Page 23 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
Surely… the clothes he wears… he wouldnae need help dressing, would he? An’ his hair is so short, it scarcely ever looks as if he combs it tae begin with, so he wouldnae need that either. But then… what daes a laird’s personal servant dae? An’ who will I ask, if I dinnae have Maisie or someone else tae speak tae?
She might have been paralyzed with nervousness, had it not been for Maisie, who began shooing her toward the door as soon as her shoes were on and her apron was tied. “Go on. Corvin says that as part o’ yer new duties, ye’ll be serving him the morning meal in his chambers first thing.”
Lydia nodded and went to collect the tray, still reeling under the sudden change in her circumstances, yet again. She’d scarcely begun learning all she needed to know about her basic duties from Maisie, and to suddenly be thrust into a new role was far more disconcerting than she would have expected.
The tray was heavy, but Maisie had told her some tricks for making the journey easier, , so the task was less arduous than it might have been.
Fortunately, her duties in cleaning meant she knew where Laird Ranald’s chambers were, and Maisie had taught her how to knock and turn a door handle with her hands occupied. She wasn’t the most graceful at such tasks yet, but she knew what to do, and that was something.
She tapped the door with her shoe, as Maisie had taught her, and cleared her throat. “Your morning meal, my laird.” After three days of hearing it, she was almost used to the way Highlanders pronounced the word.
She waited until she heard the low, gruff-sounding acknowledgment, then worked the door handle with her elbow as she’d been taught and stepped inside. She was halfway toward the table set by the fire when Laird Ranald emerged from his bedroom.
It was only decorum that allowed her to keep walking, rather than stopping abruptly and possibly tripping over her own feet. The laird was dressed in a short kilt and an open shirt, nothing else. He was barefoot, his hair was even wilder than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
Lydia hastily averted her eyes and continued to the table, where she set down the tray and laid out the contents, before bending to the hearth to awaken the fire and clear out some of the choking ash from the day before, so the coals could burn hotter and awaken sooner.
Laird Ranald watched her for a moment. “I found ye in the library last night. Were ye practicin’ with the linens?”
Lydia bit her lip to stifle a gasp, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She’d wondered, when she’d woken by the cold hearth, who had covered her, but she hadn’t expected it to be the laird. “I was. Maisie says I need much work to fold them as crisply and tightly as she does.”
The laird made a noise that might have been a huff of exasperation or a laugh - Lydia was far too embarrassed and nervous to look up and identify it. “Why the library?”
Because I wanted to see what sorts of books Highlanders owned. My uncle owned so few - I hoped to find something I had not read.
The words lingered in her mind, but Lydia held them back. That was no servant’s answer - from what she’d seen and heard, servants had little time for such things, and most of them knew almost nothing of reading and writing. Instead, she sought and offered a different answer. “It was quiet, and I did not think I would be disturbed, nor disturb anyone.”
“I wondered.” Laird Ranald settled at the table and began to eat. Lydia swallowed, and tried to keep her attention focused on her work. It was difficult though, with him sitting there, the open edges of his shirt revealing glimpses of his well-muscled abdomen and those intriguing tattoos. Then there was his kilt. Short as it was, it only reached his thighs, and Lydia was entirely uncertain as to what she would see if she chanced to look up.
Rumor had it that Highlanders wore nothing beneath the kilt. Lydia forced that thought away, but she couldn’t stop the colorthat rose to her cheeks when she considered what that might mean.
“Are ye well? Ye’re flushed.” The words were brusque, sharp and cold, but under them Lydia could hear the faintest thread of concern.
She shook her head. “I am not ill, my laird. It is only the heat of the fire.”
She prodded a last log into place, then rose to her feet, keeping her head bowed. “Would my laird like me to select his clothing for the day?”
“Aye. That is part o’ yer duties, is it nae?”
Lydia inclined her head. “Does my laird have any special meetings, or any activities planned?”
“Why?” There was a definite sharpness in his tone now, and Lydia flinched. She’d clearly said something to either anger him or make him suspicious. Nonetheless, all she could do was answer as best she knew how.
“If you had a special meeting, I could lay out nicer clothing - one of your better shirts, and a fresh pressed kilt, perhaps a sash and whatever else you might need. If you were planning something like training with the soldiers, or going out riding, I could select sturdier clothing. That is all, my laird.” Lydia swallowed hard to try and clear the lump in her throat, her heart pounding.
“Anythin’ that’s nae full council garb will dae.” The heat was gone from Laird Ranald’s voice, but she had no idea whether she had succeeded in placating him or not.
She didn’t dare ask. Instead, she dipped her head the way Maisie had taught her, then turned and hurried into the bed chamber to seek out the appropriate attire. Finding a shirt that seemed appropriate was easy enough, and a kilt, but Lydia hesitated over the section that held the trews, leggings, and stockings. She had no idea if Laird Ranald would want any of them.
“Jus’ the stockings.” Lydia startled and whipped around to find the laird standing there with an amused expression. “I dinnae wear the trews or leggings unless I’m ridin’, or ‘tis winter cold.”
“I see.” Lydia nodded and selected a pair of dark stockings to lay on the bed. She turned around to close the chest - just in time to see Laird Ranald toss his garments to the side and approach, completely nude.
Lydia made an inarticulate noise. It sounded to her like an undignified cross between a gasp and a squeak, and made her cheeks burn red once more. Then she scrambled for the discarded clothing, her eyes fixed firmly anywhere but Laird Ranald. She heard him chuckle, and had it not been for the fact she would have had to look at him, she would have thrown something at him.
“Ye’re a shy one.”
“I am not used to being around unclothed men.” Lydia bent to pick up the sleeping clothes and began to fold them, keeping her gaze on her work to ensure every crease was perfect. “I only ever helped my lady dress.”
