Page 27 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
“Aye. If ye like.” His voice was quiet, almost as if he were half-asleep.
Lydia rose and fetched a brush she’d seen in the other room, then brought it back. In truth, there was little to do - a single pass of the brush smoothed the worst of the tangles from the short golden strands, and a third shaped them around his head, leaving him with a gleaming, dripping helmet of gold that swirled around his ears and just teased the back of his neck.
“That will dae.” Laird Ranald sat up and stretched, then put his hands on the sides of the tub. Lydia recognized what he was about to do and scrambled for the towel. She managed to get it between her and Laird Ranald, then unfolded and extended into a sort of makeshift divider before he rose. He chuckled again.
“Och, ye are a ridiculously shy lass.” A strong, blunt hand took the towel from her and he wrapped it around his midsection. It still left a disquieting amount of bare skin on display, now gleaming with the water droplets sliding down his body, but at least it hid the most pertinent portions of his anatomy. “Away with ye. Send Maisie an’ a couple o’ the lads tae tak’ the tub away.”
“You… you do not need my services any further, my laird? You are certain?”
“Aye. I’m certain. An’ I ken ye’ve other work ye might need tae assist Corvin or Evelyn with. Go on with ye, an’ I’ll see ye in the morning.” He stopped a moment. “Och, but I’ll be breakin’ me fast in the Great Hall afore joining the men in training, so ye dinnae need tae bring me a tray. Just be ready tae serve me there.”
“Aye, my laird.” Lydia bowed, then turned and hurried from the room before Laird Ranald could change his mind.
Her mind was still whirling, confused by the sensations that seeing him had awoken her. Her stomach still felt shivery, as if she’d swallowed butterflies, and her skin was still flushed, as if she was feverish, though she felt well enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Another sleepless night. But it hadn’t all been nightmares, and that was what surprised Donall the most. He’d certainly woken up from nightmare memories at least once, but some of his dreams had been of a different nature… and aroused him from slumber in an entirely different way.
Lydia. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to suggest that she wash his arms and his hair as well as his back and shoulders. Perhaps it had been the urge to tease her, knowing she was so shy. Or perhaps it had been the way her hands had lingered on his skin, her touch careful and gentle in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced before. Certainly not since his mother had been alive.
I need tae stop thinkin’ about her like that. She’s a servant, an’ there’s too many questions around her presence - I cannae allow meself tae soften toward her an’ forget that, nay matter how she might affect me otherwise.
He splashed some cold water on his face to chase away the last vestiges of weariness and the thoughts that plagued him, then finished dressing for training and made his way downstairs.
Ewan was already outside in the courtyard, waiting for him. To Donall’s surprise, his second-in-command was not alone. Maisie stood close beside him, and the two of them were clearly engrossed in conversation.
Donall slowed his steps, watching as Ewan grinned at something the maid said. His return statement, too quiet for Donall to hear, made Maisie laugh, the sound ringing like chimes in the air. A moment later, she managed some reply, and Ewan joined her in laughter.
The sight of the two of them laughing together filled Donall with competing feelings of amusement, satisfaction, and a faint stab of jealousy. Donall winced at the last, and forcefully shoved it down, squashing the emotion as well as he was able.
Ewan deserved to be happy, as did Maisie. He had no right to begrudge them if his close friends and associates found joy with another. It was no fault of Maisie’s or Ewans’ that his own choices and temperament had left him bereft of companionship.
He moved closer, angling on a path that would take him past the two, intending to start his training without Ewan. Despite his best efforts, however, his movement caught Ewan’s eye. His friend stiffened slightly, coming to attention. Maisie noticed the change and spotted Donall a moment later. She immediately dipped into a curtsey. “Me laird.”
“Maisie. Ewan.”
The maid turned to Ewan and smiled briefly, murmuring something that made Ewan nod. Then she turned and hurried away.
Donall and Ewan made their way to the sparring field, and began to stretch. Donall arched his back and sides carefully, feeling the slight pull of his wound. It was healing well, as Lydia had said, but it was still tight, and the new skin pulled when he extended his body too far in certain directions. Donall made a note, aware that the fragile state of the skin meant he might tear the new scar tissue if he wasn’t careful.
Once his muscles were sufficiently loose and warmed up, Donall took his place across from Ewan. The two of them circled slowly for a moment, feeling each other out, then Donall saw a possible opening and lunged, striking high and then dropping into a sideways swipe that would bruise ribs if it connected.
Ewan recognized the feint and caught the sideways strike, sliding his own blade up for a counter attack. Donall parried it away, then moved to re-engage on a different angle.
Strike, block, parry, thrust. Motions as smooth and familiar as breathing for Donall. Before long, he slipped into a rhythm, his body moving easily from one pattern to the next, leaving his mind free to think of other things, like how friendly his second-in-command seemed to be with his maid.
He waited until the two of them crossed and locked blades, before offering Ewan a smirk over the crossed steel. “So… ye an’ Maisie? An’ here I thought ye’d an eye on one o’ the barmaids in the village.”
“That was a thing o’ the moment - a night o’ lighthearted pleasure an’ nay more.” Ewan pushed him back and swiped at him with an upward diagonal stroke that turned and came into a downward chop, slightly angled so it would slide off Donall’s blade and into a position to cut shoulder and belly.
Donall countered and responded with an attack of his own before he spoke again. “An’ yer dalliance with Maisie is nae?”
To his surprise, Ewan flushed, and there was a glint of irritation, or embarrassment in his usually calm gaze. “’Tis nay dalliance. Maisie an’ I…”
He cut himself off, but he’d already said enough for Donall to guess what he meant. And even if his words had not revealed his intentions, the red heat spreading across his cheeks and ears made the truth plain as a sunrise on a clear day.
“Ye an’ Maisie… ye have feelin’s fer the lass. Are ye courtin’ her, then?”
