Page 32 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
She longed to confide in the other two women, who were fast becoming friends - a new experience for her - but she could not bring herself to do so. What if they betrayed her secret to Laird Ranald? Duty would probably mean they were required to.
There was a clatter at the door, and the panel opened to reveal Donall, alongside his friend, Laird MacEwen. The latter was clutching his arm, a long, shallow cut across the right forearm, wrapped in a crimson-stained cloth. Evelyn frowned. “What happened?”
Laird Ranald snorted. “Fool wasnae payin’ as much attention tae his eating knife as he was tae a serving lass at the tavern, where we went tae seek rumors in the village. Slipped an’ sliced his arm instead o’ his roast.”
Lydia saw Evelyn tip her head, and guessed the healer meant for this to be a test of her actual abilities. She rose from the table, wiped her hands carefully on a clean towel wrapped in her apron tie, and took his arm. The wound wasn’t deep, and had mostly stopped bleeding, but the fact that it had been made with a soiled eating knife was some cause for concern. “It needs cleaning. Then perhaps a yarrow comfrey salve?”
“Good. Use one of the honey-based, ‘twill ensure there’s nae foulness in the wound.”
Lydia turned away to get clean cloths, and a pot from among the salves she had recently mixed. It was the work of moments to wash the wound with the hot water and cloths boiled over the fire, then gently apply the salve and a clean bandage. “Keep itclean and dry for the rest of the day, my laird, and it should be well-mended by tomorrow.”
“Thank ye, lass. Ye’ve a deft an’ gentle touch.” Laird MacEwen smiled at her, and Lydia managed a shy, uncertain smile back, before she stepped away.
“Thank you, my laird. If you will excuse me, I must return to work - the salves will not make themselves.” With a final dip of her head, she turned back to her herbs, her heart pounding.
It wasn’t the act of tending the wound that had unnerved her, nor Laird MacEwen’s kindness. He was always unfailingly polite when they encountered one another, even though he sometimes teased her for falling asleep in the library.
No, what unnerved her was rather the ferocious and unexpected scowl she had seen on Laird Ranald’s face while she bandaged his friend’s wound.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Crack.The sound brought Donall out of a fitful sleep with a jerk, heart hammering. For a moment, he saw dark, grimy gray walls surrounding him, felt chains on his wrists, and heard the sound of the whip cracking in the corridor…
Then he blinked, and the vision vanished, replaced by the walls of his bedroom, the hangings of his curtains. There were no chains, no restraints at all. The cracking sound had been the pop of something in the fire. He’d ordered the servants not to disturb him, and he’d forgotten to fully bank the fire before he went to sleep.
With a grunt, he dragged himself from the bed.
Another nightmare. Will they never end, or am I doomed tae become a sleepless wraith wanderin’ me own halls til the end o’ time?
The nightmares alone were miserable enough, but now the unknown threat presented by Clan Cameron, the mystery of what his rival laird was and the matter of Lydia increased his anxiety.
It wasn’t the suspicion of her that concerned him. No, what gave him pause and made his gut clench was the way he’d reacted earlier that day, when he saw her tending to Alex’s wounded hand. He hadn’t expected the white hot-jealousy that had slashed through him, the primal urge to step between them - perhaps even strike Alexander’s hand away. He’d heard Alex speaking those smooth, polite words to Lydia, and even though he knew it was only courtesy, he’d felt the desire to cuff the man and drag him away.
The rawness of the emotions, and the unexpected strength of them, worried him nearly as much as the threat from Clan Cameron, and he had even less idea of what to do regarding his growing desire for Lydia than he did the threat at his borders.
He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, then gulped the last of the mead from the flagon that he’d brought to his room. His stomach twisted and growled, reminding him that he’d skipped supper, for the second night in a row.
Perhaps some food would settle his nerves, as well as his belly. Donall huffed, then dragged on a shirt and loosely tied the laces, before padding out of the room, barefoot and sleep-tousled. It wasn’t as if there was anyone else awake this late - he knew for a fact that Ewan was bunking with the soldiers, as he did every so often to make sure they knew he was approachable, rather thanan aloof commander such as others they’d seen. And Alexander had stayed in with a book, having embarrassed himself enough for one day.
The kitchen was filled with low, flickering light as he approached, but that was hardly unusual. Probably some scullery maid finishing some task, or perhaps a fire left to slow-roast or stew part of the next day’s meals. Donall pushed open the door, then stopped, blinking in confusion.
In the kitchen, he found Lydia, staring at him with wide eyes from the table, knife poised over a loaf of bread. She’d clearly been about to cut herself a slice. Donall chuckled. “Cook will have yer hide, if she discovers ye’re pilfering her fresh loaves.”
Lydia smiled. “There’s nothing older. I did look for an unfinished loaf, or some day-old bread, but…”
Donall shook his head. “Och, dinnae fret. I’ll nae tell her.”
“There’s also hard cheese an’ dried meat.” Donall nodded to the larder.
“I… my laird, are you also hungry?”
Donall snorted. “Nay other reason tae be traipsin’ round the kitchens, so far as I ken.”
“Then, is there something you would prefer. I can… attempt to make it if you like.”
Potatoes and oat bannocks, with dried meat and a little bit of cheese sounded good, but Donall had no idea if Lydia’s skills in the kitchens were adequate. A normal servant would know how to make such things while half asleep, but given how little she’d known on other matters, according to Corvin, that was little assurance.
Still, roasted potatoes and already preserved meat were easy enough that even the five-year-old scullery boy could make them. “Roast potatoes an’ meat.”
