Chapter Five
The sun was indeed hot, even if it was only spring. Teàrlach gauged the sky, realizing it was probably a short while after midday. He had seen Madeline crutch in and out of the kitchen to a storage shed made of old timbers to collect some dried herbs, though aside from a glance and a smile his way, she had hurried back to her task.
He stood upright from his stoop, thankful now that he was naked from the waist up, having removed the thong holding fast his sgian achlais and the missive he was avoiding delivering, and leaned his forearms on the end of the hoe to take a break. His hair clung to his neck and face, and his chest glistened. But looking over the garden, he had filled the entire plot from the wall of the tower to the wall enclosing the tower. Fifteen rows.
The labor had been enjoyable and fulfilling. He had watched a beautiful woman scurry about her domestic chores while he took care of the planting. And gazing at nothing in particular, he imagined a couple children, a lad and a lass, racing around the tower yard. The experience felt oddly nostalgic, which was ridiculous, for how could one feel nostalgia for a life that had never been a reality?
Yet he gave into the daydream. What would life be like, running his own small manor in the Scottish Highlands instead of training men to defend and kill, Madeline scurrying about their home together, tending to her duties as his wife and the mother to their bairns, the two of them building a life, instead of him instructing men on how to end lives? The thought filled him with longing. He had always fancied Madeline from afar, but he had never allowed himself to picture a future with her. He could get used to the simplicity of this kind of life with a resilient woman awaiting his return each day. He could get used to putting that unabashed smile on her face. What a boon for a man, to have her love so loyally that she should bestow such a favor upon him for the rest of his days.
As he wiped the sweat from his face, he laid down the hoe and went to the well for water. The new seeds would require water to soften their coats. He already knew, leaving her alone for the entire sennight’s end and returning to Glengarnock’s bustling castle was going to leave him feeling desolate and cold.
Once finished, he grabbed his strap, sgian achlais, and the damned missive, and entered through the kitchen door, setting his accoutrements aside. She sat on a stool, glancing up at the bread baking in the ovens and pulled the final stitch through the hem of his tunic. She smiled and held up the shirt.
“All finished. You’ll nay have to sit about stripped to the waist any further,” she said proudly, and tied the threading, using her shears to snip it.
He almost didn’t want to put the garment back on. He had it on his own account that she enjoyed looking at him, and liked being the focus of her gaze. She held it to him, her eyes roving over his chest once more, and reluctantly he took it, dropping it over his head. She stood and took up his hands, splaying them outward to examine the fit of the sleeves. He let her, watching and feeling her conduct her inspection as she slid her hands along his arms, down his sides, to ensure the fit was perfect. It felt heavenly, even if no part of the action was intimate. Just feeling her hands upon him made his posture straighten further, bathing in the sensation of her task. Domestic and personal. Sentiments that he liked. With her.
She straightened the ends of the sleeves, running the hem between her thumbs and pointer fingers, and finally nodded. “Better. I apologize you had to don an ill-fitted garment until now.”
He cracked a smile. “It was so poorly fitted, lass, that not a single man, woman, or child at Glengarnock took a whit of notice.” She deciphered that he was teasing and smiled as he propped his boot on a stool to lean his elbow on his knee. “There’s a perfectionist in you that no one knows about, I suspect,” he added.
“Probably,” she agreed, turning to the ovens to withdraw the bread. He watched her backside as she did so. “I like things to be how they’re expected. And indeed, sire, there is a jester beneath your straight face.”
She pulled out the tray of bread—six loaves of finely sifted rounds of flat wheat bread. He thought on her simple words. She had been observing him. With her, being observed pleased him, yet also made him nervous. He held still and watched her set the tray upon a work table, going to the flame in the hearth to turn the bar out that held the cauldron, noting once more the gentle curve of her backside as the gown lay against her, her slender arms despite her sleeves tied in intervals down her arms, tufts of her chemise poking through the seams. Her hair hung about her, not coiffed, and he liked how free it looked. Shame that when she married, she would probably begin braiding it.
Taking two wooden bowls, she filled one to the brim with steaming stew. The other she only dumped one scoop, bringing them to the table, too, and arranging them on a tray. She glanced up at him as the breeze blew through the door and ruffled the missive beside him.
“You’ve had that letter close at hand all day, sire. Do you require a pouch to keep it secure? I could make you one.”
His trance was broken. He looked to the parchment blandly as if it wasn’t his. Then his gaze blinked back to her. He reached out slowly and dragged it to him. Thinking a moment longer, he held it out to her.
“It’s for you, lass. From Laird Moreville.”
She apparently sensed his shift in mood, for she hesitated, and he knew the light playing in his eyes moments ago had now chilled.
Madeline wiped her hands upon her apron and came to take it. He watched her break the seal and unfold it. Her eyes moved over the page, though not in any particular direction, and he sensed she faked her ability to understand.
“My thanks, Teàrlach.”
Teàrlach. His name sounded like music on her lips, spoken so gently it was like the strumming of a harp, and his was a hard name to make gentle. He didn’t want to disappoint her, but as he saw her begin to tuck it into her apron pocket to return to work, he reached out, took her wrist, and stayed her hand.
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
She looked up at him. He saw embarrassment all over her face.
“Do nay be embarrassed that ye can nay read, Maddie. ’Tis nay your fault no one taught you. Allow me. Mayhap it’s news that will please you.”
“But it doesn’t please you,” she said, neither accusingly nor begging a response.
No, it didn’t. She already knew that he knew what the letter contained. He hoped she wasn’t pleased. Seeing her thrilled at another’s marriage suit would sting. She nodded, handing the parchment back to him. He unfolded it, feeling a sense of dread assault him and thud in his stomach, as if a stone from a catapult landed in the ground. He swallowed. Cleared his throat. Forced the first words over his lips.
“Lady Madeline Crawford,
It is with pleasure I announce to you that King William the Rough of Scotland has agreed to a satisfactory marriage suit for you. You have been formally betrothed to my son, Sir John de Moreville, and will be presented to him on the third day of July this year, the year of our lord, 1191, in Edinburgh, for your pending nuptials. Property has been allotted to Sir John and an estate is being renovated so that you might have a comfortable home upon your wedded status. Welcome to our family, and God be with you.
Your sovereign laird and benevolent ward,
Henry de Moreville, Great Constable of Scotland”
Madeline stood frozen, holding the ladle, as did Teàrlach, the words hanging between them. Neither spoke. The crackling of the fire in the hearth beneath the cooking pot seemed to suddenly be crackling loudly. Finally, he cleared his throat again, disappointed. The obvious attraction burgeoning between them may as well have been doused with a bucket of frigid loch water.
“This,” he cleared his voice again, but be damned if it didn’t seem like a ball was lodged in his throat. “This is happy news,” he remarked, though he knew his face was gray and Madeline could see it.
She turned away from him, replacing the ladle to the mantel over the hearth, and stood with her back to him for a moment. She was composing herself, he could tell, withdrawing into whatever place in her mind gave her fortitude to endure.
“Indeed. Glad tidings,” she finally replied on a whisper. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
She hadn’t turned around to see him, but he nodded anyway. “Aye, lass.”
“My thanks,” she replied and hobbled out of the room without her crutches, then exited out the back door without looking up.
When she reentered the tower a few minutes later, Teàrlach still stood in the kitchen, unsure what to do. She smiled demurely at him, though he could see redness rimming her eyes. It nearly killed him. Surely she had cried before out of sadness, but he had never seen it. And his news to her had caused her tears, even if it was clear she had gone to great pains to smooth the smudginess from her face.
His gut reaction, though he had never reacted as such before, was to hold her. Of course, some gentle, flirtatious smiles meant naught, but still, he had allowed himself to imagine her in his hearth and home as his woman, and dammit, but he couldn’t stand the idea of another man having claim on her. He stayed his gut reaction and watched her add the stack of bread, two knives, a pitcher of watered wine, and two goblets onto the tray of stew. As she looked on helplessly at her crutches, wondering how she would juggle both of them along with the tray, Teàrlach finally stepped forward.
“Allow me.”
He took it from her and walked into the main hall, Madeline following. Setting the tray upon the board, he seated himself at the head where she had placed him on his last visit, and she stood obediently to his right. He looked up at her, her gaze cast at the floor, and sighed.
“Sit, lass. I’ll nay stand for such formalities.”
She nodded and pulled out the chair to his right, pulling forth the bowl of water and offering it to him to rinse his fingers. He did so, taking a drying cloth off the table to dry them, watching her do the same.
At first, neither spoke as she served him his bread to dunk in his stew.
“I noticed that you planted many vegetables. It was a lot of work and I’m grateful for it.”
He nodded once, filling his mouth, chewing, swallowing. “The bread is fine, Madeline. My thanks.”
She smiled and nodded, though kept her eyes aimed at her bowl. After the missive, the conversation felt awkward, so they ate in silence. He filled his mouth again, watching her take dainty bites. No doubt the wheat she was so excited to use tasted bland now. Watching her take another nibble while he tore off another of his own, he finally exhaled, let out a sigh, and reached out, placing his palm over the top of her left hand.
“Will you ride with me this evening?”
…
She froze, looked up at him, and saw that his brow was soft, his gaze gentle. Apparently, her newly betrothed status wasn’t deterring him from sharing her company. She looked at his hand upon hers, feeling that sinful tingling shoot straight up her arm, raising her hairs on end. Like a lightning bolt jolting through her veins. Instantly, she knew the feelings were disgraceful. She was betrothed, and not only should Teàrlach make no casual contact with her to begin with, he should certainly maintain a respectable distance now. Lord, just the news of the betrothal was surreal. She felt sick. She had only met John, Henry de Moreville’s son, once. She knew nothing about him. And though the missive was kindly enough, ever since Teàrlach’s emergence into her life and the anger she had seen on his face at her state of neglect, Teàrlach had her questioning Moreville’s motives.
John was Moreville’s first son. He should be aiming high, trying to strike a betrothal agreement with a woman of much more prestige. Yet her thoughts, even as she had escaped to catch her breath so Teàrlach wouldn’t see her cry, had landed on the dark-haired Highlander. Sakes. She’d been so happy until Teàrlach had read that letter. She had gone about her cooking with an unusually cheery beat of her heart. It was all she could do to keep her girlish smiles downcast as she ventured out to collect herbs, so that Teàrlach wouldn’t think her silly. Until he’d read that horrid missive, this day had been more special a day than she could ever remember. And then he’d told her the contents of the letter. And she had felt her insides twist like they never had before.
“I would enjoy it,” she replied. “I hope it won’t seem…unseemly.”
His fingers upon her tightened, though his hold was still gentle. “No one will see us, but I think an excursion will do you well, especially after the news I have brought.”
Unseemly or not, she calmed under his touch. No doubt, his clan life in the Highlands had not been confined by such strict social guidelines as hers. But he should know better than to hold the hand of a woman of the peerage, let alone make an advance on her, no matter how fallen her status due to her father’s disgrace. Even so, she was grateful for the boldness of his hand upon hers. Teàrlach was proving to be attentive. Mayhap he had always been such.
“I’m sorry if it wasn’t news you were prepared to hear,” he added.
She nodded and smiled, her eyes flitting up to his, then back down, and they both resumed eating in silence. She tried to let the bread taste good. But Teàrlach’s missive had left such a horrible taste in her mouth, she wasn’t sure anything would ever taste good again.