Page 21 of Bride of the Mad Laird
Edmund gave a disbelieving grunt. “Me eyes didnae deceive me when I watched ye look upon her, Tòrr. Mayhap ye dinnae ken it yerself.”
CHAPTEREIGHT
Lyra reclined in the copper tub, closed her eyes and let her hair sink into the warm water to wash away the suds.
She’d never bathed like this before. Of course, for the nuns, cleanliness was almost a sacred bond. Lyra had always washed her face and hands each morning and monthly sponge baths werede rigueur.But to disrobe and immerse completely in warm water, with the luxury of rose-scented soap, was something she’d never even dreamed of.
This was a rare pleasure indeed, and the silky sensation of the water moving over her body made her aware of herself in a way she’d never experienced. The water flowed over and around her breasts, and she watched, fascinated, as the pink nubs responded by puckering and hardening. She brushed one with her hand, startled at the little burst of pleasure that brought.
Surely it was sinful to feel such delight in the sensations of her own body?
She soaked until the water lost its warmth and it was turning cold by the time, she stepped out of the tub onto the rush mat. She dried off with the linen towels provided, and put on the lacy night-shift that had been left for her on the bed.
Then she sat by the fire and combed the shiny ringlets of her hair until they were dry and smelling sweetly of roses.
She dreamed before the fire, dozing, waking, luxuriating. When her traitorous thoughts strayed toward a tall, dark-haired, savage, she put all such foolish visions out of her head and, instead, remained in the afterglow of the newfound, languorous indulgence of bathing in warm, silky – and, oh so sinful – water.
Finally, when even the logs had burnt low, she slipped between the covers of the bed, reveling in the soft mattress and the fresh, sweet-smelling sheets, and drifted off to sleep.
Morning light was streaming into her room from a high window in the stone wall when a soft tapping on the bedchamber door awakened her. Heart thrumming, she seized her cloak and hastened over.
“Who is it?”
Could it be Laird Tòrr?
A small voice responded. “’Tis Elspaith, yer ladyship.”
Lyra opened the door to a small, trembling lass. She caught a glimpse of fiery red hair and a face dusted with freckles as the wee lass dipped her head and curtsied. Draped across Elspaith’s arms was a gown of deepest blue velvet.
“Come in, lass.” Lyra flung the door wide.
Elspaith trotted into the bedchamber and proffered the gown along with a chemise, stockings, and a petticoat of embroidered white fabric.
Lyra lifted the sumptuous gown and held it up. “Is this for me to wear? It is very grand.”
Elspaith nodded. “Aye. Claray sent it. It belongs to the laird’s sister who left it along with other gowns after she visited. It is in the Italian style.”
“Well, surely, I cannae wear the lady’s clothing?”
Elspaith shook her head. “Claray said it will dae until the dressmaker can fashion another for ye. She is certain the lady willnae mind. She is a sweet soul and generous.”
The little maid’s face had turned pink, making her freckles stand out, and Lyra could not help but smile at her earnestness.
“Aye. I thank ye, Elspaith. I shall be pleased tae don such a lovely gown.” She ran her hand over the velvet. “’Tis beautiful with this gold stitching at the neck and sleeves… I’ve ne’er seen such a gown.”
“I am at yer service if ye wish me tae attend ye, tae braid yer hair, or tae put ribbons in it. I have ordered some warm water fer ye tae wash when ye’re ready. The scullery maid will bring ye something from the kitchen tae break yer fast.”
Lyra was nonplussed. “I dae believe I will need yer help tae dress. I am unused tae wearing aught but the simplest of robes.”
After she’d splashed water on her face and washed her hands with the rose-scented soap she donned the underskirt, and Elspaith helped her roll up the silk stockings.
“Raise yer arms, me lady, and I’ll slip the gown over yer head.”
Lyra dutifully obeyed and, as the dress slipped over her shoulders, she marveled at the unfamiliar softness of this lush fabric. It clung tight around her waist and over her breasts so that breathing freely became difficult.
As she tied the golden, plaited girdle around the neat waistline, Elspaith produced a pair of dainty, embroidered, slippers and Lyra slipped her feet into them.
Another knock at the door brought two scullery maids carrying trays loaded with porridge, honey and cream, coddled eggs in sauce, cheese, butter, bannocks, and blackberry jam.
