Maggie knew immediately that more than sunshine brightened this castle and its denizens. The yard was neat and orderly, the buildings well-kept and tidy. Those few peasants who milled about, a handful or so, showed only joy to see their chief and the McEwen men returned. The walls, both the inner and outer, were manned by attentive guardsmen who tipped their heads respectfully as their chief passed under them.
In front of the keep, Iain dismounted. Her gaze was still moving around this pleasant yard but was returned to him when his hands settled at her waist to bring her down from the saddle. Several lads came running out from one section of the long and low building opposite the keep, taking charge of all the soldier’s steeds.
“I’ll take you to my mother, lass,” he said, taking her hand.
Maggie tugged at her hand, a girlish panic taking hold. When he turned to her with a frown for her slight resistance, Maggie enlightened him nervously, “I cannot meet your mother—any person—as I am.” She plucked nervously at the loose and beyond filthy bodice of her sad kirtle.
“A bath first then,” said a voice behind her, while Iain seemed to not comprehend what she fussed about.
Maggie turned and found Duncan, the chief’s captain, approaching. Behind him, Archie and one of the twins hovered. She almost started crying again. She’d known they were among those who had come for her at Blackhouse, but the quick escape and the ride to Berriedale, most of which she’d slept or cried through, had prevented her from acknowledging them. But these were some very dear, wonderfully familiar faces. Reaching out, she meant to touch her dirty hand to Duncan’s forearm, but pulled it back quickly as the light of day showed how filthy her fingers actually were. Still, she offered a wobbly smile, and let her gaze include Archie and the twin when she said, “I now owe you my life twice, it seems.” Flattening her dirty hand against her heart, she added, “I am forever indebted to you.”
“Aye, but you’re a sight for these sore eyes, lass,” said the captain.
“Well, I’m a sight, I’m sure,” she returned with a nervous laugh. It sounded at once both foreign and beautiful to her ears. “But where are Hew and Craig and,” she pointed at the twin, thinking he was Donal, recalling as she hadn’t in the past few months that the hair at his forehead was thinner, “and Daimh?”
Duncan made a face just as Iain tugged at her hand.
“Aye, let’s get you a bath first, lass,” Iain said. “Time enough for catching up later.”
Duncan and Archie and Donal seized happily on this.
“Och, you’ll feel brand new after a good hot one.”
“I’d wager the mistress can find you a clean gown, even.”
Thus, Maggie was led up a set of stone steps that sat adjacent to the wall and led into the keep’s hall. She hadn’t visited many halls in her life but thought this one very well-appointed. Long and wide, it housed not one, but two hearths set in opposite corners. At one end of the room, a beautiful carved wood table sat on a raised stone platform; behind this table sat seven chairs, carved with equal finesse as the table; the stone wall beyond the table was decorated with many shields and weapons, some painted and some not, depicting ships and a dragon and the colors of the Mackays; the other end of the room showed a wooden screen, only half as high as the arched ceiling, with two openings, presently covered in a burgundy draped fabric; the arched ceiling was made of stone as well and was framed majestically by huge timbers of dark wood.
Iain had let go of her hand, but Maggie continued to follow him as he led the way up a wooden staircase on the exterior wall. “’Tis only my mother and I to use the family chambers,” he was saying as they reached the next floor. He pushed open a heavy arched door at the end of the corridor. “This one’ll be fine.”
Iain stood just in the doorway, waiting for her to enter. Maggie didn’t even bother to glance inside.
“I cannot take up a family chamber,” she protested, aghast at the very idea. “I-I just cannot. Have you no servant quarters? Or mayhap a—”
He grinned, which quieted Maggie.
“Servants come from the village. Only two or three that reside inside the keep. But there are no more bedchambers, lass. Only these, for guests, which you are.” He waved her inside, his grin now rather indulgent. “C’mon then. You’re no’ a servant, Maggie Bryce.”
Slowly, Maggie moved by him as he remained in the doorway and stepped into the room. The chamber was very pretty, with tapestries on the walls and inside the shutters of the two windows. A beautifully embroidered coverlet of soft brown covered what appeared to be a very plush mattress on the raised bed. A short table stood beside the bed, supporting an ewer and basin, and a tall cupboard took up the wall space between the two windows.
More tears threatened, over the joy of her unexpected good fortune. Still, she demurred. “This is meant for finer guests than me,” she guessed.
Maggie sensed him moving behind her, away from the door and then was startled by the touch of his hands, fixed upon her upper arms, that she stiffened in response. There was something soothing about this action, his touch, some familiarity that they truly couldn’t claim but which she embraced inside for the peace it brought her. Possibly it was her stiffness that made him drop his hands after but a moment. Maggie was not sorry for the loss. Having some of her wits returned to her since leaving Blackhouse, she knew she did not want to be touched.
“It’s for you. I’d think you’d be pleased with the comforts of it, after...”
Maggie nodded. “You’d think.” It was gorgeous, every inch of the room, but was too grand by far for her.
He moved around her and bent near the small hearth to make a fire. “We haven’t too many guests way up here, lass. Actually, I’m thinking my mother will be pleased with your coming.”
Maggie turned and stared at his back. “Does she...know who I—does she know I’m here?”
“She will. She’s no complicated, lass. Dinna fret.”
Maggie covered her face again, willing tears to hold. His kindness, his very easiness, might well undo her. How did this happen? How did she come to be here? Oh, please don’t tell me I’m dreaming.
“I don’t understand,” she cried, lowering her hands. “I don’t know how—why—you came for me.”
“Shh.” He stood from the hearth and faced her.
“And what’s going to happen,” she continued, her fears too much to contain just then, “when he comes for me. Am I...?”
It looked as if he might step forward. Maggie automatically stepped backward. He didn’t move then but he did shutter his expression.
“You’ll no be fussing, lass. We’ve got all evening to talk and straighten it all out. You have your bath now and then you come down to the hall.”
“You’re going to require a bath as well,” Maggie said and sniffled. “I can smell myself. Oh, God.”
He chuckled at this, the sound insincere, she thought, more awkwardness forced between them. “Aye, you are ripe, lass.” He indicated the lone chair that sat between the small table and the hearth. “You wait here. I’ll send up the lads with the bath, and probably Edda to give you aid.”
Maggie nodded and watched him leave, unwilling or unable to allow herself to feel hope. She waited then for the blessed bath to come, her gaze transfixed by the mesmerizing flames of the small fire Iain McEwen had made for her.
Chapter Thirteen
THE NEXT PERSON TO enter the bedchambers was certainly not any person meant to deliver her bath. Maggie knew immediately that this must be the laird’s mother. The woman was lovely, more handsome than pretty, Maggie thought, adorned perfectly in a sleeveless blue gown over a long-sleeved kirtle of soft gray, the lines of stitching so fine as to give envy to any seamstress. Maggie had some success not staring at the deep and old scar that sliced across the woman’s cheek but did little to diminish the fact that she was striking.
Jumping from the chair, Maggie dipped a quick curtsy then waited while the woman took her measure. She stared at Maggie
for a long moment, possibly trying to see beyond the filth and grime before she walked around her to set down on the tabletop a bundle she’d brought with her.
Maggie rather scampered out of the way, moving along the hearth to stand at the opposite end. This seemed to suit the woman, who then sat in the chair Maggie had abandoned. Her limp, like the remnant on her cheek, had not gone unnoticed.
She faced Maggie, her position rather manly, hands on her knees, her back straight and tall. Finally, she tilted her head and said, “So you are Maggie Bryce.” Any coolness Maggie might have suspected because of her silence for the first few minutes of coming to this chamber evaporated instantly at the kindness in the woman’s face now.
Maggie shifted her weight onto her left foot and lifted a fisted hand against the stone of the hearth. She nodded.
“I can see that you are very lovely—underneath the filth, that is,” the woman said, her smile aged and soft. She shook her head and the smile widened. “But you must be more than that, I imagine, to have captured the minds and hearts of Iain and so many of his men.”
While she did not feel as if she were particularly being accused of something, Maggie was quick to counter, “Oh, no, mistress. I assure you, I’ve...captured nothing.” And damn, but why did she want to cry so many times today! “But they are...I don’t know if they’re truly and always wonderful, but they have been to me.”
The woman came immediately to her feet and rushed to Maggie. “Oh, no, my dear. Please don’t cry. Of course, they’re wonderful. As I’m sure you must be.” Without a care for her fine garments, she wrapped an arm around Maggie’s shoulder, standing nearly as tall as her son, and squeezed her tight. “Now, now, we’re done with tears, lass. All that was bad is done. And now you move forward.”
Maggie nodded jerkily, eager to please. “It’s not fear, mistress. It’s not anything but happiness that brings the tears, I think.” More falseness, unwilling to explain to this woman that she could find no joy yet, knowing her husband would find her eventually. And that she would pay for an escape she had nothing to do with.
“Well then, that’s a wonderful thing. You cry away. Ah, here is Henry with the bath. The water cannot be far behind.” She pointed to a spot near the front of the hearth and the lad lowered the wooden vessel from his shoulder and scampered away. Addressing Maggie again, she said, “I’m Glenna McEwen of course, the laird’s mam. I know only bits and pieces, to be honest, but you can fill me in with the details.” At Maggie’s sigh, she said kindly, “When you’re ready.”
More lads came, bearing buckets of steaming water, which was efficiently emptied into the tub. This process was repeated twice by the three lads, until the bath was filled to more than half. Glenna McEwen shooed the last boy away and closed the door behind him. Turning to Maggie, she beckoned with her hand. “Come along, my dear.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “Mistress, you cannot—should not—attend my bath.”
“Dinna fuss, dear.” Without warning, she stood before Maggie and began lifting her tired gown up and over her head. “We haven’t a huge staff here, and very few women. Between you and me, makes for a much smoother running household. However, the drawback is that we must see to ourselves, which you’ll get used to.”
“I’ve never had a lady’s maid, mistress,” Maggie admitted. She kicked off her pitiful shoes and dropped her hose to the floor as well and climbed into the bath, happily sinking back into the gorgeous warmth.
The mistress of Berriedale bent and plucked up each piece of Maggie’s discarded wardrobe and said from the door, “Take no offense, my dear, but these will be burned. And I’ll fetch the soaps, which the lads apparently have forgotten. You rest, enjoy the glory of it.”
Maggie did relish it, but Glenna McEwen returned in good time and the serious work of getting herself clean began. By the time she stepped from the bath into the cozy linen towel, almost an hour had passed since the woman had walked through the door. Maggie was invigorated by the lovely lilac scented soap Glenna had supplied and was thankful their conversation had not encompassed anything more than information about Berriedale.
Glenna McEwen was the sister to the laird of all of Caithness, Donald Mackay, and had married Ilagan McEwen when she was but sixteen.
“He was a very fine man,” she said wistfully. “Very easy on the eyes and a true son of Scotland, died fighting for her freedom.”
The laird’s mother then set herself the task of untangling the mass of Maggie’s thick but now clean hair, using a bone comb that she was quite proud to say had come from France, via her brother.
Standing behind while Maggie sat again in the sturdy chair, Glenna McEwen tediously worked out the knots and said, “Now we’ll get the story out, Maggie Bryce. I do not like not knowing a person who resides in my home.” When Maggie nodded, she added, “My son is wonderful in many regards, but does not always tell his mother everything. What little I know comes from what I’ve coaxed out of Artair, Berriedale’s steward.”
Maggie shifted on her bottom and pulled the linen towel more securely around her. “Shall I begin at the beginning, when I met your son?”
“No, unless there’s more to it than they found you near frozen in a cave, but then you were put upon by Sutherlands and you were taken away.”
“That’s it, essentially,” Maggie admitted. “Except...except that I lied to Ia—your son. I was running from the betrothal to Kenneth Sutherland when I was caught in the storm. But I told your son that I was headed to St. Edmund’s—”
“The cloister?”
Maggie nodded. “Which wasn’t exactly a lie, as that was my destination, when I decided I didn’t want to marry...him.”
“Not exactly a lie at all,” Glenna McEwen graciously allowed.
“But then I put them in danger—they might have been killed. For that, I am very sorry.”
“But they were not. And Iain and the lads never met a battle they didn’t like,” she said with a small chuckle. “Such men. Happiest when engaged in any bloodshed.”
“He was so angry at me,” Maggie said, recalling the glower he’d given her at the time, how her heart had broken. “So I don’t understand why he came for me now, after all this time. Nothing makes sense.”
“But it is my understanding that they went to—Blackhouse, is it? Yes, they went there only days after you were retrieved by Sutherland. Went with his whole army. Of course, you were not there. And then...then they were called away in service to the king.”
Maggie’s jaw gaped. She might have whipped her face around to Glenna, but that the woman had flattened her hand against the top of Maggie’s head while she worked out the tangles below.
“They went to Blackhouse?”
“As I understand it. Which says so many things to me, but most of the answers you’ll now be seeking must come from Iain. Oh my, are you crying again, my dear?”
Maggie nodded. “I’m a mess. I know. I just don’t understand the kindness of one, and to a near stranger, in contrast to the evil of another, who is...my husband.”
Glenna came around the front of the chair and went down on her knees, drawing Maggie’s watery gaze to her. She clutched at Maggie’s fisted hands and insisted, “Kindness and the other have nothing to do with proximity or relationships. A person is good or not, and that is all. I will act just as kindly to a stranger as I would to my own son, because I am good. Your husband is a monster and is likely evil for the very sake of being evil—some people are just born that way. It has nothing to do with you, but for your unfortunate relation to him. But now that’s done. Do you hear me, Maggie Bryce? It’s done. I still don’t know everything, but if my son drove twenty men half a day to find you and rescue you, I’d bet my good leg that he’s not going to give you up. Not ever.”
Maggie tried to smile. But she just could not.
Glenna stood and finished with Maggie’s hair, managing two long braids, which she rolled up and pinned to the back of Maggie’s head.
“There,�
� said Glenna, “now let’s get you dressed.”
THE HALL HAD STARTED to fill as the supper hour grew near but went completely still and silent when Maggie Bryce and Glenna McEwen entered.
Iain, standing with several of his soldiers, had just taken a swig of ale when Duncan nudged him and tipped his head toward the stairs. Iain gulped and choked and coughed at the sight of her. Duncan laughed and swatted him heartily on his back.
Maggie Bryce, frozen in the cave, overdressed in many layers, including the shapeless cloak and perpetual wimple, had been beautiful. Maggie Bryce of the dungeons, gaunt and pale in her filthy kirtle and smelling of only-God-knew-what foulness, had somehow still been very appealing.
But this Maggie Bryce, fresh from her bath and garbed in a fine gown of rich blue wool, which hugged her curves so lovingly, was...exquisite.
His mother, not one to let a silence have no purpose, called out cheerily, “Friends, it’s not as if you’ve never set your eyes upon a beautiful woman before! After all, I’ve lived here for years!”
And the silence was further undone with the cheers and laughter that followed this, so that the remainder of their descent, and their walking through the crowd seemed not so singular an event after all.
Iain knew some pleasure that Maggie’s eyes had so quickly, even at the top of the stairs, sought him out. It was unfortunate then, that the initial quieting of the room had sent her anxious gaze to her own chest. And neither his mother’s quip nor the happy laughter that followed had wrested her gaze from her own person. Shades of the sprightly Maggie Bryce he remembered from the cave, remembered quite often if he were honest, were nowhere to be found.
In the next moment, she stood before him, delivered as it were to him and Duncan and Archie as they stood near the center of the hall. His mother departed, off to the kitchens no doubt to be assured the meal would be delivered promptly and beautifully.
The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5) Page 15