Page 34 of How to Be a Scottish Mistress

In the days that followed, Fiona’s numerous attempts to be helpful at other castle tasks had been met with a resounding no, followed by a stony wall of silence. Fiona knew they saw her as an enemy, yet that logic did not prevent the hurt from squeezing her chest.

The truth was, their outright rejection made her feel inadequate. She meant them no harm. She had not come here to disrupt their lives or cause them any difficulties. How could they not understand it? She was merely trying to survive, a powerless woman in a world run by men. One would think she would receive support and empathy from the sisterhood, instead of censure.

Well, today she was not going to turn away and allow herself to be treated like an unwanted stray dog. By all that was holy, she was going to work no matter what anyone said. Just let them try and stop her.

“I shall help to spin the wool,” Fiona announced as she joined the circle of women gathered together in the great hall.

Swinging around, Judith stared at her with an open mouth. “There is no need fer it,” the older woman proclaimed.

Judith was the unofficial leader and the most outspoken of the women. Handsome, middle-aged, with streaks of gray in her dark hair, she ruled the gaggle of female servants with an iron fist.

“Aye, we need no help,” Maggie chimed in, and the others nodded in agreement.

“Oh, but you shall have it nonetheless,” Fiona announced, refusing to be turned away.

The women did not look happy with the dictate. But Fiona wasn’t doing this to gain their acceptance or approval. She needed something to occupy her time, else her wayward thoughts would drive her to despair.

She took a seat and gathered her materials. Poking the dense ball of wool with her forefinger, Fiona searched until she found a strand. She felt every female eye in the great hall trained diligently on her as the spindle began to slowly spin and the weight on the end began to pull the wool thin. Fiona’s fingers stiffened as she manipulated and twisted the fiber into a thread, straining to create an even string.

“Dinnae be making it too thin,” Judith warned in an agitated tone. “Or else it will snap the minute we put it on the loom.”

“I know,” Fiona answered tersely, wanting very much to add that she hardly needed any instructions, since she, like nearly every woman in the world, had been making thread since she was a young girl.

Trying to prove her worth to these thorny Scotswomen was a losing venture, Fiona decided. She assumed they objected to her English heritage, but lately she wondered if they also resented her rank.

From what she could tell, the Scots were not all that impressed by titles—though treated with respect, the earl was hardly fawned over by his retainers, or his servants.

Suddenly, the earl’s booming voice cut through the cackling female conversation.He’s returned!Fiona’s hands faltered and she nearly dropped the spindle. Now, wouldn’t that reaction give these crows a fine morsel to gossip over?

By the time the earl reached the end of the hall, she had mercifully regained her composure. Her greeting was no more enthusiastic than that of the other women. Still, Fiona felt horribly exposed, certain he was aware of how excited she was to see him again, how relieved she felt that he was safe.

“Have there been any difficulties while I’ve been gone?” he asked.

“No,” Fiona lied, admitting she would have bitten her tongue till it bled before complaining to him about the petty insults of these women.

“Good. Very good.”

He looked right, then left, then gazed up at the rafters. If Fiona didn’t know better, she would have sworn he was looking for a way to escape. The earl moved to the fireplace and motioned for Fiona to follow.

He removed his leather gloves and she found herself staring at his hands, remembering the feel of his fingers against her heated flesh. The faint smell of leather and horses clung to his skin. Fiona inhaled. It was odd—Henry, too, had smelled of horses and dirt and leather, but it was very different.

Why?

“Since I heard no cheering from the bailey, I assume that Gilroy managed to elude capture?” she asked, trying to turn the conversation away from these heightened emotions.

“Aye.”

The terse answer reminded Fiona that it was probably unwise to highlight the earl’s failure. Men could be ridiculously prideful over these matters, but honestly who did they think they were fooling? Clearly, Gilroy had not been found. Were they all supposed to pretend that he had, in order to spare the earl’s feelings?

“Will you try again?”

“When we have a solid lead. There’s no use putting good men’s lives at risk without just cause.”

The earl’s comment erased Fiona’s earlier impression—he had been concerned about the fate of his men, an opinion that had him rise considerably in her estimation.

Embarrassed by her waspish tongue, Fiona sought to make amends. “Are you hungry?”

“Aye, thirsty, too.”

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