Page 7 of Midnight Conquest

“Nowt fancy, milady. Chicken stew, pease pottage, bit o’ barley porridge. Only brown bread today. No time fer fine manchet—not with short notice.”

Davina nodded. “What about yesterday’s bread?”

“Still got it. Was goin’ to feed it to the swine.”

“Warm it in the oven. Serve it instead. And no dessert tonight.”

The cook smirked. “Understood, madam.”

Davina faced the larder keeper. “What of our mead or ale stores?”

The lanky woman dipped a quick curtsy. “Plenty of both, milady. We also have some mulled wine I could warm up.”

“Nay. Just the ale, and I want the strongest we have.” She turned to the kitchen maid. “Hopefully, the food alone will change his mind, and he’ll leave for better fare at the inn. But if he doesn’t, Rosselyn will give you the word. You make sure Mr. MacLeod’s tankard is never empty. But don’t be too obvious.”

The kitchen maid grinned. “Aye, milady. When the word isgiven, he’ll never see the bottom. No’ if I can help it.”

“Splendid.”

Davina exited the kitchen through the serving room into the Great Hall with a mischievous smile on her face.

Coming from the foyer, Rosselyn crossed the expansive room with hurried steps and pulled Davina back into the serving room. Checking behind her, she closed the door and faced Davina. “Och, that MacLeod is a devil of a man—can’t keep his hands where they belong!”

“Bother. I knew he’d bring us nothing but grief.” Davina nibbled on her thumbnail and paced the small room. “I don’t think mild fare is going to be enough to drive him away. We might have to ply him with drink until he can nay longer stand. Tell Beatrice to keep that ale flowing.”

Rosselyn nodded and went through the kitchen door, while Davina exited through the opposite door back into the Great Hall. She crossed the distance, into the foyer and up the stairs to her mother’s room, where she rapped twice and waited.

Myrna opened it a crack, then the rest of the way when she saw it was Davina.

“How’s Cailin?” Davina asked.

“Sleeping, milady.” Myrna closed the door behind them.

Davina crossed to the cradle, her skirts whispering against the rug. Cailin lay tucked beneath a woven woolen blanket, her thumb nestled in her cherub mouth, breath soft and steady.

Davina traced a finger along her daughter’s round cheek. The child’s skin was warm, impossibly soft. At her touch, Cailin sighed and smiled in her sleep.

That simple expression, peaceful and pure, struck Davina like sunlight through storm clouds. No matter the turmoil beyond these walls, this small face had the power to steady her heart.

Although Davina usually had Cailin sleeping in the nursery adjacent to her own bedchamber, she did not wish to disturb her. “Myrna, we’ll let Cailin stay here the night. I’ll get her on the morrow.”

“Aye, milady.”

Davina quietly approached her mother’s bedside. Lilias’s brow creased with worry, even in her sleep. A twinge of guilt twisted Davina’s heart. She was the cause of her mother’s anxiety. She knew it, but she was doing what was best for the household.

For her child.

As Davina turned toward the door, Myrna laid a hand on her arm. “Are ye sure ye know what yer doin’, lass?”

Davina bowed her head and clenched her fist. “Do you want to go back to living under the roof of a heavy-handed master? Because I certainly do not.”

“Aye, milady.” Myrna’s hand dropped and she shuffled to the chair at Lilias’s bedside.

Davina left her mother’s room, and as she passed the guest chamber, she heard MacLeod rumbling around, getting comfortable she assumed. She picked up her pace to hide in the sanctuary of her own chamber. Damn that obnoxious ox. Maybe she should have put him in the more luxurious chamber on the floor above. Although she didn’t want him to get too comfortable, he would be farther away from her room. Nothing for it now. She paced and breathed deep to soothe her spirit. She just needed to keep the peace until he left, then everything would be fine.

Turning a circuit around her bed, her eyes fell upon her jewelry box. As if pulled by the item inside, Davina strolled to the dresser and opened the lid. Nestled amongst her modest adornments was a simple brooch. She traced the tip of her fingerover the Celtic designs crafted in iron. Her fingers lifted it from the wooden box, and she curled them into a fist around the piece as she held it against her heart and closed her eyes.

She sighed, the flutter in her belly rising unbidden at the memory of that stolen night in the cozy inn.

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