Page 24 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
“I suppose ‘tis nay surprise.” Lydia heard the rustle of cloth, then a low sound like a bed being sat on. Moments later, Laird Ranald’s voice came again. “Och, ye can look up again.”
He was dressed, moving to a chair by the hearth to put on his boots. It ought to have put Lydia more at ease, but she couldn’t help recalling that she’d laid out no undergarments, and that only the fabric of the kilt prevented Laird Ranald’s manhood from being on display. The fabric, which had felt like good, thick-woven linen when she laid it out, suddenly seemed a very thin barrier.
I cannot be thinking things like that. Especially not while serving as his personal maid, but certainly not while I am trying to remain as unnoticed and inconspicuous as possible.
Laird Ranald finished dressing, then rose with a grunt. “Leave the cleaning fer Maisie. Ye’re comin’ with me tae me study.”
Lydia nodded and followed him. Once inside, Laird Ranald tipped his head at the desk. “ I saw how ye organized the papers.”
Lydia blinked. She recalled tidying the desk. That was when she realized she’d done it the way she would have organized her own desk at home. It was too late to undo the mistake, so she would have to come up with a plausible explanation.
For a moment, she panicked. Then she recalled something an elderly lady who visited her uncle at times had said. She bowed her head. “I’m sorry if I did it wrong, my laird. My lady was older… her hands did not work well, so she had me manage things of that nature when her joints pained her too much for her to do so.”
“I didnae say it was wrong.” Laird Ranald studied her for a moment, then handed her two sheets of paper and pushed a quill at her. “If ye’ve that sort o’ trainin’, ye can recopy this letter for me. I dinnae have the patience tae dae it meself.”
Lydia took the paper and smoothed it out. It was a roughly written, much smeared letter, beginning with the salutation ‘Laird Marcus MacDougall an’ Kinfolk…’
Lydia dipped the quill into the ink, shook out the excess, and began to write. The letter was not a long one, and she was soon finished. She gently shook some sand over the ink to dry it, then pushed the finished document back toward the laird’s side of the desk. “Is this satisfactory, my laird?”
“Aye. Ye’ve neat handwriting, lass.” A small frown creased his brow, then smoothed out. “Seems ye’re well suited fer this sort o’ work.”
He gestured for her to continue with tidying and tend to the hearth. Once she’d done that, he waved her away. “Go tell Corvin I’ve deemed ye suitable. From now on, ye’ll serve me me morning meal an’ dae tasks at the beginning of the day, then after supper when I’m preparin’ fer bed, an’ whenever I call ferye. The rest o’ the time ye’re tae give Corvin any aid he needs, then speak tae Evelyn about whateversheneeds, an’ the rest o’ the time ye’ll continue helpin’ Maisie an’ learning whatever ye still need tae ken from her.”
“Aye, my laird.” Lydia dipped a curtsey, then turned and left the room, biting the inside of her lip in order to keep her face as expressionless as possible.
The change in her duties seemed like it might be a lot of work, but it was also an unlooked-for opportunity. By the time she left, she might genuinely be able to say she had been a laird or lady’s maid, that she’d trained with a healer, and that she had experience in assisting a steward. Such skills would likely make it far easier to find work.
Having such skills and work-roughened hands would only support the ruse if she set herself up as a young lady from an impoverished family of noble stock. She might never be able to regain her former status, but she might be able to find a comfortable life and perhaps even find a loving husband .
I could be content with such a life. In fact, I think I might even be happy in such a life, provided I married the right man…
Lydia squashed the rest of the thought before it could fully form. The wish that had nearly formed in her mind was a dangerous one - a foolish one to give even a moment’s consideration to. Better to be happy with her current situation, and regain her strength so she might implement the next phase of her plan.
Better by far to think about when she might move on, and where she would go, than to give any credence to the small whisper that echoed in her heart.
I wish I could stay…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Donall studied the sealed letter on his desk, frowning thoughtfully at it. He knew, if he undid the seal and opened it, that he would see Lydia’s neat penmanship dancing across the page, the graceful arches and loops far more elegant than he could ever manage.
Marcus was sure to note the difference. He would likely show it to his siblings as well, and the speculation would be… he’d be inundated with letters, from his sister in particular, inquiring after the scribe who’d penned the letter. The questions alone would be aggravating enough, but even more so was the knowledge that he had no answers to give.
Lydia - the lass with no surname that he’d ever been able to glean.
She’d supposedly learned penmanship and other such skills, including clerical tasks and correspondence, from being a lady’s maid in a minor noble’s household - but her penmanshippossessed the elegance of someone who had either learned it young, or spent countless hours practicing.
There were other signs too, signs that were more obvious with every passing day that Lydia served as his maid. Signs like her obvious enjoyment of reading - she was often found in the library - and her fledgling knowledge of healing. Who would train a lass to be a personal maid and a healer at the same time? There was no way the duties wouldn’t come in conflict. And when would a servant develop such interest in reading?
Perhaps it was different among the English. However, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Lydia than had been revealed - and that she was not being entirely truthful with him.
Every story she tells me seems plausible… but they dinnae line up neatly. An’ what servant daesnae have a reference, even if the lady she served is dead? She could still offer the name o’ the laird, or an heir, or even a fellow servant who moved on tae another situation.
For that matter, she’s never told us the name o’ the friend who suggested she travel intae the Highlands seeking work, either.
There were just too many questions, and it made the back of his neck itch, the way it sometimes did out riding the borders, when there were wolves or bandits about.
A soft knock on the door turned his attention away from the letter, just as Ewan and Alex entered. Ewan’s expressionwas grim, and Alex looked unnaturally serious. Donall felt his stomach clench. “The scouts are back?”
