Page 11 of The Story of his Highland Bride
Kaitlyn chuckled. “Aye, if ye keep twistin’ and wrigglin’ in it like a polecat in a sack.”
“Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress.” Eloise finally looked at herself… and found that her reflection wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d expected.
The dress was similar to the one that Kaitlyn wore, though in a bottle green shade. The leine beneath—a long shift with flowing sleeves—was a muted shade of yellow, and the belt around her waist might’ve been the most beautiful belt she’d ever seen. It was thick, brown leather, embroidered with flowers and vines and seashells, giving her a waist that she’d forgotten she had. At home, she lived in skinny jeans and baggy tops and sweaters, when she deigned to get out of her pajamas. Occasionally, she’d wear a nice blouse, like the one she’d worn to the Cairns, but writing called for comfort, and nice clothes tended to be suffocating.
“I like yer trews,” Kaitlyn said shyly. “I’ve often thought I’d prefer to wander around in trews, and I’d wager it’s far easier to ride a horse when ye daenae have to fret about yer skirts tanglin’ around yer legs, but they’d burn ye at the stake for it.”
Eloise gulped. “Do they do that often here?”
“Och, aye. A terrible thing, if ye ask me.” Kaitlyn tutted and peered over Eloise’s shoulder, admiring the latter’s reflection. “Can I ask ye somethin’?”
“Of course.”
Kaitlyn seemed to hesitate. “What are ye wearin’… underneath, if it’s nae too improper of a question? Only, I noticed yer… um… undergarments, and I cannae say I’ve ever seen aught like ‘em before. Is that what ye Manx wear?”
“My br—” Eloise stopped abruptly, remembering where she was. “They’re traditional undergarments on the Isle of Man, yes. The… uh… lower part is pretty comfortable, but there’s nothing like taking the upper part off at the end of the day. I imagine it’s the same with the stays you wear.”
Kaitlyn erupted into raucous laughter, smacking Eloise lightly on the back. “Och, I like ye, Eloise! Ye’re right—there’s nay relief like it! It’s like ye can breathe again.” She paused. “I suppose that’s why I asked, as yer stays or whatever it is doesnae look like it hinders ye.”
“If I had a spare, I’d give it to you, though I think it would be a little tight.” Eloise cast a pointed look at Kaitlyn’s ample bosom, making the sweet maid collapse into an even louder fit of giggles.
Watching her laugh, enjoying the normalcy of two friends cackling about bras and bosoms and girly things, Eloise had a feeling that Kaitlyn would have made a great main character in one of her novels. The maid was the perfect mix of bubbly and blunt, with an interesting face that was beautiful without being unbelievably so. She had flaws and imperfections, but when she smiled, she was radiant in a way that Eloise had always longed to be.
“I thought there were two magpies caught in the rafters, the way the pair of ye are squawkin’,” a familiarly gruff voice put a pin to the good humor in the room.
Kaitlyn immediately stood bolt upright, her laughter dying. “Apologies, M’Laird. A jest, that’s all.”
“One ye’d mind sharin’?” Heavy footfalls pounded on the flagstones, but Eloise didn’t turn to face the man who’d put a blade to her neck. She didn’t need to; she could see him, clear as day, in the looking glass.
What expensive rock did they carve you from, eh?Eloise squinted to try and make him less handsome, but even in a blur, he was terrifyingly beautiful.
In all the years she’d spent writing and reading, making literature of all kinds of personalities, she’d heard male protagonists being described as a “beast of a man,” but she’d never seen one in real life until now. Somehow, he was far more intimidating in the unforgiving daylight than he’d been in the gloom of the previous night, even without a sword in his hand.
He stood way over six-feet tall, with broad shoulders that were twice as wide as her own slender frame, and a wide chest that, even with the covering of his shirt, protruded with sculpted muscle. Meanwhile, his arms were so thick and powerful that he looked like he could squeeze blood from a stone. Or snap the neck of a witch.
His mane of hair, she discovered, was a rich red shade, gleaming with brighter strands of ginger and darker filaments of warm brown, depending on how the firelight hit the tousled locks. And as with many a redhead, he had a ruddy sort of complexion, with freckles that gave him the appearance of someone who spent a lot of time in the sun.
You’re stupidly hot; I’ll give you that.In fact, she was a little annoyed that she’d been unconscious when he must’ve picked her up and carried her back to this place. She couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like to be held in strong arms like his, though she would enjoy trying to picture it.
“Old Joan will be comin’ shortly. Ye can be on yer way,” the man—or, rather, the Laird—said curtly, dismissing Kaitlyn.
The maid curtsied and, flashing a sweet smile at Eloise, she hurried from the room.
“Are ye nae taught to turn and greet a Laird where ye come from?” the Laird asked stiffly, leaning against the mantelpiece.
Eloise took a moment to compose herself, hoping her knotted tongue would remember how to speak when she faced him properly. He wasn’t her usual type, back in her time, as she’d always favored men who were leaner and dark-haired, usually with glasses. If she’d seen someone with the Laird’s build walking down the street, she’d have rolled her eyes and wondered what kind of steroids he was on, but considering the era, she knew that every rippling muscle on his body had to be honed by his own hard work. Despite herself, the thought made her stomach flutter.
“We aren’t, actually,” she said, turning at last. “I think there are only a few people you’re supposed to bow and curtsy to, and I can’t say I’ve ever met one. I’m not sure I’d even know how. I’ve got two left feet when it comes to things like that.”
The Laird’s eyes widened in horror, and she realized her mistake.
“I don’thavetwo left feet,” she hastened to say. “I just move like I do. I’m clumsy, is what I’m trying to say. Zero grace and elegance.”
The Laird seemed to relax. “I see.”
She forced a smile, unnerved by the handsome, grumpy, borderline hostile man who was glaring at her like he wasn’t sure whether to toast her at the stake or draw his sword again.
“Are ye prepared to tell me who ye are now?” he said, after a moment or two. He hadn’t moved from his spot, showing a wariness that his face wouldn’t.
