MAGGIE UNCONSCIOUSLY took Iain’s hand as she alighted from the cart, her curious gaze held by the goings-on. Indeed, this was far larger than any market she’d ever visited, with a variety of stalls and booths set up in several aisles along the stretch of earth that jutted out toward the sea.
When her feet touched the ground, she spun around, seeing mostly green and brown, earth and grass and trees, all about, intersected only barely by six permanent buildings further back from the water. Likely, when no market was operating, this was only a very quiet place. But now, with dozens and dozens of vendors, the place bustled with people, men and women from every layer of society, it seemed; she saw ladies in fine wools and lace and so many different colored plaids; children darted here and there, some dressed raggedly or modestly, announcing their crofter status; one man and woman appeared in matching wools of bright blue, which was both striking and curious, Maggie thought.
They left the cart where others had parked their horses and vehicles, in a fenced area outside the main market. As Iain led the way toward the stalls, Eideard and the others were just entering the area. Maggie waved to Eideard and then rushed forward to catch up with Iain. They walked up the main road, which appeared to be the middle aisle. Though there were plenty of people, hundreds maybe in this relatively small space, the general din was tempered, polite and quiet. Only the raised voices of vendors, calling out their wares, disturbed the low-key clamor.
“It’s rather subdued,” she noted. “I take it there’s no wine merchant today.”
Iain turned and gave her a handsome smile. “A shame, that.”
When they passed the first stall, selling a very non-descript variety of crocks and jars, Iain grabbed her hand, steering her toward the right as the crowd thickened. As it seemed a perfectly utilitarian gesture, Maggie minded not at all.
“Are we here for anything specific?” She asked, peering into the second booth, a very tidy unit displaying woodwares, trenchers and bowls and cups, meticulously carved and oiled to shine so attractively, the grain of the wood enhanced by the oil.
“A few more furs for the keep,” Iain answered, and sent her a smirk. “Archie claims his knees are telling him we’re in for a rough winter.” He shrugged and added, “Rabbie would like a few bushels of pears; Berriedale’s pear trees suffered a blight this year and bore no fruit at all. And Mother has tasked me with finding a different variety of grapes, to expand that part of the orchard.”
“Archie’s knees dictate your market list?”
“They’ve proven verra reliable in the past.” His grin was a beautiful thing to behold.
There was so much to see. Booths with handicrafts of wood or lace or cloth, and sheds of game and meat, the fresh carcasses hung from heavy hooks all around the perimeter; many of the sellers offered fruit, as it was the growing season; furs and fabrics and furniture were well represented; and there were several occasions when Maggie needed to stop and handle the wares, unable to identify them by sight.
The first of these was inside a tent draped with bright cotton and silk fabrics, the brightest colors at the market. The wares being presented, set beautifully onto tables covered in more jewel-tone fabrics, appeared to be only an assortment of flasks and strange, oblong stones.
The woman inside the tent, behind the tables, was garbed in a rich red silk, so perfect against her deep skin tone and black eyes.
Maggie frowned over one of the stones, no bigger than her palm, and lifted it to inspect it, under the watchful gaze of the woman. A cork stopper plugged one end of the stone.
The woman grinned—Maggie would have called it provocative, her smirk—and possibly understood that Maggie had no idea what she held. The vendor spoke to Iain, though, her pouty lips issuing each word slowly and suggestively. “Ah, you’ve not indulged your lady with such luxuries?” Her voice was thick with a foreign flavor.
With a short laugh, and without explaining that Maggie was not his lady, Iain only said, “I have not.”
The merchant stepped forward and lifted another flat-bottomed stone piece from the table. She pulled out the stubby cork and waved the piece under Maggie’s nose.
Maggie’s eyes lit up at the scent that drifted near her. She glanced to Iain at her side and said with much delight. “It smells of lavender.”
He smiled.
Maggie uncorked the stone bottle she held and sniffed, her lips parting and her shoulders dropping with her thrill. She fluttered the cork under Iain’s nose. “Ooh, lemon.”
“But lemon is not your scent,” the woman said.
“It isn’t?”
“Non,” the woman said and reached for another perfume bottle, this one made of clay and carved with a leaf motif. She shook the piece and beckoned Maggie forward over the table.
Leaning in, Maggie inhaled the sensual and dreamy scent and allowed the woman to rub the cork over her neck by her ears. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply again, and proclaimed absently, “I am in love.”
“Sandalwood,” the woman explained with a husky chuckle. She waved her hand around in front of Maggie’s face. “Very exotic. Lemon and lavender?” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Not for you.”
While Maggie investigated other scents offered, the woman dedicated her attention to Iain, at times speaking a language that Maggie did not understand but that Iain apparently did, as he responded with similarly foreign words. And before she might have protested, Iain was handing coin to the woman and was given the sandalwood perfume in a small hemp bag.
“No,” Maggie argued, when she realized what was happening. “Are you buying that for me? Please do not.”
“It’s no’ for me, lass,” he said and tucked the bag into his tunic. “I try no’ to give the lads too much ammunition.”
Ignoring his quip and thinking of the coin he’d just spent on her, Maggie insisted. “Truly, I wasn’t—you shouldn’t have done that.”
“I had to,” he defended. “You smell...delicious.”
She should have been outraged, or at the very least made uneasy, but she found herself bursting out with a laugh. Delicious was not a word she would have associated with the sandalwood scent, being a strange way to describe the perfume. With a sigh, she tried to gracefully give her thanks. “That was very kind of you, though unnecessary.”
“Simple pleasures, Maggie Bryce. Life should be peppered with them.”
She could think of no argument to upset that august notion.
They thanked the purveyor and moved on. Maggie saw Eideard and some of Berriedale’s soldiers here and there. They were close enough when the pears and furs were eventually purchased that the lads carried them back to the cart.
It took them over an hour to get through just one aisle, Maggie keen to inspect almost every booth. It was a beautiful day, the skies clear and the sun warm upon her head that she enjoyed sometimes ducking under the canopies of the stalls to escape the heat. This might have been what prompted Iain to pull her toward the booth teeming with straw hats. There were hundreds of them, stacked and hung, all similarly colored, pale and wide brimmed, some more ornate in shape than others.
“Pick out a hat,” he instructed.
“I do not need a hat,” she said, having no wish to see any more coin leave his person for her needs.
“Aye, you do,” he insisted pleasantly, reaching past her to grab one from a pile on the table. It was possibly the ugliest one displayed, the crown being more square than round and the brim fringed instead of trimmed neatly. “Either you pick one you like,” he said, placing the monstrosity on her head, “or I will.” He smiled at her.
Rather petulantly, hoping to change his mind, she said, “I don’t have moneys to repay you, as well you know.”
Iain met her gaze, brushed the hair behind her ear, under the ridiculous hat. “I dinna want your coin, Maggie Bryce.” And then he grimaced and pulled the hat from her head. “But then, I dinna want you donning that eyesore.”
Grinning and game—she’d never ow
ned her own hat—Maggie complied and began to try on different ones. She turned to Iain at one point to get his opinion and found him leaning against the corner post of the booth, wearing the ugly hat he’d first plunked on her head.
“Suits you perfectly,” she said. She tipped her head, with the very plain but serviceable hat upon it, round of crown and brim, the straw uniform in color.
“Needs a ribbon,” Iain said, pulling that square piece from his head.
“There’s plenty of ribbon at Berriedale,” said Maggie.
But Iain ignored her, pointing to the center of the booth, above the silent merchant in a comfy chair. There, ribbons of every color and fabric imaginable, long and short and in so many different widths, hung from the rafters.
“Green, of course,” suggested Iain.
“Why, of course?”
“To match your eyes,” he responded casually, indicating to the vendor his choice, a fabulous length of silk the exact shade of the sea when it was calm and bathed in sunshine.
“Silk is not very practical.”
“The hat is practical, lass,” Iain contended while the merchant rose and fetched the ribbon. “The silk can be frivolous.”
Half an hour later, Iain and Maggie sat under a wide oak tree, just outside the market perimeter, snacking on food stuffs he’d purchased, sweet breads and nuts and ale.
She wore her new hat, tied under her chin with the silly silk ribbon, and smelled of the decadent sandalwood and thought this might be one of her favorite days ever, in all her life.
“Thank you,” she said to him.
“Stop saying that, Maggie Bryce. Eat your sweets.”
They sat on the ground and Iain had laid their small feast between them, having spread wide the cloth the sweet breads had been wrapped in.
“Am I allowed to voice my appreciation to you, for bringing me to Dunbeath today?”
He was stretched out, propped up on his elbow, one ankle crossed over the other. He tossed a handful of nuts into his mouth and observed Maggie silently, thoughtfully, while he chewed. When he swallowed, he said, “It’s good to see you smile, lass.”
“You...had an agenda, then?” She asked.
“Aye, I’ll no deny it.”
“Why? What agenda?”
“Several reasons,” he admitted. The grin that followed, the one he showed to her, tipping his face toward her was both charming and sheepish. “You want all the reasons then, or just the main parts?”
“I’m not sure. What do you think I might want to hear?”
“How ‘bout I test some answers out on you? They’ll all be truthful, but some might be more...revelatory than others, might make you uneasy. You can stop me at any time.”
“Mayhap I don’t want to know the why.”
Now he lifted a brow at her. “Truly?”
Anxiously, she said, “Fine. Start with one, a simple one.”
“Verra well. I’m the laird of Berriedale and all its denizens, thus responsible for the welfare of the people. I believe you are unhappy and I am bound to change that.”
“So you’ve taken others—unhappy or dejected or...even troubled persons—out for the day to...what? Cheer them up?”
He chuckled outright now. “Well, I’ve no’ ever loaded up the cart with a person in need of cheering, but I’d once traveled to Glasgow to bring home Ester Herman’s son. He’d been lured away by a woman—I use that term loosely, as she was—and his mother was struggling in her croft without him.”
“So you meddled with love—”
“It was no’ love,” he said, making a distasteful face, “unless, of course, you consider the exchange of coin to be part of affection.”
“Oh.”
“Aye.” He leaned over and grabbed another handful of the almonds. “When the brewer’s husband was ailing, I sat with him every afternoon for several weeks; Agnes needed to work, but dinna want to leave him alone. He was a good man, was Martin, but I didn’t need to be there every day. So you see, this is not unprecedented, what I’m about with you today.”
Maggie bit her lip and gave her gaze to a bird, flying low over the market before ducking low and out of sight. Cautiously, she asked, “But there is or are other reasons for bringing me to Dunbeath?”
“You needed a hat.”
“Hmm,” she murmured with some suspicion.
“Aye, and I like being with you.”
“Why?” She asked, rather than thinking it through. Glancing briefly at him, she explained her harshly given response. “I mean only that...sometimes I don’t even like being with me.”
“But you’re hoping to change that, aye?”
Shrugging, which all but admitted she hadn’t really thought about it, she said, “I guess so.”
Wiping his hands against each other, he laid onto his back, with his arms under his head. “I’ve got more work ahead than suspected, then.”
Maggie allowed a grin for this response. With more lightness than she’d known of late, she said, “Very well. There’s a few stated reasons for shirking all your duties to spend the day with me, and I don’t yet feel a bit uneasy.”
Iain turned his head on his arms and looked at her, his regard measured and compelling. “There’s more. You want to ken it?”
Her heartbeat quickened. “Do I?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I want you to ken. I canna believe you dinna already.”
Maggie began to shake her head. “That’s enough then,” she said, her voice small. “You are a good chief to your people and for some mysterious reason, you enjoy my dreary company. That will suffice for now.”
“Lass, I’m pleased to ken that you are decidedly undreary today.”
“I do not think that undreary is an actual word.”
“I just used it.”
“That doesn’t make it real.”
“Did you ken what I meant?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Must be real, then.”
She didn’t know why this struck her as funny, but it did, that she let out a disbelieving giggle, that he should have used such a fantastically nonsensical argument that essentially won out.
A very good day indeed.
Chapter Seventeen
WHEN THEY RETURNED to the market after their small lunch, they met with Eideard and several soldiers, who enjoyed their own purchased nuts and sweets while they walked. She noted that several lads, Eideard included, had other hemp or linen bags tied to their belts and wondered if they’d bought gifts for their sweethearts.
Iain made several other purchases in the afternoon, including two new iron kettles which he insisted were of good quality and reasonably priced, and then several leather flasks and a very fine quality saddlebag, with intricate metal detail on the light auburn hide. He haggled not at all, paid whatever the seller asked or stated, and when Maggie inquired of this, he explained, “Berriedale can afford it presently, and it’s good business to purchase here, ensures the market will continue and the vendors will return.”
By the time Iain told Eideard to round up the lads to head home, Maggie thought they might miss supper, as it was so late in the afternoon. Iain kept them to a steady though not particularly fast pace as they drove back to Berriedale. She still wore her new hat, and held her perfume in her lap, feeling as if she now owned luxuries. The bed of the cart was laden with the rest of the items bought, but Maggie thought it was not so heavy to distress the palfrey.
They weren’t very far gone from the market when their ride was interrupted by a flock of sheep crossing the narrow road in front of them. Iain reined in and they waited, the soldiers moving ahead of them to give some assistance to the shepherd moving his sheep.
“Just be a moment,” Iain advised, holding the reins firmly that the horse and cart remained still.
Turning toward Ian, she said absently, “I either wish we’d saved some of those sweetbreads for the drive home, or I hope Rabbie has them on the menu tonight.”
He began to g
rin at her, but it dropped suddenly, his eyes on her hat. “Don’t move,” he said firmly.
She did as requested, held very still, but needed to know, “Is it a spider?” She closed her eyes tightly. She hated spiders.
He said nothing but put his hand on her arm and reached across to her far side and swiped at something above her. He slapped several times actually, mumbling a curse, which caused Maggie to shiver and jerk with each attempt to rid her of whatever threatened. She expected to feel some creepy crawly thing touch her skin at any moment.
“Gone,” he said when he’d stopped swiping at her hat, which was now crooked, and only covered the back of her head.
Maggie opened her eyes and exhaled.
Iain was very close, adjusting her hat as Maggie reached to do the same.
Their hands touched. At once, they stilled. Maggie stared at his lips, so close to her face.
“Was it a spider?” She asked, unaccountably breathless.
“Aye,” he said slowly, lowering his hands.
Maggie lifted her gaze, found him watching her with an intensity that was not completely unfamiliar to her. Oh.
“Was fairly large,” he said softly, his scrutiny splitting time between her eyes and mouth.
“I do not like spiders.” Her breathing difficulties were exacerbated by his heated regard. Somewhere in her distant awareness was the sound of the soldiers moving the sheep, “hi-yah!” and “get on, sheep!” penetrating her consciousness.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Nor I.” He leaned forward, dipping his head toward her.
Maggie drew in a sharp breath, bracing herself, her gaze locked on his beautiful blue eyes and the purpose shown in them just now as he closed in on her.
“All set, Chief!” Someone called out.
The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5) Page 20