Page 3 of Married for a Highland Debt
“Yes,” she replied nervously, feeling threatened by his size and his nearness.
“Who are you going to see?” he demanded.
Bettina wanted to tell him that it was none of his business, but he was too intimidating. “The cook,” she replied. “I want to ask if she needs help in the kitchen.”
The man gave her a slow and thorough inspection from head to foot and back again, the scowl never leaving his face. Bettina, seething inside, felt as though she was being undressed.
“I will escort you,” he said, in a voice that brooked no argument. He began to stride away so fast that she had to run to keep up with him, but he did not slow down, and when they reached the castle gates, she was breathless. He passed through them without being challenged by the guards, but Bettina had no time to wonder about this since he stopped abruptly in front of her, almost causing her to collide with him.
“What is your name?” he asked, and for the first time, Bettina noticed the timbre of his voice, which was deep and gravelly, and would have been a pleasure to listen to had he not been such an unpleasant man.
“Bridie Henderson,” she replied, her voice trembling. She had no idea why she invented the false name on the spur of the moment, but it seemed to have been the right thing to do. She had a well-developed sense of self-preservation, and it made sense to her to keep her father’s tainted name hidden. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck begin to stand up, and she swallowed convulsively.
“I happen to know that the cook needs a new kitchen maid,” he informed her. “I am Laird Ogilvy. Go and see her. One of the guards will take you.”
“You are the laird?” she asked, stunned.
“I am,” he answered. “Do you have any objections?”
“No,” she said faintly, feeling about two inches tall under his steely gaze.
A guard came to escort her to the kitchen. “Ye look a bit scared, hen,” he remarked with a friendly smile as he led her away.
“I am,” Bettina said nervously. “I have never worked in a kitchen before.”
“Dinnae worry, hen.” His voice was soothing. “They are a good bunch o’ lassies but steer clear o’ the laird if ye can. He is a bad-tempered so-an’-so.”
Bettina descended a steep flight of stairs and stepped into a huge, cavernous room that was filled with the delicious aromas of roasting meat and baking bread. A long table ran down the center of the space, at which several women were standing chopping vegetables, cutting meat, and rolling pastry. Two large stoves dominated the room, each with cauldrons of bubbling boiling water suspended over them, sending clouds of steam into the already sweltering atmosphere.
The women were all singing a popular folk song as they worked. Bettina immediately sensed a feeling of camaraderie between them and wondered if she would be able to fit in. Indeed, they all seemed to be working so hard that she doubted she would ever be able to keep up with them.
The biggest and oldest of them looked up as they entered and smiled at her, then stopped what she was doing to cross the room and meet her.
“Welcome, lass!” she said pleasantly as she wiped her hands on her apron. She was a tall, plump woman with hazel eyes and a head of thick gray hair, and Bettina guessed that she was in her fifties. “Did the laird send ye?” she asked.
“He sent me to meet you,” she answered. “I wanted to know if you need any more help in the kitchen.”
“Ye dinnae look like a kitchen maid, hen,” the woman said doubtfully, frowning at Bettina. Then she smiled widely. “But I think I can give ye a wee try.”
“Thank you!” Bettina said, almost weeping with relief. “I really need this job.”
The cook looked at her patched and worn dress and felt infinitely sorry for her, in spite of her upper-class manner of speech and refined manners. She was obviously a gentlewoman who had fallen on hard times.
“What is yer name, lass?” she asked kindly as she poured Bettina a glass of ale.
“Bridget Henderson,” she replied, smiling. “But you can call me Bridie.”
“I am Lizzie McGregor,” the cook told her, “an’ these two are Moira Dundas an’ Ina McLean. We are workin’ our fingers tae the bone here, so any more help would be very welcome!”
“I can work very, very hard!” Bettina reassured her eagerly, watching as a tray of fresh bannocks was lifted from the oven. Her mouth began to water, and her stomach rumbled loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I will do anything you need me to.”
Lizzie glanced at Moira, who was handling the bread. A silent look of sympathy passed between them, and a moment later, a plate of bannocks, cheese, and fresh raspberries appeared in front of her.
“For me?” she asked in disbelief.
“Aye, hen,” Lizzie replied kindly. “Ye look half starved. Eat up.”
Bettina had never felt so hungry in her life and wolfed down the meal as if every mouthful was her last.
