to leave.
“Please do nay bother her. Greta is an old woman with a bad foot. Climbing this high would be difficult for her.”
She pushed herself up to stand when she swayed. She tried to grab the bed stand for support and missed, crumpling to the floor. Teàrlach lunged forward just in time to prevent her head from smacking the floorboards.
The lass is in great pain, he realized. Always graceful and in command of her own feelings. Teàrlach lifted her back into a cradle and laid her on the bed. She was passed out. Her skin was clammy, though thankfully not feverish. But she was right. Greta could break her neck trying to hobble up and down so many stairs over and over again to check on her mistress. He looked around the chamber and saw the obvious sleeping chemise draped over the chair. Moving to the corner, he brought it back to the bed as she was rousing.
Her head turned on the mattress.
“You need help, Madeline. Why have you lied all eve about your pain? I’ll help you dress.” She opened her mouth to protest when he held up a hand. “I promise to turn my head and nay look.”
He reached to her laces with a look of strict business on his face, giving her little time to react, and untied the sleeves, pulling them free so that the under chemise flowed freely down her arms. He untied her bodice next, glancing to her averted face, which, even in the darkness, he could tell was as red as a beet. So was his. And his fingers were shaking, blast it. Such a situation could be compromising with any lady, most definitely with Madeline Crawford, the Beast of Ayr’s second daughter.
The gown was now loose, and he pulled her to her feet, keeping an arm around her waist. He dragged the garment down her chest, working it over her hips. He wanted to look down, to see her virgin breasts protrude from beneath her chemise, but he refrained. She would know that he looked. She would sense his gaze, feel his breath on her forehead from turning his face, and he didn’t want to break the thread of trust he sensed he had with her. Instead, he lowered her back to sitting and scooped up the nightgown.
“If you loosen the neck and pull your arms out the top, you’ll be able to hold your chemise over your…your, eh, breasts, and retain your modesty whilst I drop your nightshift over your head. Then I’ll help you stand and you can pull your chemise out from beneath.”
She nodded, still speechless. He busied himself bunching the nightshift together around the neck hole so he would be able to quickly drop it over her and be done. He didn’t look as she untied the bow at the neck, loosened the fabric, and pulled each arm into her chemise and out through the neck hole. She clutched the fabric to her throat. He saw it in his periphery, but he stayed his warrior’s impulse to glance at each movement, a habit he had perfected to assess for threats. Still, he could tell her arms were creamy white, slender, and long.
He knew she sat exposed, but still, he waited for her to give a cue.
“I’m ready, sire,” she whispered.
He turned, mechanically, keeping his head averted still, and dropped the garment over her head, now giving her his full back as he pivoted to face the door. He was suddenly aware of the awkwardness of his arms hanging by his sides. What should I do with them? He clenched his fists. Pretend to clean his fingernails? Leave them limp at his side like an underconfident lad? He opted to place one at his hip in a casual stance, holding the hilt of one of his sheathed daggers, though he knew he looked stiff and uncomfortable.
He could hear the rustling of her garments, could hear the bed ropes creak as she shifted, but kept his eyes firmly in front of him, aimed at the door, looking at nothing.
“I’m done,” she said. He turned back around, not looking directly at her, and reached beneath her arms to put her on her feet. She stood, her nightshift draping down while her chemise pooled to the floor at her feet beneath it. The tie at the neck was open and dammit!—his eyes had looked there involuntarily. As the garment lay crooked and open, he could see the rise of one soft mound…
He felt caught in a snag staring at it, though quickly shot his gaze to the wall over her head. “Eh, Lady. I…”
Hell, he didn’t know what he was saying. He was acting like a daftie, just like his brothers had always called him. Nervously, he swallowed, his throat bobbing. Then he let go, pulled back her covers, helped her step out of her chemise, and into bed. He bent, retrieved the undergarment from the floor, caught up her gown on the bed, and marched to the chair to drape each item over the arm.
“Eh, good night, then,” he stammered, and strode out the door, pulling it closed before she could say a word.