by Jackie Ivie
There wasn’t anything resembling underwear.
Anywhere.
Neal continued his inspection, moving his glance across from the sword. On the other side of the bed, the valet had set out a completely different set of clothing. Knee-high boots rested on the coverlet, so clean and shiny, they nearly matched the sheen coming from the sword. Little round straps came next. They probably held up the socks beside them. A dark blue coat was next. A pair of long trousers of a tan shade. Didn’t look like they had as much excess room in the seat as those he’d worn earlier. Excellent. Beside the pants was a length of starched white linen that would be wrapped about the throat in another choke-collar. Ah. That was a real cravat. Next to that was a white button-down shirt, and at the area just below his pillows were items even he recognized: knee-length, off-white drawers that buttoned to a like-material sleeveless shirt. Apparently, if he dressed in the attire of an English gentlemen, at least he’d have underwear.
This was getting complicated.
Neal looked at his valet, back down to the bed. He didn’t have to ask which outfit the valet favored. The man’s demeanor spoke for him. He supposed as chieftain of the Straith Clan, there was only one option.
Neal sighed heavily. “Your name’s Millbourne? Isn’t that what you said?”
“Your grace?”
“What can you tell me of Miss...uh. Is it...MacAffrey?”
“Lileth?”
Oh good. Neal smiled to himself as the fellow filled in one blank. The woman everyone expected him to ask for was named Lileth. “No. The other one. The one that begins with an ‘A’.”
The man jerked slightly, then frowned. “Ainslee…MacAffrey, your grace?”
“Yes. That’s it. Ainslee. You know anything of her?”
The man cleared his throat and then put a finger beneath his collar. Neal regarded him silently.
“I’m uncertain how to proceed with the answer, your grace.”
Neal leaned against the dresser behind him. It scudded along the stone floor before he realized his mistake. He was larger and heavier. The furniture wasn’t secured to the floor. He stood back up before something drastic happened, like the thing fell.
“Is there some secret I’m not privy to? Come on, my good fellow. Speak up.”
“I’m wondering…what your grace has heard.”
“Call me Neal, all right? I’m a bit...out-of-sorts here. I’ve but recently arrived. I just suffered some sort of head injury...that um...scrambled my brains a bit. I need help. Information. And I am not asking my steward for it. So. Are you going to assist me or not?”
The man lifted his head and met Neal’s gaze. Neal got an instant sensation of warmth. A sense of benevolence. The exact opposite of what he’d felt with Garrick. He instantly felt at-ease. As if he was around Eric again. That was curious.
“We’d have never allowed the lass the run of the estate if you’d been here.”
Neal’s eyebrows rose. “The run of the estate?” he echoed. “She lives here?”
“Oh. No. Nothing like that. But she visits. Oft. Mostly the stables.”
“The stables? A girl?”
“The lass has the touch of the fey to her fingers. All note it.”
“Fey?” The word was harshly spoken. Neal couldn’t help it. He was not accepting fairy nonsense. No way. Not without a fight, anyway. He refused.
“I’ve been a witness to it, your grace. Near all she touches heals. She’s a wonder with horses. She’s the reason your stable is as healthy as it is when hoof-rot decimated most others. There’s nae horse born she canna’ calm.”
“Oh. That kind of fey.”
“Check with MacCreary, our head groomsman. Actually, you could check with all the stable hands. You’ll hear the same. But, afore you do, your grace, I wish to take full responsibility.”
“For what? And really. You can call me Neal.”
“I allowed her to visit the estate while the auld laird, your uncle, was ill. But I also allowed it to continue afore your arrival. I’ll see it stopped immediately-like.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Millbourne. No harm, no foul. Right?”
“Your grace?”
Neal unfastened his robe tie. “It’s Neal. And I’m going to need your help with this, as well.”
“With what?”
“My...uh. Attire. I wouldn’t wish to reflect poorly on the Straith Clan, and I’m a mite...uncertain as to the wearing of...um. This.” Neal motioned to the length of plaid.
“You’ll wear the feile-breacan today?”
“Uh. Yeah. If that’s what it’s called.”
“Oh, your grace! Aye! It will be an honor to assist you.”
“What would it take to get you to call me Neal?”
“’Twould be a mistake, your grace.”
Neal sighed again. “Why?”
“It is na’ my place. Your cousin looks for any reason to negate yer claim. Ye mustn’t give him one.”
“Garrick?”
“Aye.”
“He’s my cousin? Buggers.”
“His mother is the late duke’s younger sister. As well as your father’s, I should add.”
“I take it she’s still alive?”
“She resides in the east wing along with your other cousin.”
Other cousin? Crap. There was another one like Garrick? That was an unpleasant turn of events. “Why is he a Straith, then? Isn’t his mother wed?”
“Of course! She’s been widowed. Garrick’s father was a Blair. But, since the duke’s left no son, the duchy of Straithcairn could easily have gone to your cousin. I believe that...to be the prime reason he assumed the Straith surname.”
“And that took place recently, I take it?”
“Upon your uncle’s death.”
“I see. So. I was difficult to locate, harder to persuade, and Garrick was thinking he had a lock on the duchy until I showed up. Is that my situation?”
“None said you were difficult to locate, your grace.”
“Really? I must have been having a very good time in London.”
“So I have been told.”
“But...my uncle stuck a fly in the ointment, didn’t he? In order to assume the inheritance, I’ve got to wed a MacAffrey lass. Sight unseen. How am I doing? Is that my situation? In a nutshell?”
“Nutshell?”
“You know...take the major facts of an issue. Condense them. Quick and dirty. Wrap them up. Tie them in ribbons. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. Nothing concrete. Oh! That reminds me. I’m going to need paper. My list is getting larger by the moment. I need paper to get this down. Lots of it. Rolls, if we have it. Is that possible?”
“Rolls of paper?”
“Well, yeah. Newspapers have them. We should be able to get them. And pens! No! Markers. Big ones. In every color. I work better when I have lots of space to make visuals.”
“Markers, your grace?”
The man’s eyebrows were lifted. Damn it. Neal had been on a roll. Thinking aloud. He’d have to keep a better watch on his tongue.
“How about we discuss it later? After my meeting? And, come on Millbourne. Isn’t there any way I can get you to call me Neal? When we’re alone? And nobody is around to hear?”
The valet considered him for a long moment. And then the man smiled. “And you must call me Mason, your gra—I mean, Neal.”
“Mason. Got it. So. You ready for our next hurdle?”
“Your feile-brecan?”
“That, and the will. Sounds as if you’ve got real knowledge of it. Am I right?”
“I was one of the witnesses to the signing. I actually have a copy.”
“A copy?”
“Signed by all involved.”
“Excellent!”
Neal shrugged out of his robe, was startled again at the view of unblemished skin where he’d sported a spiral tattoo, then turned to eye the attire on the bed. The valet lifted the shirt and assisted him into it. Neal started buttoning. A lot of pearl
buttons had been stitched onto the fabric, in series of two. They were going to be hidden by the ruffles. What a waste. Sewing machines hadn’t been invented yet. Some poor woman had put every one of these pearls in place. Or, maybe it had been a child. For all he knew, child labor laws hadn’t been enacted yet, either. It was 1803. A lot of work needed to be done on the social level still...
What the hell?
This thought process was perplexing, as well as disconcerting. What was it to him who sewed his clothing? And under what circumstances? Neal had seen all kinds of human conditions in his travels. Viewed economic situations that shouldn’t support a dog. After a span, he’d learned to ignore them. He rarely even noticed. Such travails were part of life. He didn’t allow it to become his issue.
Not then.
And he wasn’t about to start now.
He finished the buttons. Started attaching the ruffled front piece. “I need to know about the will, Mason. Refresh my memory.”
“What do you recollect?”
“Parts. But I’m a bit...uh...vague on the betrothal stuff. Give me the exact wording, and—now, wait...just a minute here.”
The shirt was finished. He’d watched Mason wrap the coils of linen at Neal’s wrists and slide little chains through them, making a cuff and link affair, securing the sleeves in place. Menswear really needed to get updated. And then the valet had approached and tossed a hank of the plaid over his Neal’s shoulder.
“You need to hold still, your—I mean, Neal.”
The man circled behind him, came back around to the front, wrapping material as he moved.
“Come on. You’re not joking? This is it? I don’t get anything else? No underwear? Nothing? Doesn’t the wool...um. You know? Itch?”
“Well. That’s one of the uses of the sporran, Neal.”
Mason Millbourne pointed to the purse-thing. He was chuckling. And it wasn’t all that funny.
CHAPTER EIGHT
For once, Ainslee did as she’d been ordered.
She stayed in her tower room.
It wasn’t an onerous chore, in the worst of times. She loved every inch of the old stone edifice, even if it was freezing cold in the winter and unbearably stuffy some nights in the summer. On those nights, she could always climb the ladder and sleep atop the highest part of the castle, watching the stars, secure atop the wooden latticework tower ceiling that an ancestor of hers had seen constructed.
She also loved the tower because it was an access point to the secret passages. She’d found it by trial and error one particularly severe winter when she couldn’t keep the fire going. One section of her room was so much colder than anywhere else, while it seemed to have a continual breeze. By standing on a chair and hanging on one heavy shield, she’d twisted the thing a half turn, and it had come away from the wall, opening right out like a door! That shield hid a crawlspace just large enough for her, and beyond that, all sorts of halls and steps that linked her to the entire castle.
That passageway meant freedom.
And nobody else knew about it.
This evening, however, she was obeying because she had preparations to attend to, and not because any chance encounter with Father might remind him of her promised punishment. It seemed ridiculous to think the Laird of MacAffrey might still be planning and devising a beating for his younger daughter. He sounded like he was in great spirits. His laughter rang out more than once since the Straith laird had arrived.
Ainslee hadn’t been able to see the official arrival, since her tower was on the opposite side of the entrance gate, but the walls weren’t high enough to completely obscure the Straith retinue as they’d approached on the road. The day had altered since this morn – a normal event – and the skies were now gray-cast, with low-hanging clouds that promised rain. She’d still been able to make out the duke, easily seen since he was the only mounted man. He’d been surrounded by a double row of clansmen that denoted his Honor Guard. Directly behind them would be the bard, an elder clansman who kept the oral history of clan. He was followed by pipers, blaring out the clan marching tune. Although she couldn’t see it, behind the pipers should be the clan spokesman known as a bladier. After him came an uncountable number of clansmen, all wearing the red, white, and black plaid denoting the Straith Clan. It looked extremely impressive. She almost gave into her curiosity and snuck down the passageway so she could watch their greeting. The only thing that stopped her was she didn’t wish to upset her appearance.
It had come at too great a price in time and effort already.
She’d drawn cans of peat-colored water from the pump and lugged them all the way to her room. Fourteen in all. Then, she’d dragged one of the small wash tubs up the steps, stopping to catch her breath more than once. It took most of the afternoon and was laborious, but she didn’t wish help, or notice, and she especially wished to avoid any curiosity. There hadn’t been enough water for a full bath, but it worked for washing her hair, and then the rest of her. She’d even purloined sweet-smelling soap bits from her stepmother’s closet to use.
The laird’s younger daughter had been sent to her room with an early sup. She was under orders to stay put throughout the Straith’s visit, no matter how long it should last. The new duke wasn’t to see her. He wasn’t to meet her. He wasn’t to know of her existence.
It was going to cause a small riot if he really did ask for her hand, rather than Lileth’s.
Ainslee spent a massive amount of time washing and rinsing her hair before she had it combed and pulled back to dry. That was just one punishment for being a lady. She’d much rather take a swim in the loch, but with all the clan gathering in the meadows, it was too risky. So, she’d bathed up here and didn’t even complain while toting the used water, can-by-can, to the window, climbing up into the alcove, and tossing it out.
Her tower was in the oldest section of the castle, the walls over ten feet thick even at this height. They were so wide she could sleep in the window’s well if she wanted. It was still a far cry from the wall thickness at castle’s base, however. Measurements down there stood at thirty-three feet.
Bathing and clean-up weren’t what took the longest, though. She’d spent hours twining her hair into long ropes of braids, winding and pinning them atop her head in all sorts of arrangements, trying for height and dignity.
And failing.
Nothing looked right. The mass of hair was too much.
She’d finally settled with wrapping two small braids at her temples, winding them about the crown of her head, pinning them together at the back, and then letting the rest fall free. Few knew her hair reached her knees, being even longer than Lileth’s. That was fine with her. But Ainslee was cheating. Lileth’s hair had a natural wave that thickened and shortened it, and Lileth stood a half-head taller than Ainslee.
At last, her coiffure was finished, and then she had a real issue: proper attire.
What should one wear when meeting a betrothed, supposedly for the first time? And why would she think she had an option? Everything she owned was thread-bare, or torn, or stained, or in need of altering. And they were all in pastel colors that brought out Lileth’s beauty. Hideous shades on her. They made Ainslee look washed-out and ill. It couldn’t be helped, however. They were all she had.
And then she remembered. She did own a yellow dress, with little gathers at the bodice to create an illusion of fullness for the twelve-year-old girl it had been designed for. Lileth had hated it on sight and banished it to Ainslee’s wardrobe closet, where it had had been hanging amidst wildflower sachets for years, forgotten.
Ainslee rushed to her wardrobe. Tossed open the door. The dress was just as she remembered, dusty, but new-looking. The color was vivid. The fit was acceptable, too, although she looked like a child. That was hardly her fault. She didn’t have another option. She never did. She didn’t care, either. Ainslee had long ago decided she hated everything about being female. Her gender was a handicap. A bore. A burden. A decided curse. She’d have given
anything to be down in the great hall right now, at the chieftain table, discussing terms...knowing what was happening, rather than banished to her tower, and left guessing.
But, if she had been born a boy, she’d be the MacAffrey Clan heir. Life would be so much different!
She wouldn’t think about it. She’d spent enough time hating her gender.
There was nothing left to do now except wait. Pray. And hope.
CHAPTER NINE
Well.
This was borderline educational, but that was about it.
Neal stopped trying to move the conversation into his reason for being there after the fifth attempt, this time by the presentation of huge platters containing meats. He hadn’t planned on staying past sundown, but the decision was taken from him by the length of the proceedings.
He’d been met at the gate and escorted inside, noted that the room wasn’t nearly as large or impressive as the one at Castle Straith, and then they’d moved on. He’d been led to an alcove area, something they called a chieftain room. Garrick had followed at Neal’s heels. Behind him were the clansmen denoting his Honor Guard.
Neal hadn’t known what an Honor Guard was, or that he had one. The thought still gave him a rush of pleasure. They were a commanding sight. Imposing. They were all massive men, as tall, or taller, than either him or Garrick. They were physically fit. Identically arrayed in Straith colors. They were also all sporting full beards.
