Page 38 of Bride of the Mad Laird
Lyra followed Claray to the place behind the kitchen where several large cloths hung on rope lines, drying in the sun. Slung across two of the lines was the length of plaid that made up Tòrr’s great kilt.
She shook her head in amazement. “Why, it is immensely long and wide.” A sudden recollection of this very same length of woven wool hanging suspended from the rafter above the fire where she’d sat naked save for her cloak caused her to take a deep breath and nibble on her lower lip.”
“If ‘tis too much fer ye, never mind. I shall dae it fer the laird meself.”
“Nay, nay, I’m happy tae relieve ye of the task.”
Claray showed her the bucket and sponges and left her to return to her work.
Lyra spread the cloth over two of the clothes-lines and inspected it.
There were many splashes of mud, a stain that could be spilled ale and even a bloodstain on the tail end, which she supposed had come from a cut on his arm and soaked into the fabric when he had laid it across his shoulder.
After brushing it all over, she set about removing the muddy sprays. First brushing them vigorously to remove the loose dirt, then sponging to remove what was ingrained. The stains took a different kind of sponging, but they soon dried in the sun. It was not difficult work, but tedious.
Nevertheless, she pressed on happily, imagining how impressed Tòrr would be when he saw his great kilt looking like new.
As she worked, she allowed her thoughts to wander over her conversation with Eilidh.
The healer’s quiet wisdom had done much to settle her thoughts. She had now some small understanding of the feelings that were growing more compelling by the day, whenever she was in the laird’s company.
When she’d wakened with him beside her that morning, she’d been assailed by a cauldron of emotions inside her. She wanted him by her, as he had been in the night, keeping her safe, offering comfort. Yet she also wanted something more. Something she could not understand but accepted as symptoms of a strange new illness. Lovesickness. Finally, that word she’d heard mentioned in the Priory made sense.
Up until then, she’d imagined the worst. She laughed to herself. It was a disease, mayhap, but not terrible by any means.
She hummed quietly as she worked, enjoying the thought that this long length of fabric would eventually be wrapped around Tòrr’s strong body.
Claray appeared to inspect what she’d done.
“Oh, ye’ve done well. The kilt is as good as new. The laird will be pleased.”
Together they folded it, first lengthwise and then crosswise, so it could be carried like a loose package.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
After leaving Lyra’s chamber, Tòrr spent the rest of the morning in his study attending to various matters that demanded his immediate attention.
An urgent tapping at the door interrupted his work and he lifted his eyes. “Come.”
It was Claray. “Edmund has news from yer men who rode in just before noon. He sent word fer them to meet wi’ ye both here.”
Her words sent a ripple of foreboding through his gut. He nodded, wiped his quill pen clean and closed the bottle of ink. He was hopeful there was news that would put an end to all the speculation about what had caused Laird MacDougall to pursue Lyra so relentlessly. What she’d told him the night before now had him thinking it was possible Lyra had been a witness to MacDougall’s murder of her father. If that were so, mayhap his purpose was to end her life to prevent her from accusing him.
But why would he have murdered Lyra’s father?
Edmund joined him then to await the four men who had returned from their mission to seek the gallowglasses. Moments later, Claray knocked again and opened the door. The men to filed in.
Tòrr gestured for them to be seated. He signaled to Claray and asked for a noontime meal to be served for all.
They sat, and Tòrr greeted each man separately. “I thank ye fer yer efforts these past days and I am anxious tae hear what ye’ve discovered, once we have eaten.”
Once the maids had brought the food and they had eaten their fill of chicken pie, bannocks, and cheese, Tòrr rose to his feet to address the men. Edmund, quill and ink in front of him, began to write on the parchment stacked on the table.
“We must ensure we have a record of yer news.” Tòrr explained. “As it concerns the laird of another clan, we must carefully record the details of what ye say.” He did not add that should there be any kind of violent skirmish between their clans, King Robert would demand to know everything that had transpired, leading to the fighting.
The men nodded solemnly as they lowered their spoons and took long draughts of ale.
“Now, I wish tae hear from ye first Jaimie MacKinnon, as ye are the oldest of the group.”
