by Mary Wine
One of the maids did laugh outright. She tried to catch herself but her cheeks turned ruby. “Beg pardon, mistress.”
She didn’t sound contrite. The other girls grinned at her as well. Helen sighed.
“Well now, ye might as well share with the mistress since ye all but spit it out. Vanora here was born on McAlister land. They don’t like their daughters marring McJames men so her husband snuck her away by the harvest moon.”
“I see.” Anne stared at the girl but she winked, clearly content with her lot.
Ginny tried to take the sheet but Helen shook her head. She returned to smiling. She even hummed some springtime melody.
“Nay. I pulled the covers back, so the sheet is mine to hang from the window.” She offered Anne a firm look. “There will be no gossip. I’ll lay my hand on the altar and swear to yer purity myself. Every one of these maids comes from family that has served this house for generations. I selected them carefully.”
Pride rang in her voice but it also shone from the faces of each girl. It was the same at Warwickshire. Even in the face of Philipa’s sour personality, the staff was loyal. Their parents had served the Stanford nobles and the generations before them. It was an honor that even a surly mistress could not drive them away from. To argue against your place was to question God’s will in putting you there.
The shutters were opened wide, fresh air sweeping into the chamber. It took the scent of candle wax away, leaving the first traces of spring. It also carried the smell of Brodick’s skin away. She’d never noticed that men smelled attractive. Yet Brodick did. Lifting one hand, she found a trace of it lingering on her skin. Her passage was sore, marking where he’d been. It was a moment she’d been raised to think of as sinful, yet it felt very right. As though she had been made for him.
“I told ye that ye’d be lamenting sunrise.” Helen smiled with the same sort of superiority her own mother had often aimed at her children when she knew that their youth was preventing them from understanding one of life’s realities.
“I am going to fly this sheet. ’Tis a moment I’ve looked forward to.”
Helen knotted one corner of the sheet through the shutter just above the thick iron hinge. She threaded the opposite corner through the shutter on the far side of the window, making sure it was tied tightly. She pushed the length of the sheet through the open window.
A few moments later the bells along the walls began to ring. First only the one nearest to them, but as it sent its sound into the morning, another rang out and then another until the sound echoed up and down the long length of walls.
She blushed but her heart swelled too. She hadn’t shamed him.
Brodick was worthy of purity.
The emotion caught her off guard. It was so very tender that she covered her mouth with a hand. She liked him too much. In sooth, she enjoyed the duties of a wife far too much.
You should have no objections to being used…
Yet was it being used? Taken, aye but she had enjoyed it full well.
Her temper suddenly lit. Philipa had been left far behind her. With everything else that she needed to worry about, the woman’s ill words were not among them.
“Come now, mistress, a good meal will help place strength in ye. Ye’ll need it when the lord’s babe begins to grow inside your womb.”
The color drained from her face. Icy dread locked its grip around her heart.
His babe.
Bonnie had said she would have it.
“Och now, look at ye. Such worry in one so young.” Helen laid a motherly arm around her shoulders, hugging her firmly.
“There’s no need for losing yer color. Ye heard Agnes yerself. Ye’re strong and sturdy. A babe will be no trouble at all.”
Helen swept her out the door. The maids all followed while the bells quieted.
If only it were as simple to still the ringing of dread inside her head.
It was not.
Chapter Eight
She did not suffer inactivity well.
Before noon, she was pacing for want of something to do. Every maid in the castle seemed intent on feeding her until she burst. The well-meaning girls and women bore trays to her, all of them carefully laid out to please not only the palate but the eyes as well. It was the women who were harder to send away with their dishes unsampled. Lady Mary was spoilt enough to slash others’ effort without a care, yet Anne knew what it was to heat an iron on the coals. She herself had carefully smoothed the wrinkles from linen napery in preparation for it being laid on a tray for the head table. Extreme care had to be taken to ensure that no soot marred the fine fabric. She’d burned her fingers a few times when the cloth wrapping the handle of the iron slipped or was too thin.
She was not callous enough to reject such offerings but her stays were growing too tight to bear.
She froze as she turned to face yet another lowered head. Deception or not, she was finished acting contrary to her nature.
“I believe it’s time for me to meet the cook.”
The maid lowered herself. “I’ll fetch her straight away, Mistress.”
“Nay, no. I believe the woman should be busy, what with the noon meal so close to serving. I will follow you to the kitchen.”
The girl looked unsure. Her teeth appeared, pressing into her lower lip. Anne refused to be swayed. Just the mention of going to the kitchen had started her thinking. Yes, she was done being idle. She could not be Mary, didn’t know how to act as her half-sister. It was much better to be herself. At least that way, she would not be stumbling over mistakes every other hour of the day.
“What is your name?”
“Ginny, Mistress. I greeted ye this morning.”
“I recall your face now. Do be kind and show me the way to the kitchen. It is time for work now that all of these wedding traditions have been seen to.”
Ginny beamed at her, clearly approving of her work ethic. “We didn’t know exactly what ye might be expecting.”
The maid hesitated, her mouth closing as she stopped mid-thought.
“Because I’m English, you mean.” It was a fact. The coming secession would change hundreds of years of battling between the two countries. Some questioned Elizabeth Tudor’s decision not to marry, but Anne saw the benefit of it. Was not peace worth one woman remaining unwed? She had been one of the best monarchs in history, cultivating a richer economy. Who was to say Elizabeth hadn’t decided long ago that remaining a spinster was a path to a better future for her people? The queen had often said she was married to her subjects. Anne could see the wisdom in it.
Anne followed Ginny. They walked through the circular eating hall she’d supped in last night. The tables were empty now, the floor swept clean. The scent of roasting meat drifted from the kitchen. In back of the tower was a building with a slopped roof. Five huge fireplaces were built along the outer wall. There were also ovens between them, iron doors covering them. Long tables ran the length of the building, thick, wooden tables that bore the marks of use. One end was dusted with flour. Two women worked large lumps of dough there, their chemises rolled up past their elbows. They looked up, watching her enter, but never stopped kneading. But their motions slowed down.
“This is Bythe. She’s the head cook.”
The woman was formidable. Age didn’t mark her face but confidence did. Bythe nodded respectfully. A strip of linen was wound around her head. Only a tiny hint of her dark hair peeked out at the edges. Her forehead was shinny with perspiration. The end of her nose was slightly red from leaning into the fire pits. Her forearms were bare too. A large apron was pinned to the wool of her bodice as well as being tied around her waist. She wore a strip of tartan over one shoulder that draped down her back. In fact all the women did. The plaid was the same weave of colors the men wore in their kilts.
“Welcome, mistress.”
Bythe was clearly uncertain as to what to do with her. Anne offered her a calm smile before looking at the table closest to her. Fresh fish lay on it, t
heir scales still shiny with water. The lenten season had begun and good Christians dined on fish. Two large bowls stood ready for cleaning, a large knife lying nearby. Several smaller bowls were neatly set out awaiting the fish, holding spices of salt, rosemary, pepper and even nutmeg.
“I see you are very confident in your position, Bythe.”
The cook’s expression flickered with a hint of relaxation. Anne unbuttoned one sleeve at her wrist, folding the fabric back along her forearm.
“Yet there is always work for another set of hands in any kitchen.”
The rest of the work slowed to nearly a standstill. Anne reached for the knife, hefting it in a firm hand. She grasped a slippery fish with the other, not a hint of hesitation in her. With a few skilled slices, she cleaned it, removed the bones carefully, inspecting the skeleton to make sure she had them all. She felt the weight of every set of eyes on her. But that was something she could thank Philipa for teaching her.
How to keep her back straight under pressure. She would not falter.
She finished the fish without looking away from her task even once. Laying the meat on a clean tray between cleaning bowls and the ones holding the spices, she reached for another fish.
“I see yer mother taught ye yer way around the kitchen, Mistress.” Bythe took up another long knife. With a quick slice, another fish was well on its way to being ready for cooking. “Since I heard ye were at yer English court for some years, I’m pleasantly surprised to see ye so practiced.”
Anne laid another fish on the tray. She didn’t want to outright lie by claiming that she’d worked in the kitchens at court. Yet she had to find some answer.
“I was sent to the kitchens at Warwickshire when I turned eleven.” That much was true.
Bythe nodded. “My mother worked her entire life at this table. I turned pastry on it when I still needed a stool to see over the top.”
Work resumed around them but not the conversation. The others were listening, waiting to judge her character. She was their mistress, yet English. There were many who didn’t think the two could coexist. More than one English bride had spent years in her chambers, remaining a stranger even as she bore the next generation. She did pity her half-sister that fate. With Mary’s vanity and spoilt nature, she would have been bitterly unhappy at Sterling.
I like it though.
It was another one of those unexpected thoughts. They were coming more often now. Maybe her mind was becoming soft. She’d heard about prison breaking first the personality of its victims and then the body.
She mustn’t think about such a fate.
With a stiff back, she began spicing the fish. There was much to do and Anne dedicated her attention to the tasks. There was a sense of security in doing the things that she would have been doing if she were still at Warwickshire. She kept her mind away from the fact that she hadn’t slept behind the kitchen.
But her body refused to forget that she’d spent the night with Brodick. Heat whispered over her skin. Need awakened from places that two days past she’d never noticed she might feel. Such as the skin on her thighs. Gooseflesh spread up her arms with the recollection of the way Brodick stroked it. His hands were large, the skin suffused with heat.
Her blood ran warmer, her heart beating faster. Even sore, her passage began to clamor for another taste of his hard flesh. She failed to understand how being impaled could feel so good.
Yet it had.
Her lust had truly opened Pandora’s box because now she craved more. She could feel the insanity flowing along with her blood. It unleashed a desire to be stripped bare like Brodick had taken her. No clothing to separate them.
And just as any lunatic at Bedlam, she was cheerful in her insanity. Her lust was welcome because she knew what delights were to be gained by feeding it.
She would adore a babe.
That idea sobered her, washing her fever aside. It was the secret of her heart, the desire for a child. Living under Philipa had robbed her of that joy. She’d buried it deep down inside her to avoid the pain of watching her friends grow large and round with child.
Brodick wanted a child from her.
Temptation urged her to take the chance offered her. Conceive and let the details be damned.
It might be she that ended up cursed if she did. Setting her thoughts to remaining childless, Anne forced her cheerful ideas of a babe back down to where she’d buried them.
She would not find happiness here. Such a reward couldn’t possibly result from so ill a deception.
Yet that did not stop her from lamenting.
“I have heard a most interesting rumor.” Cullen was in full teasing form. Brodick rolled his eyes. He was more interested in finding his wife, but that only made him grimace. Enjoying her was one thing. No man needed to be drawn to a woman when there was work to be done.
Cullen smirked. “It seems yer wife spent the day in the kitchen.”
“Doing what?”
“Ye sound mighty suspicious for a man who had his doubts about his bride’s purity proven so recently.”
“Dinnae play with me, Brother. Someday soon ye’ll marry and I’ve a fine memory.”
A hint of contriteness covered Cullen’s face. “Och well, I forget that ye cannae stand for a wee bit o’ teasing. Ye buckle like a moist reed.”
“Cullen…”
His sibling grinned. “Ye’ll know soon enough. She cooked yer supper. I hope yer stomach is stronger than yer tolerance to jesting.”
Brodick turned his attention to the table, fearing what he might see. Attending court didn’t teach a woman how to turn a loaf of bread. But as mistress of the house, his wife could do whatever she pleased in the kitchen. None of the staff would argue with her, even if they knew she was incorrect.
“I have nae seen you so pale since Father caught ye with yer first woman.”
His brother laughed at him, his voice echoing down the supper table. The food there looked wholesome and normal enough to his eye. But it was taste that mattered.
“You will nae be so smug if she laced supper with foxglove.”
“Still so ready to tell me that you will not doubt me at every opportunity, my lord?”
He flushed, the soft voice reprimanding him better than any slap might have. He was being a brute, even if he had been verbally sparring with his brother.
“I meant that for my brother, nae you.”
She paused, sweeping the men at the table with her gaze. Her lips set into a tight line.
“I see, my lord.” Her voice was tight as she added his title.
His wife passed him. A large meat pie in her hands. Steam rose from it, spreading the scent of spices in the air. The men at the table watched them intently. His wife set the pie down. She cut into it with a knife, letting a cloud of steam loose.
“I suppose it is a good thing that I understand how you prefer to have matters settled between us.” She dished up a hearty slice and presented it to him. Her gaze was steady, the plate unwavering. Challenge shone from her eyes, sending heat down his body. Need prickled along his skin, her stance sparking more lust to fill his cock. The organ twitched, swelling to stand up beneath his kilt. She lifted one eyebrow.
“I thought you said your words were for Cullen. Do you suspect me of foul play?”
The conversations near them died abruptly, his men casting worried looks at them. With a frown, she broke off a chunk of pie. She tossed it into her mouth without a thought, chewing and swallowing it quickly.
She deposited the plate on the table, her face turning red.
“I find I have no stomach for meals frosted with suspicions.”
She lowered herself before turning in a huff and flurry of skirts. But she did it artfully as though she was accustomed to holding her displeasure inside.
He found that fact most unsettling of all.
A man should not be able to hurt her feelings.
Anne fought off tears while her feet moved quickly through the tables. Pain filled h
er. She hissed with frustration when she entered the hallway. She should not care. It made no sense. So what if the man had doubted her cooking? Let him and every one of his men go to bed with rumbling bellies.
Yet it chafed. His suspicions. She had given him her chastity to prove her worth. That gift she might only bestow on one man her entire life. Hurt filled her chest. She didn’t go up the stairs. The chamber was filled with the memory of the night before and that drew more pain from the wound.
The turmoil gave her feet more speed. Walking through the entry doors of the tower, she moved into the bailey. There was much of Sterling that was still a mystery.
Moving across the courtyard, she paused near the stables. The horses snorted in their stalls. The musty smell of hay permeated the air. It was quarter moon now. Little light shone down from the night sky to pierce the night. Along the walls, fires were lit in iron torch cages. They were set along the castle fortifications every twenty feet. There was no lantern left near the stables for fear of fire. The horses were expensive. No one dare risk losing some of them to a mishap caused by the wind.
But enough light drifted down from the walls. Moving into the stable, she marveled at the number of horses. Hundreds of them stood quietly in the dark all in neat rows. Reaching up, she rubbed a velvet-covered muzzle.
“I didnae say I suspected ye of poisoning my table on purpose.” Brodick’s voice was low but she still heard the exasperation in it. “There be a difference.”
“Yet you stood there afraid to touch the plate.”
Her anger made little sense to her but she couldn’t seem to contain it. It bubbled up, spilling out of her. She heard him snort. “What do you expect from me? Am I to sit idle during the day awaiting your return?” She turned on him, pointing a finger at his larger chest. “So that I might spread my thighs to be of service?”
“The idea has merit.” His voice was deep with frustration. He grasped her wrist, tugging her forward. She tumbled into his chest. He locked her against him with a hard arm. “Since we appear to find more peace when we’re fucking, I find that idea very appealing.”