Page 19 of To Serve a Laird
Claire tried but failed to stem the tears that were flowing from her eyes and leaking down her face. All her problems came to pile on her shoulders at one time. She was alone. She had no friends—in fact, everyone hated her. She had no coin. She had nothing to take her mind off the drudgery she had to endure every day except for the borrowed books, which she had hardly any time to read because she was always so tired. Moreover, there was nothing to look forward to every morning but more of the same.
She sighed, and bent her head to her task again. Somehow, she would succeed.
Iain had been about to stable his horse when he saw the lone figure bending over the pathetic little row of seedlings, none of which was standing upright. When he approached the woman, he saw that it was Claire. Her face was filthy, but tears had streaked pale paths down them and were dripping from her chin.
As Iain dismounted and walked over to her, she looked up at him, her expression furious at having been discovered in such an undignified state.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” she said, her voice cracking as she spoke.
She frowned defiantly, but Iain could tell that it was a feint. This young woman was suffering—how could she not be, when she had been plucked from a world of ease and comfort into oneof hard work, poor fare and enmity from those around her? He felt infinitely sorry for her.
Accordingly, he knelt down beside her and said softly, “I am not laughing at you, lass. Have you never done this before?”
She shook her head. “Never,” she replied, feeling ashamed.
“Then let me show you how to do it.” Iain took off his jacket, then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and set to work.
Claire was astounded that a Laird was doing the work of a maid, and had not had to be coerced into it.
Claire watched him carefully for a few moments, admiring how his big hands almost caressed the little plants. Despite their size, they were very nimble, with long, strong fingers. They looked as though they could crush rocks, she thought.
After a moment, she began to copy him, and in a short while she had managed to plant a dozen seedlings, all of which stood upright on their own without drooping or falling down.
They paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from their brows. “Hard work,” he observed, smiling at her.
He went to his jacket and took a flask of ale from his pocket and offered her a drink.
Up until that moment, Claire had not realised how thirsty she was, but now she took the flask from him and gulped half of the beer down in a very unladylike fashion before handing it back to him.
“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “I was so thirsty.”
She watched him as he swallowed the rest, loving the sight of his prominent Adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down as he drank. Strangely enough, she found this very arousing, as it reminded her how different men’s and women’s bodies were from each other.
She tried to think of something to distract her, and asked, “How did you learn to plant seeds?”
He sighed and gave her a sad smile. “My mother taught me,” he told her. “She was always a keen gardener, and she especially loved growing herbs, so she planted a special little garden outside her bedroom window and tended it herself. You can still see it. I look after it now in her memory. She loved the smell of lavender and rosemary, and told me that rosemary was for remembrance. Lavender was for cleanliness and purity.”
For a moment, he looked desolate.
“I had no idea,” Claire said, smiling. “Thank you for the lesson, my Laird.”
They finished their work quickly, and Claire stood up, brushing dirt off her apron. One of the blisters on her fingers had burst and was beginning to bleed. She put it in her mouth to ease the pain a little, but Iain took it out and looked at it, frowning as he examined the wound.
“We must take this to the healer,” he said. “Or it may become infected.”
Claire shook her head, embarrassed by the fuss he was making. “It is nothing,” she said carelessly. “It will heal on its own.”
“Are you disobeying your Laird?” Iain asked, his eyes twinkling.
Claire laughed. “Of course not, my Laird,” she replied. “I will do as you say.”
Iain smiled. “Good,” he said, “because I would hate to have to put you in the dungeon!”
9
The healer was a fierce-looking old lady with a pair of beady dark eyes whose stare seemed to go straight through whoever she was looking at. She raised her eyebrows in surprise and not a little indignation when she saw the two of them together, and for a moment, she seemed quite nonplussed. Clearly the sight of a maid and the Laird was not to her liking.
“My Laird, I am fine—truly,” Claire stuttered, a little intimidated. “Truly. Thank you.” She turned to leave, but Iain stopped her by grasping her wrist before she went through the door. He looked down into her eyes, and his expression was steely.
