Page 37 of Bride of the Wicked Laird
Her eyes met Broderick’s and she saw the look of horror in his eyes.
Oh my, she must look a sight. She raised a muddy hand and wiped her mud-soaked hair back from her forehead.
It was too much. Altogether too ridiculous. She was almost tempted to burst into tears but instead, she couldn’t help throwing back her head and laughing like mad.
Broderick hesitated, and then his laugh joined with hers.
“Oh lord,” she said between fits of mirth. “How will I ever get meself clean?”
“The well…” Broderick managed. “Ye must fill a bucket and tip it over yerself...”
That was as far as he got. She looked down at her muddy kirtle. It would never be clean again. She thought of the spring that fed into the well, mayhap if she dipped her toes into the spring, she could splash the water and clean herself.
All her amusement at her predicament suddenly left her.
Never, under any circumstances would she empty a bucket of water over herself. The very thought made her shiver and a dark seam open up inside her. There was a terrible memory of drowning that accompanied her vision of the water pouring over her head. And it was not the near-drowning that the laird had saved her from, but something worse. Something that lingered as a stain on her heart. The memory of hands pushing her under, water filling her nostrils and mouth, being unable to breathe, and hands that held her down despite her struggles.
She snapped up her head, dismissing the nightmarish recollection.
Broderick was looking at her curiously. “D’ye wish me tae help ye, Mistress Davina?”
She shook her head. “Nay. I thank ye, but I can manage.” Shuffling the blanket tight around her shoulders she hastened along the path fronting the row of cottages and around the corner. The well and the spring that fed it were situated in a small, secluded, grassy, space at the edge of the bay.
Shivering – whether from cold or fear, it was impossible to tell – she stripped off her kirtle and wiped her face with the soggy fabric, followed by her hands and arms.
She looked with dismay at her arms, still smeared with mud and scarcely any cleaner than they were before she’d wiped them with the kirtle.
Now clad in nothing more than her knee-length shift, she lowered the wooden-planked bucket into the well and drew it up half-full. She splashed her hands, feet and legs, and rubbed them with the clear water. Then she moved down to the place where the spring ran free.
Holding her breath and gritting her teeth, she managed to splash handful after handful of water over her face and allowed the water to trickle slowly through her hair.
The water was icy cold. Her shift was soaking wet and goosebumps had popped up all over. She was in the process of drying herself on the old blanket, when she froze, unable to make another move at the sound of a voice.
“Whatever is going on, lass?”
She heaved a sigh. Of all the people she would never wish to see her in such disarray it was precisely Laird Everard MacNeil.
And there he was standing, a look on his face as he beheld her that was something between concern and amusement.
She attempted a curtsy but when she did, the blanket fell away, revealing her sodden undergarment and her bare shoulders. She fumbled with the somewhat damp and muddy blanket, heaving it over her shoulders.
Her teeth were chattering mightily as she responded.
“I am certain, me laird, that should ye ask the question of Master Broderick he will relate tae ye the whole sorry tale. What ye see now, is the result of me descending into a mud pool.”
He spoke kindly. “Lass, I see ye’re in serious disarray, and icy cold with it. I’d like tae help ye.”
She shook her head. Here she was in another misstep, with the laird, yet again, coming to her rescue. “’Tis naething, me laird, please. I can see tae meself.”
“Really?” He looked askance at her. His eyes sweeping over her still dripping hair, and the poor, muddied, kirtle lying in a heap at her feet.
She straightened her spine in a desperate search for some remaining sliver of dignity, hatefully aware of the wretched sight she must make.
“Methinks ye need tae come wi’ me intae the keep. I shall arrange a fire tae warm ye and hot water fer a bath, where ye can wash at yer leisure wi’ rose-petal soap, and dry yerself on clean, soft, linen.”
He smiled most beguilingly as he extended his invitation. Davina sighed. Mayhap standing her half-naked, shivering, soaked to the skin, with muddy clothing at her feet, was not the most opportune moment to stand on her dignity.
It was impossible to resist the vision of a steaming, rose-scented, bath-tub, her hair shiny-clean and a pile of soft, warm, linens wrapping her.
