Page 18 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
“Go on. Ye’re dismissed.” He waved her away and went to the fire, watching out of the corner of his eye as Lydia gathered the tankards and flagons with careful movements and carried them away.
One wish. He still had no idea why he’d chosen that wager, or why he wished to honor. He only knew one thing—Lydia the serving maid was a mystery and a wonder, and he was determined to learn everything he could about her. Including what a lass with such a shrouded past and entrancing demeanor might wish for.
A wish.Lydia’s cheeks burned hotter than hearth flames, as she carried the flagons and tankards to the kitchen to be washed.
A wish. Lord Ranald gave me a wish, and I could not think how to use it. I am a fool - I could easily have asked for something innocuous, something that any servant might desire, like some time for myself, or new clothing. I might even have used it torequest a change of duties, to assist the healer. Instead, I said nothing.
Ironic, when I would not even be in this mess, had I managed to hold my tongue earlier in the evening.
In truth, Lydia had no idea why she had accepted the laird’s wager, and even less why she’d made the effort to win the game. She had seen the mistake he had made, and she could have countered it with a mistake of her own. Instead, she’d made exactly the series of moves that one might expect, and claimed a victory that no proper serving maid could ever have managed.
She only knew that, the moment Laird Ranald had asked her what she would wish for, she’d found herself struck dumb, unable to voice any of the wishes that crowded her thoughts.
I wish you would ask me no more questions, and I could stay hidden among your servants for the rest of my days.
I wish I could tell you the truth, and that you would accept me, protect me, and perhaps come to care for me.
I wish I could call you Donall, and see you look at me with the same relaxation and calm that you do when your friend and second-in-command call you by that name.
I wish I could have the courage, and the permission, to touch you - and perhaps more, folly though I know it is to even contemplate such things.
I wish you would touch me - in tenderness, rather than duty, and I could come to know what your hands feel like when they offer comfort, kindness, or affection.
I wish you were the man my uncle had chosen for my husband, instead of Rory Cameron.
So many wishes, and she knew quite well she could ask for none of them. To even think of them was foolishness. To have spoken any of them aloud would have been to destroy her own efforts at hiding and, in all likelihood, would have seen her banished from Ranald Keep, or thrown in the dungeons.
Even if she had dared to speak one of her wishes aloud andnotbeen dismissed, she would only have placed herself in a precarious position, and possibly endangered all of Clan Ranald. That was something she could not and would not do. It was one thing to shelter with the clan for a brief time while she recovered from her injury and learned the skills she required. It was another to knowingly drag Clan Ranald and Laird Donall Ranald into the twisted mess between her and Rory Cameron.
The best thing to do would be to decide on a simple wish, something easy to fulfill that a normal servant might want. She might ask Maisie, under the guise of an idle question, for suggestions. Then she would redeem it, and think no more on the matter.
Lydia delivered the dishes to the kitchens and, with the help of a scullery maid, soon had them scrubbed and set aside to dry. From there, she made her way to the bathing chamber anddrew herself a bath - a task shedidknow how to perform, even if carrying the buckets of steaming water to fill the tub was wearying.
She bathed quickly and changed into the nightdress Evelyn had given her the night before, then returned to the room she shared with Maisie. The other servant was nowhere to be seen, probably attending to duties Lydia still didn’t know she had, or perhaps taking some time to relax with her fellow servants.
She might even be reporting to Steward Corvin, telling him about Lydia’s performance. Had she been less weary, Lydia might been concerned about what the younger woman would say.
For now, however, Lydia was achingly tired, and more than willing to collapse into her rush-filled bedding with a sigh.
And if her thoughts as she slipped toward sleep were of Laird Ranald, his handsome face creased in thought and the firelight dancing across his strong, sure hands as he moved a chess piece and smiled challengingly at her across the board… and those same hands then reached out to touch her, the heat of him close and that intense gaze entirely focused on her… making her heart skip a beat as he touched her with that same sure, easy, confidence… it was her dream and for her only.
CHAPTER NINE
“She cannae keep borrowing clothing forever, me laird. ‘Tis nae that anyone minds, ye ken, but every servant should have two or three outfits o’ their own, and ye dinnae want folk thinkin’ ye’re miserly, or we’ll never be able tae hire the help we need.”
Corvin continued to prattle on, his talk moving from Lydia in specific to other considerations, including a lament that no others from the ill-fated caravan had yet arrived at their gates. Donall closed his eyes and let the words wash over him, content to let Corvin speak so long as the steward required no response from him. His head ached, a dull throbbing he knew came from sleepless nights, and he wanted nothing more than one of Evelyn’s potions to ease the pounding.
Evelyn would scold him, he knew. She would ask why he never took the sleeping tonics she made for him, or the soothing teas, with their addition of valerian to send him to slumber. The truth was, he couldn’t stand taking them.
A sleep forced upon him by herbs and tonics left him more vulnerable to dreams. As bad as it was to wake, shuddering and gasping in a cold sweat, from the dream-memories of his time in the gaol, to face such dreams and be unable to wake was far worse.
The one time he’d suffered such dreams after taking Evelyn’s sleeping potion, he’d woken so sick with horror and with his stomach so twisted with shame and residual pain that he’d emptied the contents of his gut into a nearby basin, and been unable to allow himself to sleep at all for two nights thereafter.
“Me laird?” Corvin’s inquiring voice forced Donall’s attention back to his steward. He took a gulp of his scalding tea and nodded.
“Aye. I understand. Ye want me tae listen fer news o’ the missing caravan members, an’ see that Lydia has some new clothin’ o’ her own, since she arrived with naething.”
The lass in question chose that moment to enter the hall, bringing him a fresh pitcher of tea. Donall waited until she'd finished pouring before he spoke. “Ye've eaten?”
