Page 33 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
Lydia nodded and went to the hearth, to kneel gracefully beside the basket of potatoes. She withdrew two, then a third. But instead of rising to scrub them off and cut them, she bent closer to the fire and began to tuck them into the hearth. Donall stepped forward and caught her wrist before she could completely bury them. “What are ye daein’?”
Lydia blinked up at him. “When I was traveling, this was how the potatoes were cooked by many of the caravan members.”
Donall heaved a sigh, though he couldn’t help feeling somewhat amused as well. “On the road, ‘tis done that way fer ease. Here, ye wash the potatoes, cut them, then sprinkle the slices with salt an’ pepper an’ roast them on a flat pan like that one.”
He pointed to the appropriate items. Lydia nodded and gathered the potatoes, then carried them over to wash them in the proper bucket before bringing them back to the cutting table.
A moment later, Donall stopped her again. “Who taught ye tae cut potatoes? That’s nae the right blade fer it, an’ the way ye handle it… ‘tis a miracle ye havenae lost a finger yet, or ripped yer hand tae pieces.”
He found the proper knife and started to slice the potatoes, but Lydia stopped him. “How am I to learn, if you do the task for me?”
The slices Lydia produced were uneven, the thickness varying not only between slices but from the beginning of the cut to the end, but Donall let the matter be. Instead, he waved to the hearth. “Lay the potatoes flat in the pan. They’re cooked enough tae eat when the centers o’ the slices are soft. They’re proper roasted when they’re golden brown an’ a bit crispy, like bread when it becomes toast. An’ ye can arrange the meat around the edges, so it cooks at the same time, an’ the juices mingle with the potato.”
Twenty minutes later, Donall found himself prodding a slightly blackened, crunchy potato, and meat that was cooked nearly to travel jerky. “’Tis… an admirable effort.”
“It is a poor meal, you mean. I should have asked you to finish it after all.”
“Nay ‘tis made well enough.” Donall took a bite, chewed, and just managed to swallow. “Wouldnae mind somethin’ tae drink with it. Some mead or beer.”
Lydia nodded and came back with a tankard of beer. Donall drank deeply. He was preparing himself to take a second bite when Lydia spoke again. “You wander the halls often in the night, my laird. Are you well? Or does something disturb your sleep?”
His first impulse was to snap back at her, to refuse to answer. To tell her it was none of her business. He bit the words back before they emerged into the air. “What dae ye ken?”
“Nothing in particular. I heard someone mention, very briefly, that something had happened to your father and perhaps your sister, but I know nothing of the particulars, nor the truth of the matter.”
If she’s already heard that much… I’d rather she hear the full truth from me rather than someone else.
Donall took a deep breath. “Tae start with, there’s naething wrong with me sister. Her name is Alayne, an’ she’s happily married tae a good man. Her husband’s clan is allied with ours, as are the clans his two brothers married intae, an’ were it nae fer them, Clan Ranald would have been taken over by another clan a few years ago, an’ I’d be a laird without lands or people.”
“I do not understand.”
Donall shook his head. “’Tis a long and complicated tale. Still, the gist o’ it is this… me father wasnae a good man, but he was me faither, an’ Alayne was all I cared fer in the world. When Darren MacLean refused me sister’s hand in marriage, mefaither chose tae declare a vendetta again’ them. He stole the bride o’ Laird MacLean’s youngest brother, threatened her life, and the brother killed him while Alayne an’ I watched.”
He heard Lydia gasp, but he refused to look at her. It was easier to speak the words while staring into the coals of the hearth, rather than seeing the horror on her face. “I watched him die, an’ for all he wasnae a good man - he was cruel an’ cold and prone tae drinkin an’ beating defenseless folk when the black moods took him - I swore vengeance. ‘Twas a matter o’ honor, I thought, nay matter that me faither’d never had a drop o’ honor in his black soul. But even so, I swore vengeance on MacLean Clan.”
He took a long drink of the beer, letting the sour burn cut the sense of bile in his throat. “The king ordered Darren MacLean tae take me sister’s hand as part o’ a peace treaty. I couldnae bear the idea, but I couldnae defeat Darren MacLean in pitched combat, so I tried to sabotage his marriage tae me sister in other ways. I tried tae make it seem it was his fault the peace was failin’. Then I tried tae force him to relinquish the treaty, an’ me sister, though I kent he couldnae. Even when I realized she’d come tae love him, an’ he her, I tried.”
The words stuck in his throat, bitter even now. “I failed, but Darren had enough honor nae tae kill kinfolk, even kinfolk-by-marriage. Instead, I was sentenced tae the king’s justice, an’ placed in the royal gaol fer some some years. Darren an’ his brothers were given stewardship o’er me clan while I was imprisoned, an’ I hated it, but ‘twas better than seein’ the clan destroyed fer me folly. An’ I had plenty o’ time tae realize itwasfolly, sittin’ in me cell.”
“That sounds… awful.”
Donall let a bitter laugh escape his throat. “Which? The gaol, or realizin’ I’d been a fool, too blinded by me own pride an’ determination tae avenge a man I ought tae have said good riddance tae meself?”
“Both, I suppose. It is never comfortable to realize one has been wrong about one’s life, and the course it ought to take.” Lydia’s voice was soft, but Donall heard something quiet and all too knowing in her words.
For the first time, he looked up and met her gaze. “Och? An what mistake did ye make, lass?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For a moment, Lydia considered making up some lie. But Laird Ranald, Donall, looked so vulnerable, so weary and so broken, that she didn’t have the heart to do so. And really, what did it matter if she told some of the truth? She could still word it carefully so it would seem to fit with the story of her life as she’d told it to him thus far.
“My parents passed away when I was very young. My uncle took me in but he never cared for me. I was a tool, a pawn to be ignored or discarded or used at leisure, valuable only for what favor he could trade my existence for, since he had no children of his own. For a long time, I hoped that if I could be meek enough, quiet enough, serve well enough, that he would come to love me, or at least value me. And then he told me he would sell me to a man whom I am almost certain is a murderer.”
“An’?”
“And I could not accept it. I fled and became a servant, hiding from him, and from the man he wished to give me to. My friendElswith - she was an older woman who once worked for my mother - helped me. It was she who suggested that I flee into the Highlands, when rumor came that my uncle might find me.”
“I thought ye said ye became a servant when yer parents died.”
