Page 29 of To Serve a Laird
“No,” Lorna answered, “but I expect ye are goin’ tae tell us.”
“Indeed I am,” Claire answered. “It’s because I am the only one here who can read and write.”
She had no idea whether her duties would include writing for Iain Ross, but it was a good way to put the spiteful woman in her place by making her feel stupid.
Lorna was utterly nonplussed and said nothing for a moment, then she began to eat her porridge quickly and left, followed by some of the other women. They all glared at her, but Claire paid them no heed. She had put them all in their place with one sentence. She had no doubt they would hate her even more from now on, but she was past caring. She would have the personal protection of the Laird.
As she finished, Agnes came up to her with a tray loaded with enough food to feed a small army. “Laird’s breakfast,” she said tersely, before turning and walking away.
Lorna looked at the food with astonishment. There was porridge, black pudding, eggs, bacon, and sausage on one plate, and on another were fillets of herring fried in oatmeal, with two large buttered bannocks beside them.
Agnes placed a glass of ale on the tray, then said, “Off ye go.”
Claire walked upstairs to Iain’s chamber, and knocked on the door, carefully balancing the heavy tray in one hand. A myriad of questions tumbled through her mind. Would he still be in bed? Would he be fully dressed? Would he try to kiss her?
Claire’s heart skipped a beat, and she took a deep breath to calm herself before she opened the door. Claire was deeply disappointed, then she told herself to stop being so foolish. They had kissed once—she should not have expected special treatment just because of that.
To her surprise, the room was empty, so she set down the tray on a table and looked around with avid curiosity to see what kind of chamber Iain slept in. It was a very masculine space decorated in muted shades of cream and brown, with dark rosewood furniture. The bed was dressed in a plain cream quilt and pillows, without lace trimmings or frills, and had no carving or decoration of any kind on it.
A row of medieval swords, daggers, and longbows hung on one wall, and Claire shook her head, wondering why men always needed reminders of violence and war in their lives. However, the other walls were decorated with paintings of local scenery, still life, and a few portraits, all of which gave the room some life and colour.
There was one portrait hanging above the plain white marble fireplace, that of a beautiful woman with dark hair, pale blue eyes and strong, angular features. She almost looked like a feminine version of Iain, and she supposed that this was his mother. Claire had the impression of a woman of great intelligence and strength of character.
Books were stacked here and there in no particular order, and as Claire looked at the titles, she could see that Iain had a very inquiring mind that seemed to be interested in every subject under the sun. There were volumes on history, geography, philosophy and many other subjects—even poetry, which amazed her, since she could not quite reconcile a warrior Laird with this kind of literature.
A pair of comfortable chairs sat on either side of the fireplace, each with a table on which rested a few more books. Claire picked one up and saw that it was one of her favourite romances,On Wings of Love,which she had just finished reading.
Why is he reading this?she thought, frowning.He knows I have just read it. Men don’t read romances. Does it mean something?
She put the book down, then browsed around the room a little more, even daring to look in the big wardrobe where Iain’s clothes were kept. It smelled of him even more strongly than the room did, and she took a deep breath, savouring the scent. Claire wished she could put it in a bottle to keep with her all the time, then laughed at herself for being so fanciful.
A few more moments passed, and Claire sighed, looking at the mountain of food on the tray. It was probably cold by now, and she had no idea whether Iain would eat it.
She had no further time to reflect, however. She was startled by a loud bang, and whipped around to see Iain storming through the door, which he had crashed through so hard that it had banged against the wall and was rattling on its hinges.
Iain was glaring at Dougal with a face like a thunderstorm, and Dougal’s lips were drawn back in something that resembled a snarl. Claire was terrified as she watched them, since it seemed, by the looks on their faces, that they might seriously lash out on each other, and she did not want to witness that.
“It’s time,” Dougal yelled. “The clan cannot wait any longer—there must be an heir, and you must provide it. You have delayed long enough!”
Iain’s ice-coloured eyes were dark with fury. “I said no!”he roared, thumping his fist on the desk to emphasise his words. “How many times must I say it?”
Dougal stood still for a moment, then said in a voice that throbbed with rage, “Keep your mistresses and your fancy women. Have a whole harem of them if you want. Just do your duty!”
“I have no ‘fancy women’!” Iain shouted. “And I want none. All I want is for you and the rest of the festering council to leave me alone.”
When Dougal looked as though he might approach again, Iain swept the tray of food from the desk with one mighty swingof his arm. Claire screamed as dishes, cups, and plates shattered on the floor, splattering and spraying food in every direction.
The furniture and floor had been sprayed with ale, eggs, fish and porridge, mixed with shards of glass and pottery, and what had been a delicious pile of food was now only filthy, inedible rubbish.
In an attempt to escape the danger of the room that had now become a battlefield. Claire tried to edge around the side of the chamber to get to the door, but she tripped, then staggered backwards and flopped onto the floor with a thump.
It was only then that Dougal and Iain noticed her. Both of them made a move towards her to help her up, but Iain pushed Dougal out of the way.
“Get out of here,” he yelled. “I will take care of Claire. Go away and tell the elders my answer. Don’t come back.”
Dougal looked down at Iain for a moment with a thunderous glare, then growled, “You have not heard the last of this,” before he whipped around and marched away.
Iain turned his attention back to Claire, looking at her face, then her hands and arms for any sign of injury. Fortunately, there seemed to be none.
