“No. I think this is my first taste of honey wine.” Trulie took another sip, savoring the light alcoholic warmth trickling down her throat. The sound of nylon cloth being frantically handled, then a dull thud followed by a word hissed out in a language Trulie didn’t understand, pulled her attention away from the mead. “Do you need some help with that zipper? Sometimes it sticks if you don’t hold it straight while you’re trying to undo it.”
Coira’s hot-pink aura had deepened to a fiery red. “I’m afraid I dinna ken what ye mean, m’lady.” Coira’s voice was strained, as though she was ready to spit nails.
Trulie carefully rose from the bench. Red aura and strained voice. Apparently, sticky zipper had won this round with Coira. Trulie held out the cup of mead with one hand and reached out with the other. “Here. Take this and I’ll open the bag. I’m used to it being ornery.”
“Where are ye from, mistress? Yer grandmother nay saw fit t’tell me, and for the life a me, I barely understand what yer saying half the time. I ken I’m no’ a dull-witted lass, but lore a mercy, I wonder at the emptiness of me own head whene’er ye speak.”
There was that word mistress again. Apparently, Coira’s manners were so deeply engrained that it was going to take a bit to overcome them. She decided to let it pass.
“Uhm…” Trulie patted the bag until she found the silk rope attached to the pull of the main zipper. She stretched it taut between her hands and yanked with no success. Well, crap on crackers. The silly thing was really stuck this time. She pulled it closed and jerked again as a suitably vague answer to Coira’s question finally came to her. “I’m from a land quite far from here. Really far. Kind of off to the southwest.” Coira seemed genuinely nice, but best ease her into the complicated world of the Sinclair family until Trulie knew her better.
“I see,” Coira replied in a tone that clearly said she didn’t see at all.
With a successful whirrup of the heavy zipper, Trulie pulled open the backpack. Before she could pull free any of the contents, Coira gently pushed her aside. “Nay, m’lady. ‘Tis my job to set yer things in order.”
At Trulie’s exasperated huff, Coira giggled and carefully turned Trulie, then helped her sit on the edge of the bed. “What I mean t’say is, nay, Trulie. ’Tis my duty t’stick m’wee nose through all yer things so I can see all yer treasures.”
Trulie relaxed, scooted back on the bed, and assumed her favorite cross-legged position. Maybe there was hope for a friendship with Coira, after all.
“Oh…me…heavens.” Coira’s voice echoed with wonder.
“What?” Damn my lost sight. All Trulie could see was another flashing shade shift in the color of Coira’s aura.
“What…” Coira’s voice stalled out as though the girl had suddenly forgotten how to speak. Finally, she pulled Trulie’s hand up and pressed a wadded jumble of silk and lace into her extended palm. “What is…where…how exactly do ye wear…these.”
Trulie fingered through the bundle. Lace. Silk. Ribbon. Recognition finally registered. Trulie grinned. She held between her hands what she affectionately called her power package. Be it by intention or by chance, whenever she wore this particular set of black thong panties and show-off-the-girls bra, her confidence soared and she succeeded at whatever she tried. They always brought her good karma. “It’s my favorite set of bra and panties. There’s more lingerie stuffed in those outside pockets, but this set and the red set I’m wearing are my favorites. They bring me luck.”
The satiny articles were slowly pulled out of her hands. Trulie heard a sharp intake of breath and something muttered so low that she leaned forward to try to hear it. “What did you say, Coira?”
Coira cleared her throat with a nervous cough. “These bits o’ lace will bring ye a great deal more than luck if the chieftain sees ye a wearin’ them.”
Trulie did her best to ignore the rising heat flaming across her cheeks. Why would Coira say such a thing? “I’m not exactly going to be parading around the keep in my underwear. I’m sure Chieftain MacKenna won’t get a viewing of my power package. He’s much too busy running the clan to be troubled by a couple of new houseguests…and my favorite underwear.”
“Hmm,” was Coira’s only response.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Trulie scooted to the edge of the bed and carefully lowered her feet to the floor. Coira’s “Hmmm” spoke volumes, presenting all sorts of possibilities that effectively released an oversized horde of fluttering butterflies into Trulie’s stomach.
“Well…” Coira made an odd chirping noise like a hen about to lay an egg. “All I know is how the MacKenna looked at ye when ye walked in front of him in those tight-fittin’ trews yer a wearin’.” Coira giggled out a bubbling chortle as she rattled around in the backpack. “If he caught sight of ye in yer wee bit o’ black lace, the man’s plaid would surely stand out stiff as a banner hung across a pole.”
So the honey-voiced chieftain liked the rear view of her jeans? Trulie pressed both hands to her flaming cheeks, but couldn’t resist joining Coira’s infectious giggling. Maybe this short visit to the thirteenth century wouldn’t be so bad after all.
—
“Holy shit, that’s cold!” Trulie cringed, arms crossed tightly over her bare breasts as the icy water sluiced down her body and splashed into the tub at her feet.
“Aye, mistress.” Coira scrubbed her back with a rough cloth. “Fresh water from the loch gets the humors a movin’ first thing in the morn.”
Humors, my ass. “Give me that rag. I can wash myself.” Trulie jerked her hand toward the bright pink aura. “C-c-christ, I can barely talk. My teeth are chattering from freakin’ hypothermia.”
“I’ll stoke the fire. Hurry and wash, m’lady. I’ve a nice hot bowl of parritch for ye o’er by the fire.”
“Is there any soap?” Trulie gingerly dipped the rag in the cold water around her feet and scrubbed hard up and down her legs. Son of a bitch. The more she scrubbed, the colder the water seemed. “And what the hell is parritch?” She was in an ill mood this morning and freakin’ ice water dumped over her head didn’t do a damn thing to improve it. She was still sightless, had a crick in her neck and a stuffy nose from down pillows, and she was just pretty much pissed off at the world.
“Oats, mistress,” Coira answered in a wounded tone. “Hold out yer wee rag and I’ll guide ye to the bowl of soap.”
Trulie held out the square of linen. She really shouldn’t snap at Coira. It wasn’t the girl’s fault indoor plumbing and foam pillows had yet to be invented. The cool rim of a stoneware bowl pushed up against her hand. She dipped the cloth in the slimy substance and brought it to her nose. Whew. That’ll burn the hair off my legs. She soused the cloth in the water, shook it free of the acrid smelling soap, then finished scrubbing her body.
“Here, mistress. Hold fast to m’shoulder and step free of the tub. I’ll lead ye to the fire and rub ye down. Ye’ll feel refreshed in no time.”
Trulie very much doubted that, but what other choice did she have? Giving up on her last shred of modesty, she extended her arms and slowly turned in front of the fire while Coira dried her off. She felt like a rotisserie chicken getting readied for the spit.
“There now. All dry and smellin’ sweet as a spring breeze.” Coira shoved a garment over her head, pulled her arms through the sleeves, and shook it down her body.
Trulie smoothed her hands across the nubby weave. Must be some sort of linen. She shoved the sleeves up to her elbows and pushed her wet curls behind her ears. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’ve never been a morning person.”
“Ne’er ye mind,” Coira said soothingly, as she led Trulie to a chair. “Sit ye down and eat. A warm full belly will lift yer mood.”
Gingerly patting her hands in front of her, Trulie found the bowl and the handle of a wooden spoon. She leaned forward and inhaled deeply. Ugh. Oatmeal. She pushed it away and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m really not hungry this morning. If I could just have a nice
hot cup of tea, that would be awesome.” Coffee would be even better, but she knew that was an impossibility.
Coira pulled her wrist out of her lap and wrapped her fingers around a warm cup. “Yer grandmother told me of yer druthers. There’s a nice hot bannock here for ye too. Fresh from Cook’s fire.” Coira guided her other hand and rested it atop what felt like a toasty square biscuit.
“Thank you.” Her frame of mind improved considerably with every sip of the honey-laced tea. The warm bannock melted in her mouth, rich and oaty, in a good way.
Coira’s pink aura bounced about the room, banging furniture and fluffing cloth as Trulie ate. “Mother Sinclair says Master Tamhas has a fine poultice that will hurry the healin’ of yer eyes. Once yer dressed, the wagon’s a waitin’ in the bailey to carry ye to his croft.”
Trulie popped the last of the bannock in her mouth and washed it down with a gulp of hot tea. If Coira had told her that in the first place, she would’ve been a lot more cooperative. She was sick and tired of being sightless. She patted the table and stood. “I’m ready. Let’s move it.”
“Nay, mistress.” Coira carefully walked her around the table and moved her closer to the fire. “Ye must finish dressing first. Ye’ve nothin’ on but yer shift.”
Trulie fluffed the loose-fitting garment about her legs. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
“First yer stockin’s.” Coira gently pushed her down and to one side. “Sit on the wee bench so ye dinna fall.”
Trulie propped herself on the edge of the cushion and lifted a foot. Coira smoothed what felt like a thick wool sock up to her thigh and secured it with a tightening tug and pull of some sort of string. Trulie patted her fingers atop the strange stock and the ribbon knotted around her thigh.
Coira batted away her hands. “Dinna untie the ribbons or yer hose will be down about yer ankles.”
Flexing her toes in the soft wooly weave, Trulie latched onto the edge of the stool as Coira yanked a soft leather shoe onto her foot and tied it about the ankle.
“Too tight. My toes will turn blue.” Trulie bent to loosen the shoe only to have her hands batted away again.
“Quit yer haverin’ and lift yer other foot. The ties will ease as ye walk. They dinna need loosening.”
Coira was turning out to be bossier than Granny. Trulie stuck her bare foot in the air, drumming her fingers on the cushions as Coira secured the other stocking and shoe. “Hurry up.”
“Hush now. Up wi’ ye then.” Coira pulled on her hands and led her across the room. “Up with yer arms. All we’ve left is yer overdress and belt. Then it’s down to the bailey and off to Master Tamhas’s croft.”
Thank goodness. Trulie rolled her shoulders and smoothed the heavy wool about her waist. Who knew getting dressed could be such an ordeal? “Now are we ready?”
“Aye, Mistress,” Coira snorted out in an exasperated huff. “Aye, yer ready at last.”
—
“Once I wipe yer eyes with this poultice, the rest of yer sight should return.” Tamhas pressed a cool cloth, sticky with some sort of unimaginable glop, against her closed eyelids.
Yuck. Trulie forced herself not to recoil. If the nastiness hastened the full return of her sight, she could tolerate a little slimy grossness. “Granny, you didn’t answer me. Did you know about what happened to Gray’s parents before we came here?”
The bench seat made of woven twine creaked with Granny’s slight weight as she settled down beside Trulie. “Somewhat,” Granny finally said. Her voice sounded cautious…and guilty.
“Either you knew or you didn’t. There is no such thing as somewhat in a yes or no question. Is that why you brought me back here? To help solve the murder?”
Granny chuckled and replied with a vague “Perhaps.”
“Coira, are you still here?” Trulie wrapped her hands around the rough stick forming the frame of the flimsy bench currently biting into the backs of her knees. “Coira, don’t be a tease. You know I won’t be blind forever. Speak up.”
“Aye, m’lady. I’m over here in the corner beside the worktable.” Coira’s voice sounded a bit strained.
M’lady. Who else was in Tamhas’s room? The only auras she’d sensed before her eyes were covered with slime belonged to Granny and Tamhas, and they cared little about servant versus mistress protocol. An uncomfortable twinge of foreboding plucked at her senses.
Coira didn’t use “m’lady” unless she deemed it necessary to keep herself out of hot water. Trulie gripped the edge of the seat tighter, fighting against the urge to fling the tickling cold mess off her face and scan the room again. “Have you been able to find out anything? Did you have any luck with the questions I wanted you to ask around the keep?” She very much doubted Coira had discovered anything. Even without her eyesight, she’d noticed how the other servants in the household had distanced themselves from Coira. They knew the girl was close to the Sinclairs and feared the advantage it gave her.
“Well…” Coira’s voice trailed off. Rushes scattered across the dirt floor shuffled with the dry crunching rustle of Coira’s movements. Coira’s familiar nervous cough interrupted the whisper of the dried grass. That nailed it. Coira had discovered something. Anytime her faint ahem-ing filled the air, it meant Coira didn’t really want to say what was on her mind.
“Well, what?” Trulie waited. If she turned and faced Coira long enough, the girl would eventually spill all that was on her mind. Coira couldn’t bear silent scrutiny…even when she knew Trulie couldn’t see her.
“I’m no’ sure ’tis wise t’repeat all I learned. ’Tis about yer chieftain’s half brother, Fearghal.”
“Well for one thing, he is not my chieftain. He belongs to Clan MacKenna.” Why would Coira say such a thing? Was Granny planting little plotting seeds again, even though she knew Trulie planned on returning to the future?
“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady.” The tone of Coira’s rapid-fire apology missed hitting true sincerity by just a hair. Trulie didn’t miss the note of tensed irritation in the pitch of Coira’s voice.
Trulie took a deep breath. Getting this information out of Coira was like picking up a boulder with a pair of tweezers. Why was she acting so leery? “Please, Coira. Share what you heard about Fearghal.”
“Cook’s lad said the man is a cruel arse.” Coira’s hesitant voice bounced from all around the room. Apparently, she was either pacing or exploring as she spoke. Coira was as inquisitive as a cat.
“Dinna touch that!” Tamhas barked.
The sound of pottery breaking and a pungent odor told Trulie that Tamhas’s order came a second too late.
Coira coughed and gagged. “What was in that jar, master?”
“Fermented marsh salamander, if ye must know. Ye just ruined a month’s work. Stupid, clumsy girl.” Tamhas huffed out a muttered curse as he smeared another layer of ooze across Trulie’s eyelids. Globs of chilly sliminess snailed down one temple and dripped entirely too close to her ear.
Trulie cringed and batted Tamhas’s hand away. Blind or not, she did not want rotten lizard entrails smeared across her face. “No more, and wash those nasty lizard guts off me right now.”
“Fermented marsh salamander doesna cure blindness. At least this spotted variety has ne’er been found to have any effect.” Tamhas’s insulted tone conveyed quite clearly that he did not appreciate Trulie’s presumptions. “Have ye taught the lass nothing, Nia?”
Granny grabbed Trulie by the wrists and pulled her hands down to her lap. “It’s herbs on your face, gal. Nothing more than simple herbs mixed with mud from the loch’s edge to speed along the clearing of your sight.”
Trulie relaxed back onto the woven bench. She wasn’t too sure about the mud part, and the goop still felt nasty, but she guessed she might as well go with it. “So Gray’s got a half brother who’s an ass. Is he a lot older than Gray, or what? And why did no one tell me Gray’s father had been married more than once? That could have something to do with the murders. If Fearghal’s the
oldest son, shouldn’t he have inherited the job of chieftain instead of Gray?” Trulie mentally added Fearghal to the potential suspect list, along with some woman named Aileas. In the short time they’d been at the keep, Trulie had already picked up on the fact that the servant girls loathed the woman and did their best to avoid her.
“Gray’s father loved only one woman in his life, and that was Gray’s mother.” Tamhas underscored this observation with a disgusted snort. “Unfortunately for all concerned, Gray’s mother, Isabeau, was ne’er his father’s wife.”
Trulie understood completely now. Gray’s mother must have been the old chieftain’s mistress. She’d read how some high-ranking men in this time provided for women who weren’t their wives. What was it they called them? Wiggling her nose against the slime trickling down one cheek, Trulie turned toward Tamhas. “Then how could Gray become chieftain if he was illegitimate?”
“MacKenna blood flows through Gray’s veins, and he carries his ancestry well. He was chosen to be chief.” Tamhas snorted again as he turned away. “The son born of the chieftain’s legal union should ha’ been drowned at birth.”
The bench creaked with new weight. Coira’s familiar scent of lye soap and dried heather announced her presence. The hushed loathing in the girl’s voice conveyed her feelings clearly. “All of us agree with Master Tamhas. The wicked Fearghal is much younger than the MacKenna and greatly resembles one o’ Master Tamhas’s dried up toads he keeps in his wee jars.”
Trulie mulled over this newest bit of information. “Surely you don’t think Fearghal should’ve been drowned at birth just because he’s a dried-up little pipsqueak?” That didn’t seem in character for anyone she had met at MacKenna keep.
“Nay…” Coira drew out the word as though keeping her emotions in check was becoming an unbearable strain. “But he is wicked. I know this firsthand. One of the newest girls, a meek young lass, and newly orphaned afore she came to the keep, was one of the poor serving girls unfortunate enough to catch the evil Fearghal’s eye. When she walked by him one evenin’ with a tray full of trenchers, he kicked her feet out from under her and laughed when all she carried crashed to the floor. Then the cur told her he’d see to it his brother banished her from the keep for being so clumsy and wasting food. The MacKenna doesna tolerate waste when so many o’er the years have died the slow death of hunger.”
My Highland Lover (Highland Hearts) Page 9
