The Border Lord and the Lady (22 page)

Cicely’s blush deepened. How had he known what she was thinking? “My lord, our Holy Mother Church teaches that there is but one reason for coupling.”

“And whom will you believe, ladyfaire? A man who has coupled with many women, or a dried-up old husk of a priest whose cock is but a conduit for peeing?”

“You speak blasphemy, my lord!” She stepped down from the high board and made her way across the hall towards the hearth.

He caught up with her in a single moment, spinning her about to face him. “There is no blasphemy in passion. Your friend the queen would tell you that if you asked her.” Wrapping an arm about her, he pulled her to him. The knuckles of his other hand gently grazed down her soft cheek as he momentarily lost himself in her blue-green eyes.

Holy Mother!
Cicely thought as she realized how hard the body pressed against hers was. And it felt so right, yet how could it be? This brazen laird had no right to handle her in such a way! But while her heart was beating fiercely, she realized that he excited her, and part of her wondered how far he would go. If the truth be told, Andrew Gordon had never excited her like this. But it was wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! “Unhand me, my lord!” Cicely said in what she hoped was a stern tone.

His arm dropped from her waist, but before she could move his two hands captured her small face between them. His mouth closed over hers, and he kissed her fiercely. The full, soft lips beneath his yielded reluctantly, but they yielded. Finally lifting his head, he stared down into her face. “Was that blasphemous, ladyfaire?” he asked softly. Then, turning away from her, he walked from the hall, leaving her alone.

For a long moment Cicely stood rooted to the spot where she was standing. Then, stumbling to the fireplace, she sank down into a chair. What was the matter with her? She should have slapped his arrogant face for daring to kiss her. She was practically promised to another man. But was she? Did she really want to wed Andrew Gordon? The king wanted her to wed him, although Cicely knew he would not force her to it. And she was not so much of a fool that she didn’t realize the king would want her to spy on the Gordons to make certain they remained loyal. But if she married into Clan Gordon, she would be loyal to her husband’s family—unless they attempted to betray James Stewart—but she could not report their daily activities, or whom their guests were. And was Andrew Gordon really the man for her?

Oh, yes, he was handsome enough. He could speak French with her, and he wrote passable poetry he liked to recite. But he was also a little haughty, and had been dismissive of her attempts to speak with him on more serious matters. Sometimes Andrew gave her the impression that he was doing her a great favor by considering her for his wife. And he had already attempted to exert control of her by pressing her into this marriage, which was why she had hesitated. He did kiss nicely, however, and while his first kisses had been delightful, for she had never been kissed before, they had not thrilled her from her head to her toes the way that Ian Douglas’s kisses had.

But the laird of Glengorm was a barbarian! He had kidnapped her from Perth. Made her ride at breakneck speed for almost three days, trussed up much of the way like a doe ready for butchering. He had made her sleep on the cold ground, and starved her. Had they not reached this house she was certain she would have had chilblains on her hands in another day. His servants were slovenly. His home filthy. And she was tired and cold. Cicely began to cry softly. Never in her life had she been treated so ill.

And what was the cause of all her misery? Men! Andrew Gordon, who behaved as if she were his possession, chasing away any others who would pay her court. And Ian Douglas, who snatched her from Mistress Marjory’s shop, and had already commenced his rough wooing of her with his heated kisses.
Well!
She wouldn’t have either of them! Cicely wasn’t even certain now that she wanted a husband. But she knew she wasn’t about to give herself to the Church either. So a husband she would have to have, sooner or later.

The chair in which Cicely sat was sturdy oak with carved armrests. It had a padded back of leather, and a loose cushioned seat with a rough woven cover. The girl seated in it sighed sadly. Her head fell to one side as her eyes closed and an exhausted sleep overcame her, her cheeks still wet with her tears.

Old Mab crept silently into the hall with an armful of wood. She added some to the fire, and stacked the remainder on the hearth.
She pulled a large woolen shawl in the black-gray-and-white Douglas plaid from her hunched shoulders, and tucked it about Cicely. Then, sitting down in the smaller chair near the fire, the old woman drew her own worn shawl about her shoulders and settled down for the night. Now and again she would awaken and throw another log on the fire.

When the false dawn touched the sky Mab rose from long habit and, going down into the kitchen, took a bowl of dough from the table where she had left it to rise beneath a damp cloth several hours back. Kneading it with half-crippled fingers, she fashioned several loaves and put them into the oven to bake. Her lady would have fresh bread each day from now on. Her nephew’s lad came into the kitchen bearing a basket of newly laid eggs. “Good morrow, Gabhan,” Mab greeted the boy.

“Good morrow to you, Auntie,” the boy replied. “Bethia returned to the village last night. She has gone from cottage to cottage saying the laird’s new whore threw her from the house and threatened to kill her. She showed us the bruises the whore inflicted upon her. She says she fears for the laird, for he has been ensorcelled.”

Mab snorted. “Bethia’s bruises are probably from the beating her husband gave her when she returned home to tell him the laird sent her away for her slovenly ways, and ill temper towards the lass he means to wed. The laird went bride stealing, Gabhan, and brought back a fine lady from King James’s court.”

“She is not a whore?” The boy sounded almost disappointed. He had never seen a whore, but they did sound both dangerous and exotic to him.

“Nay, Lady Cicely is a grand lady, laddie. Bethia has been dismissed because she is lazy and dirty, and was sullen and rude. It was the laird who sent her from the house. Go to the cold larder now for me, and get me both milk and cream,” Mab said to the boy. “The bread is baking, and I am making eggs with cream sauce to go with the porridge.”

“Bethia says no one should come into service here until the whore is driven out,” Gabhan said. He went into the cold larder and brought out a pitcher of milk and one of heavy cream, which he set on the large oak table. “Mmmm, that bread smells good, Auntie. When will it be done?” He grinned at her.

“ ’Twill be done when it’s done. Now go back to the village and tell all the young lasses and lads to whom we are closest related that the laird needs new servants for the house. There will be a nice slice of fresh bread and butter—with jam—for you when you return with our kin. I’ll do the first choosing. Then it’s up to the laird and his bride. Off with you now,” Mab said, shooing him from her kitchen with her apron.
There!
she thought after he had gone.
Our own kin will fill the places needed. I want none of Bethia’s people here, and neither will the lady.

Cicely awoke surprised to find a warm fire still burning, and a thick plaid shawl wrapped about her. Where had they come from? She stood stiffly, and stretched in an effort to ease the soreness from her limbs. Her nose twitched at the distinct smell of baking bread. She needed to pee, but had no idea where to perform such an act, so she directed her steps to the kitchens, for she knew Mab could help her.

“Oh, my lady, you’re awake,” Mab said. “Good morrow to you.” She curtsied.

“I need somewhere to freshen myself,” Cicely said shyly.

“Of course,” the old lady replied. She led the young woman to a tiny room off her kitchen. “In there. I’ll bring you some warm water.”

She relieved herself in the pot, and was glad for the basin of warm water Mab brought her. She washed herself as best as she could. Her hair was filthy, and filled with dust from their long ride. She wondered if a bath was possible. Removing her caul, Cicely let her hair fall loose about her, then, combing it with her fingers, tucked it back into the bejeweled gold net. Cicely brushed her green velvet gown with her hands, shaking her skirts, pulling the embroidered surcoat
straight. She had never worn the same gown for so long. She stepped from the small room back into the kitchens and was surprised to see a dozen young men and women now crowding into the warm gathering place.

“My lady, these young people are from the village. They have come to see if they might fill the positions vacant for so long in our staff,” Mab said. “How many of them shall I bid remain?”

“All of them,” Cicely responded. “There is a great deal to do to put this house back to rights and keep it well. Please feed them, Mab, and then after the laird has broken his fast send them up to the hall.” Then, with a nod of her head and a smile, Cicely ascended the stairs and was gone from their sight.

“She seems a nice enough lass, though she be English,” a voice commented.

“She’s a good lady,” Mab said.

“And she asked you to feed us first,” said another voice.

“ ’Twas well-done,” remarked a third approvingly.

“Well, sit you down at the table,” Mab said. “I’ve fresh bread, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs, as well as a nice pot of porridge. Eat up now, and then two of you can serve the hall. The laird is always up with the sun. And you want to get started with your work as soon as he’s spoken to you. Gabhan, you’re still small enough to sweep a chimney,” Mab told the boy as she put the bowl of eggs on the table and began cutting slices of bread. “The one in the room her ladyship will occupy has a nest in it that needs removing. Do you think you can do it?”

The boy nodded agreeably. “Aye,” he said. “I’ll be the house’s sweep, and you’ll need a knife boy too, Auntie. I can fill both positions.”

“You’re a good lad,” Mab said as she handed him the promised bread with butter and jam. She looked about the table. “Tam, you and Artair can serve the hall this morning. Sine and Sesi will clean the apartment that once belonged to the laird’s poor mam. The lady will live there. The poor lass slept last night in the hall. The rest of
you will go before the laird and his lady after they have eaten. Eat up now! There’s work to be done here. Who among you will serve in the stables?”

Cicely returned to the hall just as Ian Douglas entered it. “Good morrow, my lord,” she greeted him, curtsying. “Thank you for putting the shawl about me last night.”

“Good morrow, ladyfaire,” he replied, “but I gave you no shawl.”

“Then who did?” And then Cicely smiled. “Of course! It had to be Mab, and she will have kept the fire going, bless her! The meal will be served shortly. The fresh bread was just about to come from the ovens, my lord, and the kitchen is full of young people eager to serve you. You will help me choose after we have eaten.”

Ian Douglas could not remember the last time he had been greeted so pleasantly in his own hall in early morning. And even from here he could smell the freshly baked bread. He smiled broadly. “You see, ladyfaire,” he told her. “A woman’s touch is just what has been needed here at Glengorm.”

“And you will remember that I will not bide long with you, my lord. The king will send a troop of men-at-arms to rescue me from your clutches, and I will go with them. You cannot hold me here forever.”

Before he might reply, however, Mab appeared in the hall carrying bowls, spoons, and two silver cups that had been newly polished. She set the high board, saying, “The meal is coming behind me, my lord, my lady. Please be seated. With your permission I have assigned two young men from the village, Tam and Artair, to serve at table. If they do not suit I will find two others.”

Tam and Artair now came into the hall carrying a bowl and two platters. Behind them Gabhan carried a board with fresh bread, a crock of sweet butter, and a small wedge of cheese. He sneaked a long look at Cicely, deciding whether she was a whore, as Bethia said she was. But if, as his old auntie related, she was to be the laird’s wife then
Ian Douglas was a fortunate man, for the lady was certainly the prettiest lass he had ever seen.

The hot food was set upon the table. One platter held slices of ham, the other eggs poached in cream sauce with dill. The bowl was filled with steaming porridge.

“My lady?” The lad called Tam offered to spoon some porridge into Cicely’s bowl. When she nodded he spooned in a small but adequate amount and then looked to her. “ ’Tis enough, my lady?” he inquired politely.

“Aye, ’tis perfect. Thank you,” Cicely responded.

“Cream?” Tam asked, holding a small pitcher, and when she nodded he poured some, again seeking her approval, and smiling when she nodded once more.

Tam then filled the laird’s bowl almost full with the hot cereal and heavy cream. Then he stepped back to await further instructions.

They ate in silence, and when the bowls were emptied Tam removed them swiftly, and his companion, Artair, offered the eggs and the meat while Tam sliced bread.

“I’m astounded by this meal,” the laird finally said to Cicely.

“Why?” she responded. “Mab is a wonderful cook, but she was being bullied by Bethia, who I will wager was stealing from your larder, so that you ended up being poorly fed while she profited by selling in the village what she stole,” Cicely reasoned, and, seeing the quick look pass between the two young servants, she knew she was right.

“You know I love you, for I have said it,” Ian murmured to her. “Now do you see how much I need you to care for me, ladyfaire?”

Cicely was forced to laugh at his declaration. “While I am reluctant to admit it, you have charm, my lord,” she said. “But Glengorm is not at all the home I envisioned for my married life.”

“Then make of it what you want,” he said to her. “Have you been to Fairlea’s home? Is it any better?”