Page 23 of Bride of the Wicked Laird
Davina awoke with a jolt as a small weight settled with great deliberation on her chest. While she was still entangled in a dream and her waking mind was trying to make sense of this, a loud purr penetrated her senses.
She chuckled. “Ah, little moggy, are ye waking me because it is time fer us tae be up and daeing?”
She stroked the small bundle which seemed to have no intention of moving. Stroking the soft fur and listening to the sounds of purring contentment issuing from the tiny creature made her smile.
It was almost morning. In the grey pre-dawn light she studied the tiny face, the whiskers and the furry stripes marking the soft fur. The kitten’s eyes were closed, a blissful expression on its face.
Davina could only wonder what it might feel like to be caressed and cosseted like this. She had no memory of being touched with warmth and comfort, of being soothed by gentle hands. Her memories held only the occasion cruel slap from Dame Maria.
Yet, there had been a moment she suddenly recalled, when Laird Everard had gently stroked the hair back from her forehead. Instead of being soothed by his kindly gesture, she’d almost jumped out of her skin, half expecting a blow, and quite unsure how she was supposed to react.
Thinking of it now as her fingers continued smoothing the silky fur, she rather wished he might stroke her hair again as he’d done.
She sighed. Whatever was wrong with her that she had such ridiculous ideas? As if the laird would ever bother to caress her again.
Having looked forward all afternoon for his return from Canna, she’d experienced a strange new sense of yearning and disappointment when he had failed to materialize. When she’d last looked out across the bay in the gathering dusk, she’d glimpsed no sign of the laird’s birlinn.
Yet only moments after she’d snuffed out her candle and settled herself under the covers, she had heard voices in the courtyard. Before she slipped off to sleep, she sighed, deep and long.
He was back.
As she stirred, the kitten jumped off the bed, and looked up, waiting.
“Oh, all right. Ye’re a hungry little one. I’m coming.” Davina pulled back the covers and swung her legs out of the comfortable warmth and placed her feet on the rush mat beside the bed.
In response to a loud “meow” she scurried across to the shelf where she’d placed the jar of milk last night, opened it and filled the saucer.
While the kitten was slurping up her milk, Davina washed her face and hands, shivering as she splashed herself with the cold water. She dressed quickly, warmed by the woolen tunic she pulled on over the kirtle and blouse.
After donning her stockings and boots and tidying her hair, she nestled the kitten in the pocket of her pinafore and hastened across the courtyard, heading for the kitchen.
Mildred and Broderick were already seated at Ailis’s big table, enjoying the porridge, and as she entered, they both looked up as she wished them good morrow.
“Good morrow, lass.” Mildred smiled.
Ailis bustled over. “Here. Give me the wee mog. Ye cannae break yer fast wi’ a kitten in yer pinafore.”
Davina smiled to herself as she handed the little cat to Ailis. So, this was what it took to bring a smile to those usually grim features.
After they’d finished their porridge and Bannocks, Broderick and Davina resumed their activities in the infirmary. Broderick had returned from across the bay with some herbs that required planting, so Davina headed out with her trowel and the seedlings.
The kitten frolicked beside her in the newly dug earth as Davina pulled weeds and turned over the sandy soil to make space for the herbs. “Ye’ll have muddy paws, wee one.”
As it had the previous day, a misty rain began falling.
Davina pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and rose to her feet. “Come, moggy, let us head inside before we become damp with this falling mist.” She bent to pick up the kitten.
As she stood, a hand reached out to take her basked, and a molasses-deep voice greeted her.
“Good morrow, mistress Davina.”
A delicious shiver rushed through her at the sound of his voice. She sucked in a sudden breath. The laird! And here she was, with mud on her hands, clad in her shabby old kirtle, cradling a tiny kitten in her hands so that she could not even smooth back the hair that was falling in her eyes.
He surveyed her up and down, a grin breaking out on his face as he did so. “D’ye ken ye’ve mud on the tip of yer nose?”
It was impossible for her not to laugh. “Why yes, I hear ‘tis the latest fashion from the King’s court in Edinburgh. Ladies nae longer wish tae whiten their skin but tae turn it brown.”
“Ah. Then I am pleased tae see ye’re keeping up with the likes of the noble ladies.”
