Page 70 of Bride of the Mad Laird
“I am happy I could be of use.” She picked up the bowl and cloth. “Now I will assist ye in cleaning up.”
Tòrr turned to go, but before leaving, he turned to Lyra. “If ye are able, Lady Lyra, I would welcome yer company in the solar this evening fer supper.”
She nodded and curtsied.
Once Tòrr had gone, Lyra and Eilidh set about gathering discarded hauberks which they left in a pile by the door for the blacksmith to repair, then they gathered soiled clothes and bloodied and torn shirts for the laundry women and the seamstresses to make good.
They rinsed their cloths in what was left of the clean water and spread them to dry on the bushes at the rear of the infirmary.
They were sweeping the floor, doing their best not to disturb the injured men when the first of the scullery maids arrived with bowls of broth and bannocks.
They set about feeding the patients, some of whom could manage by themselves, while two needed help. Angus MacGregor slept on peacefully, the only one who did not partake.
When the men were settled again, Eilidh placed a hand on Lyra’s shoulder.
“’Ye’ve done enough.” Her eyes were kind. “Now ‘tis time tae get ready tae meet wi’ the laird in the solar.”
Lyra’s heartbeat kicked up a pace at the mention of Tòrr.
“Are ye any closer tae deciding what ye wish?”
“Me heart battles wi’ me head. One wishes tae be wi’ the laird and the other longs fer me homelands.”
“Is it nae possible tae have both? I saw the way the laird looked at ye.” She chuckled. “Mayhap ye cannae see it, but he’s a man besotted if ever there was one.”
Lyra shook her head. “Why nae. Can ye explain to me what it is tae be besotted?
This brought another chuckle from Eilidh. “Besotted? Mad wi’ love. Cannae think of aught but the loved one. Lovesick.”
Lyra listened carefully. “Mayhap it is meself who is the besotted one, fer ye’re describing me.”
Eilidh drew her into a hug. “I see the longing in his eyes, lass. Now go and dine wi’ him and let both heart and head talk wi’ him and see what he has tae say.”
As Lyra traipsed back to the keep she pondered on Eilidh’s words. The notion that Tòrr could be in love with her had never occurred before now. He always seemed so aloof and was often at odds with her. Cross or even disapproving at times.
Yet, he had rescued her… how many times was it now? She was losing count.
But then, he was a laird, it was his duty to protect all those under his care.
And most bedeviling of all, when she’d kissed him, he’d moaned and held her tight. Surely that meant something. And, Eilidh was right, his eyes darkened when he looked into hers and she sensed a longing there.
Oh, it was altogether too confusing.
That evening she decided on the red dress, the last of Purdie’s creations. As she twirled in front of the looking glass she felt herself becoming bold and playful. Mayhap the lairdisbesotted. There was that wicked heat rushing through her veins at the very thought of it.
Elspaith brushed her hair so that it floated down her back in a waterfall of gold. For good luck, she went to her mother’s box and put on the gold amulet, turning it on her wrist, her thoughts on the mother she’d never known.
“Ye look very beautiful, me lady.” Elspaith said, seemingly awestruck.
Lyra was smiling as she swept out of her chamber and walked along the passageway and down the stairs to the solar.
He was there, by the fire, a glass of whisky in his hand when she walked in.
When he turned to greet her and their eyes met, she searched them for anything that would tell her of his feelings, but the firelight danced a reflection there and she could not read his thoughts.
She was breathless, quivering inside as if she would jump out of her skin at the slightest thing.
“Would ye care fer a tot of whisky, me lady?”
