by Aileen Adams
He scowled, rising. “The village was named for my clan, not for myself. Were that the case, I would have refused the honor, for it would be no honor. As for the conditions of the village, I do not own the land, nor do I have a say in what the villagers do or how they live. If I had, I would see to it that a young woman could move about unhindered. Is there any further advisement ye feel ye need to share with me? For I’m a busy man.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long, heavy moment, the air all but crackling as it did during lightning storms, when the hair on the back of his neck would stand up. He resisted the urge to run a hand over his neck, to check whether she had the same effect on him.
She blinked, took a step back. “My apologies. I’ve been too long on my own.”
He cleared his throat, casting about in his mind for something to say. “Aye, I suppose a lass learns to speak sharply to men when she’s on her own.”
She nodded, eyes moving about the room again. “You say you’re a busy man?”
“Aye, quite so.”
“Perhaps you need someone to assist you, then. With your correspondence, errands to the village and the like.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, knowing what the lass had in mind and asking himself if he’d gone out of his head to even consider the prospect. Inviting a strange lass with a wickedly sharp tongue to his home was one matter, but allowing her access to his private correspondence? “How do I know ye aren’t truly a spy from a neighboring clan?”
“Do you have any reason to distrust your neighbors?” she asked, the corner of her mouth twisting upward. “If so, perhaps this is not the clan I wish to align myself with.”
Laughter formed in his chest, escaping before he could stop it.
She chuckled, her cheeks coloring as her gaze touched the floor by her feet.
“Fair enough,” he agreed. “I expect ye to learn my needs and meet them. Have Sorcha show ye about the house, find ye an empty bedchamber, get something to eat. After ye eat, return here, and we’ll begin.”
“Begin?”
“Aye. Begin.” He sat, pulling one of his stacks of letters nearer. “Did ye believe I would not put ye to work from the start?”
“No…” She backed toward the door.
“Good. Now, do as I ask and be back as soon as ye are able.” He turned his attention from her, as another moment spent staring at those blue eyes might just be the end of him.
Then why had he arranged it so she would spend so much time in his presence?
6
It took all of two days for Margaret to learn the rhythms of the Anderson household, and another day to fit herself into the fabric of the place as though she’d always been there.
Another of the skills she’d learned—becoming part of any world in which she’d found herself. All the better to earn the trust of those around her, to make herself indispensable and worthy of confidence.
They trusted her. Could it be possible? They took her for who she pretended to be and asked no questions, offered not a single challenge to any explanation which she created.
She smiled at the young woman who passed her on the stairs as she hurried down to the kitchen. Names still escaped her—at least, the names of the numerous young women who worked in the kitchen, in the garden, cleaning the bedchambers and laundering the linens. They were all young, all cheerful and eager to be of service.
In many ways, they reminded her of the sisters she’d left behind.
Yet there was an openheartedness which she’d never observed at the abbey which she found in abundance there, with the Andersons. Service to the Order was the highest priority, the only goal, and any chore or assignment was performed with grave seriousness.
Here, there was singing. Laughing. Jesting, teasing. Cheerfulness, openness. Not everyone, of course, and not all the time. But enough that Margaret took note. Enough that she watched more closely, asking herself what made them so… happy.
She picked up a tray upon entering the kitchen and placed upon it a pot for tea, two mugs, a flagon of ale. Loaves of fresh bread sat steaming and crackling beside the blazing hearth. She picked one up and added it to the tray before dipping a ladle into the pot of bubbling porridge and filling a wooden bowl.
“Good morning to ye,” Sorcha called out, entering the kitchen through the rear door which led out to the garden. She left a basket of potatoes on one of the work tables before rinsing her hands of dirt.
“Good morning,” Margaret called back with a smile as she lifted her tray and turned to the side so as to avoid collision with one of the cooks before sailing out into the corridor.
Padraig was already hard at work, as she had expected him to be, his dark brown head bent over a scroll. Did the man ever sleep? She set the tray down on a stool by the fireplace, unused at this time of year but not for much longer, and poured his ale.
He grunted in acknowledgment when she set the mug beside him.
She turned back to the tray then, tearing off a sizeable piece of bread and placing it beside the mug.
He grunted again.
When she set down the bowl of porridge with what could only be described as a thump, his head shot up. “What did we discuss?” he demanded, scowling at the food before him.
“You do not wish to be interrupted while working in the morning.”
“What does this look like to ye?” he asked, hands spreading over the scrolls.
“It appears to me as though you plan to go out to the training yard without first breaking your fast,” she murmured, turning away that she might pour her tea and enjoy it while it was still hot.
“What does it matter to ye whether I break my fast prior to training?”
She shrugged, sitting down with her tea. “It seems to me a man who trains for hours on end with swords and shields ought to eat something first. That is all I was concerned with. You must build a fearsome appetite while out there.”
He puffed up a bit at this, as she had intended him to do. Appealing to a man’s pride was nearly always an easy way to get what she wanted.
She watched over the rim of her mug as he tested the porridge, as though he’d never tasted it before. It seemed to meet his approval, and he dipped his spoon into it again. Then, he used the bread to help scoop more of it into his mouth, like a greedy child. Or a hungry one.
Something about his manner tugged at the corners of her mouth. She smiled to herself. He was always so eager to work, he forgot to take care of his needs. She saw a determination in him, a single-mindedness, and she respected that as she’d always been of the same single-mindedness.
It was what made her the best at what she did, the determination to rise above the others and earn the trust and respect of Mother Cressida…
She jumped, shaking her head, realizing how her thoughts had drifted away without her knowing. Mother Cressida, the Order, she could remember these things when she was alone, in her bedchamber. Not while seated before the laird, drinking tea and watching him all but choke himself on his food.
“How have ye been getting along, then?” he asked between bites, lifting his now empty mug to request more ale.
“Very well, I believe,” she murmured as she poured. “If you feel differently, please tell me so.”
“I’ve heard nothing but good things from Sorcha,” he assured her, drinking deeply before emptying the bowl.
She withdrew it without comment, replacing it on the tray.
“I was not merely speaking of your work, ye ken. I speak of the house, those in it. Do ye find yourself getting on with them?”
She was slow to sit, eyes trained on him. Was this a challenge? Did he seek to test her? “I admit, it’s been difficult to find the time to speak with them. I greet them in passing, they extend greetings in return, but there has been much for me to learn.”
He nodded, brows drawn. “I take up too much of your time?”
“I said nothing of the sort—and you are the reason I am here, after all. To serve you.”
He cleared his throat and seemed to darken, which made her mouth twitch dangerously. It was no trouble to embarrass him, even when she had no intention of doing so.
“I do not require serving. I require assistance, but not every minute of the day. The last thing I desire is Sorcha’s wrath, accusing me of working ye too hard.”
Margaret snorted. “I see. I will make a point of speaking with them, then. I did like Moira quite a lot, when we met in the village.”
“Aye, she’s a fine lass,” he agreed, spreading another scroll out before him. His eyes traveled it rapidly, taking in the message as he spoke. “Fierce, as well. She would make a fine warrior if she’d been born a man.”
His downward gaze meant there was no chance of him seeing her scowl—and she did, and quite deeply. “I see. Being a woman means being unable to fight.”
“Hmm?” he muttered, distracted. “Nay, nay, I told ye. She is a fierce, skilled fighter.”
“Not when compared to a man, however.”
His eyes lifted. “Nay. Not when compared to a man.”
Oh, the things she could teach him. She’d watched his training from inside the house, naturally, curious as to why the laird of a wealthy, well-established clan felt the need to train as any ordinary man would.
Then, she witnessed his fighting and understood all. He was deeply intelligent and in command of an unwieldy territory, worked night and day in order to maintain the clan’s position in the Highlands, but was not much with a sword.
She supposed no man could be all things at all times. They weren’t like women, who were expected to excel at everything to which they turned a hand. “At any rate,” she growled, willing herself to conceal her ire, “I admire her, and I believe we would get on well together.”
“By all means,” he encouraged, turning his attention back to his work. “She’s normally found in the garden during the day, I understand. Alana, as well. She assists our healer. Ysmaine is often found with the women of the clan, the wives of the warriors and farmers. She wishes to establish a way to educate the bairns, though I canna imagine why.”
“You cannot? A man such as yourself, who seems so learned? Why would you deny another?”
He blew out a short sigh and pushed aside the scroll he read. “To what purpose would they be educated? I required education, as the son of the laird. As did my brothers.”
“If everyone believed as you do, there would have been no cause for my learning to read and write,” she pointed out, leaning forward. “I would have no place here. No place with you.”
“Ye would have a place here,” he replied, eyes trained on hers.
As he had the day they met, he managed to surprise her into silence. Something in his tone of voice, in his eyes, in his stare caused her to forget what they discussed.
What was it that made her so forgetful? He was hardly the first man to look upon her with desire, hardly the first to speak softly to her.
He stood abruptly. “Ye might work in the kitchen, or with the lasses charged with laundering the clothing and linens.”
Ah, that was his meaning, then. She ought to have known better.
“I’ll be in the yard until midday,” he announced, waiting for her to fetch the tray before striding from the study.
Normally, were this one of her assignments from Mother Cressida, she would have taken advantage of his absence in order to peruse his correspondence. There would have been a reason to earn his deep trust, his affection.
Instead, she ignored the instincts which the Order had hammered into her head and carried the tray to the kitchen, instead.
“He ate, then?” Sorcha asked as she scrubbed potatoes, eyeing up the empty bowl.
“He all but choked on it,” Margaret grinned. “He did feign inconvenience, but hunger proved too strong to deny.”
“If he insists upon behaving as a fool out in the training yard, he might as well have a full stomach while he’s doing so.” The older woman tucked an errant strand of gray-streaked hair behind one ear before returning to her task, scrubbing with zeal. Margaret was certain she’d never known a person who went about their tasks with such determination and enthusiasm.
She slipped out to the great hall, where laughter rang out as several of the household’s members enjoyed morning tea. Lingering in the doorway, she chuckled over the dancing and singing of Fiona, who twirled in wide-armed circles to the delight of those watching.
Caitlin, Fiona’s mother and Padraig’s sister-in-law, dandled a baby on her lap. Gavina, Margaret recalled, tangled her fingers in her mother’s hair.
Alana, Brice’s wife, laughed over something her baby son did. Tavis was a fine boy, study and strong, with cheeks Margaret found herself desperate to pinch. She’d never had such a reaction to a babe.
Ysmaine and Moira joined Alana in laughing over the baby’s babbling. The four of them had their own places in the home, in the clan, but they made a point of seeing one another every morning and every evening.
They did not notice her, watching them. Content to be together, happy with their lives and their men. Their children.
Who’d taught them to behave this way? So open with each other, so warm and generous? When Margaret looked back on even her most close moments with Gabriella, the nearest thing she’d ever had to a friend, there was nothing like this. No genuine laughter, no teasing.
There was something about her which made her different from them. It was as plain as that. For they had not been taught this warmth, this intimacy. It had been born in them, as it might well have been born in her and every person alive.
She’d been trained against it. She’d lost it.
And would likely never learn to possess it.
Padraig could wish for her to know them if it pleased him. He could wish for many things, especially when he looked upon her as he did, when his voice softened before he made a point of hardening it again.
Wishing meant little. Certain things were simply not possible.
Not for women such as her.
7
“Ye ought to have blocked that,” Fergus grunted. “Come, now. Where is your mind? Ye need to focus your attention on what’s going on here, now.”
“I was,” Padraig grunted, hands on his knees as he struggled for air. Fergus was by far the fiercest of all the others, driving him back further with each strike of his sword. He held nothing back.
Padraig appreciated this.
He also hated his friend for it. Though not as much as he hated himself for still lacking the skill required to fight as well as the others.
“We trained to fight wars,” Fergus reminded him, barely winded after his exertion. “I know I could not manage the lands as well as ye, and I certainly do not possess the patience to manage the tenants.”
“Do not speak to me as though I need your pity. I’m not a child.”
Fergus sighed. “I only meant to say ye have strengths I never could imagine possessing. ‘Tis all I meant. Ye shall never have to march to war as we did, gods willing. But you’ve made tremendous progress.”
That was not enough. None of them would ever understand. No matter how well he managed the lands, no matter how he’d saved the clan from certain ruin after Alan’s mismanagement, he would always remember how bravely the other men had fought and how, while he’d done well for himself, he’d felt at a disadvantage.
He wanted to protect what was his, not merely manage it.
“Damn it all,” he muttered at the approach of Margaret.
She held a rolled scroll in one hand, her eyes trained on him as she strode across the field. Och, but she brought to mind a warrior queen, her head high, confident and aware of her place in the world. Not a timid, shrinking little lass.
A good thing, that, as he’d never had patience with such lasses. He appreciated women such as Margaret, even despite her sharp tongue and pointed opinions on that which he wished she would remain silent.
She kept him thinking, kept him interested in her. He curs
ed himself. Would that he could stop panting like a wounded animal.
“A rider brought this for you,” Margaret announced, holding out the scroll. “I did not wish to disturb you, but it seemed as though you were resting for a moment.”
Fergus turned away before his good-natured laughter escaped. Margaret, for her part, appeared unaware of what she’d said. Perhaps she was, though he doubted it. She struck him as the type who knew the meaning of everything which escaped her lips.
Padraig tore open the scroll, anger seething near the surface. When he read the familiar name at the bottom of the letter, anger gave way to interest. Then, to surprise as he read. He smiled at Donnan’s message and what it meant for his old friend.
“Thank ye. I’m glad ye brought this to me now.” He needed something to lift his spirits, for Fergus’s chuckling did the opposite.
Rather than return to the house, however, Margaret lingered near the stone wall. “Might I stay and watch?” she asked, looking from one of the men to the other.
“Have ye nothing else to do?” Padraig countered.
Margaret blinked, unmoved. “Seeing as how you are out here, and I brought your message to you, no. I have nothing else to do at the moment, unless there is something else you wish me to do. I’m glad to be of service anywhere I’m needed.”
Fergus cleared his throat. “We might demonstrate some of what we’ve worked on up to this time,” he suggested. “If Padraig is amenable.”
“Aye,” he grunted, careful to avoid looking at the lass. She seemed merely interested, curious, as she leaned against the wall with arms crossed over her middle. “Have ye witnessed men at training prior to this?”
She shook her head. “I have not. My duties kept me away from such affairs.”
This bode well for him. He might not make as big a fool of himself if she knew not what to expect from a true warrior.
Fergus gave him a quick nod outside her line of sight. Padraig did not know whether he ought to be pleased or frustrated with Fergus for guessing he wished to prove himself in front of her. Perhaps furious. The lass meant nothing.
