Page 35 of Bride of the Mad Laird
What were those strange feelings that came over her when he was close? A tingling, breathless kind of churning inside that was both excitingly pleasurable but, at the same time, alien and terrifying?
And then there was the way she found herself looking forward to being in his presence, listening for his footsteps, the pulse of sheer delight when she glimpsed his face.
Her reverie came to a halt with Claray’s voice at the door. “Are ye there Lady Lyra?”
“Come, Claray.”
Claray bustled in, beaming, a saffron-yellow gown draped over her arms.
“Mistress Purdie worked into the wee small hours tae make sure ye had something tae wear this day.” She hung the gown on the peg outside the garde robe.
Lyra clapped her hands at the sight of the delicately woven wool and the rich color. This was like nothing she’d ever had before. “It’s lovely,” She fingered he delicately woven wool. “This is me very first gown.”
Observing Lyra’s delight, Claray smiled. “I’m certain ye will look quite beautiful and that the Laird Tòrr will be pleased with Purdie’s effort.”
Lyra’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of her being pleasing to Tòrr’s eyes. “I will call in tae see Mistress Purdie tae thank her.”
“Hm.” Claray shook her head. “Mayhap give the seamstress time tae catch up on the sleep she gave up. Ye may find her door closed this morning.”
“Of course.” Lyra grinned. “I shall leave her tae sleep.”
Once she had washed and dressed, she sat impatiently fer Elspaith tae brush her hair.
“D’ye wish me tae make braids fer ye?”
Lyra shook her head. After so many years with her hair constrained and hidden under veils and caps, it was a joy to allow it to flow free down her back.
Elspaith held up a brass-backed looking glass to enable her a glimpse of the new gown.
Lyra preened in front of the mirror, turning this way and that, scarcely able to believe the lass in such a fine garment was herself. She sighed. There was much she missed from the company she’d known at the Priory but the world now seemed filled with fresh delights to savor. And with that in mind, once Elspaith had left her, Lyra slipped on her fur-lined tunic, exchanged her silk slippers for her boots, took down her cloak and headed out to the bailey.
She was going to ask Healer Eilidh about the disturbing sensations she was experiencing when she was in Laird Tòrr’s company.
Eilidh was pulling weeds from her herb garden when Lyra showed up beside her. The healer straightened, her face rosy and shining with sweat from her labors.
There was something about her tranquil composure that made Lyra wonder if, in the past, she might have contemplated the convent life.
“I’m pleased tae see ye, lass.” Eilidh gestured toward her tiny cottage next to the infirmary. “’Tis time I took a break from these cursed weeds. As soon as I turn me back it seems they’ve grown back twice as vigorously as before.” She gave a short laugh and peeled off her gloves. “Come. I am much in need of some refreshments.”
Lyra followed her back to her dwelling. Although on the outside it had the forbidding appearance of a cold, neglected stone building, inside it was bright with colors. Dried herbs hung in bunches from the rafters, tied with satin ribbons in crimson and blue, the walls were hung with colorful embroideries. On the mantel above the fireplace were painted stones in all shades of brown and green, each carrying a single word.
Lyra was intrigued. “May I?”
“Of course.” Eilidh was making up a brew in a large pottery teapot. The fragrant steam swirled into the air.
Picking up the first of the stones, Lyra saw ‘Kindness’ painstakingly carved into the stone. The next one was ‘Friendship’, then ‘Faith,’ followed by ‘Cherish,’ ‘Laugh,’ ‘Devotion,’ ‘Care,’ and, finally ‘Love.’
The words lifted Lyra’s spirits. “They are beautiful, Eilidh. Are they yer instructions fer how tae live a good life?”
Eilidh laughed. “Mayhap they would take us some way along the path tae a happy life. Yet there are many more. I make them when I feel the need. I often hold them in me hands, finding they bring comfort when me mind takes me tae places of sorrow I would rather nae visit.”
She poured two bowls of the tea she’d brewed and carried them outside to the old timber bench for them to sit in the sun.
Lyra replaced the stone in its spot on the mantel and followed Eilidh outside.
The sun cast a golden glow over the russet leaves on a cherry tree growing along the path. The air was filled with birdsong and as they sat, sipping Eilidh’s brew, a cheeky robin flew down and perched on the timber arm of the bench.
“Why, me dear Lyra, the sun has turned yer hair tae spun gold, it’s like a halo around yer face. Quite lovely.”
