Page 25 of Bride of the Wicked Laird
“Hush, Thomas.” Broderick tried to quieten the lad so he could examine the wound.
Davina knelt beside Thomas and reached into her apron for the kitten, who leaped at once onto the boy’s lap, instantly distracting him.
When Broderick laid his hand on the boy, the bellowing started up again.
“Me apologies Broderick, but Thomas doesnae trust ye.” The lad’s mother whispered. She glanced at Davina. “Can the lass help him? He’s more comfortable with a lass’s touch.”
Broderick handed the cloth to Davina and the lad quietened as she did her best to stay the bleeding.
“He’ll need stitching. Can ye dae it?”
Davina nodded, although a stone dropped into her belly at the prospect. But she’d stitched wounds before and, truth to tell, it was little different to the stitching she applied to mending the nun’s torn clothing, which had also been her job to fix in the convent.
Broderick handed her the needle, threaded with hemp, and while the lad was distracted by the moggy’s antics, Davina deftly made three neat stitches, closing the cut.
After knotting and cutting the thread, she layered one of Broderick’s healing salves on the wound and bound it with a clean strip of linen.
“Can I take the kitty home wi’ me?” Thomas begged.
Davina shook her head. She couldn’t bear to part with her kitty. After only a day, the tiny animal had squirmed its way into her heart.
“Nay, lad. I’m sorry. She’ll stay here wi’ me. But when yer maither brings ye back fer me tae see tae yer leg and cut the stitches, I promise ye’ll be able tae play wi’ her then.”
“What is the moggy’s name?” The lad was still stroking the kitten’s ears.
“She has nay name yet. What d’ye think we should call her?”
The lad thought about it for a while. “She’s soft and pretty and as light as a feather. Can we name her Feather?”
Davina clapped her hands. “That’s a perfect name fer the wee soul. Feather she shall be from now on.”
By the time Thomas had dried his tears, and he and his mother had departed, it was past noon.
Davina had been hoping there’d be time for her to change into her blue kirtle and braid her hair before she went to her meeting in the solar with Laird Everard. But there was no time for such vanity, so she scrubbed her hands, splashed her face with water and dried herself on a fresh linen towel, tucking her wayward curls behind her ear.
“Is there any mud on me nose? I must go visit with the laird.” She smoothed the crumpled skirt of her kirtle, straightened her apron and tucked Feather into the pocket.
Broderick inspected. “Nae a scrap. Yer nose is untouched, except fer one or two freckles.”
She huffed indignantly. “There’s aught wrong wi’ freckles.”
Broderick was chuckling as she hastened out of the infirmary. It was only when she raced up the stairs of the keep that she noticed her hem was stained with mud.
“God’s blood,” she muttered under her breath. Then she gave a half shrug. There was nothing to be done. She could only hope the laird would not notice.
Everard seemed lost in thought when she entered the solar, gazing into the fire which blazed merrily in the hearth.
At the sound of the door closing behind her, he got to his feet.
“Come in, lass. Join me and warm yerself at the fire.”
She slipped into the room and lowered herself into the armchair beside his, all too acutely aware as she sat that the hem of her kirtle was boldly displayed, muddy hem and all. She thrust her feet under the chair hoping her hem would follow. It remained, obstinately, in full view.
On a small round table between the two chairs was a flask containing an amber-colored liquid. Everard reached over and poured a splash into the glass he was holding and poured another splash into the remaining glass.
He put down the flask and handed the glass to her. “A wee dram of whisky, lass.” He raised the glass he was holding. “Slàinte Mhath. Tae yer good health.”
He watched as she sipped. The whisky burned as it went down her throat and she grimaced. He chuckled and immediately she felt her cheeks flushing with heat.
