Page 2 of Highlander's Escaped Prisoner
Maudie’s voice contained not one ounce of sympathy. “Then the sooner ye are up an’ about, the better,” she said, frowning deeply.
Nessa always felt chastened by Maudie’s censure. The old woman had been her nursemaid, then her nanny, governess, and now her lady’s maid, but through all this, she had been her friend. As well as that, although it had never been put into words, Maudie had been the mother she had never had since Fiona Guthrie had died giving birth to her. She had earned the right to speak frankly to her mistress and frequently did just that.
Nessa heaved herself out of bed, went to the window, and looked out into the cloudy spring morning. It promised to be the same kind of weather that they had enjoyed—or rather not enjoyed—for the last month, and she was desperate to see the sun breaking through the heavy clouds that promised to deliver a deluge in the next few hours.
“Mistress, time tae get a move on,” Maudie said briskly. “Yer father is expected back in the next wee while, and ye do not want him tae see ye lookin’ like a scarecrow.” As she spoke, she was laying out a gray woolen dress on the bed.
Nessa sighed. Laird Roy Guthrie, her father, had gone to settle yet another dispute on the borders of his own land and that of the Blair clan, whose estate adjoined their own. It was a never-ending feud that had been going on for years, sometimes settling down for a while, like a dormant volcano, then erupting again.
“Can I not just sit here and rest for a while, then go for a quiet ride?” she begged.
“No, ye cannae!” Maudie snapped. “Yer father will be here soon, an’ look at ye! Ye’re more bothered about ridin’ that big stallion o’ yers than ye are about spendin’ time wi’ yer betrothed.”
“You are right as usual, Maudie,” Nessa replied, nodding resignedly. “But it does not seem to worry him. He is quite proud of the fact that I can handle Jo.” Jo was her coal-black horse who stood eighteen hands high and was very easily provoked. He answered to no one but Nessa, who had raised him from the time he was a tiny foal to the giant he had grown into. “My big boy does not let anyone else ride him; even the soldiers who think they are real hard men do not dare go near him when I am around.” Her voice was proud and a little smug.
“I have heard it a’ before, hen,” Maudie said tersely. She pulled Nessa’s nightgown over her head and tossed it onto a chair, then studied her mistress’s fine, womanly figure, wondering where her little girl had gone. It could not have been more than three years ago that she had changed into this beautiful creature who turned men’s heads wherever she went.
Nessa was taller than Maudie by six inches, but her slenderness made her look even more so. However, she was not shapeless. Her waist was tiny and flared out into curving, womanly hips, between which nestled the source of her femininity. Her breasts were round and firm, and her legs were long and shapely. Light brown hair interwoven with blonde strands tumbled down to her waist, but it was her large blue-gray eyes that dominated and drew attention to her striking features. Those, and her luscious full lips, lifted her from being merely a pretty woman to being a real beauty. Maudie had two daughters of her own, but she could not have been prouder if Nessa had been her own flesh and blood.
“Time ye went down for breakfast,” Maudie reminded Nessa as she began to wash her with a sea sponge. “If ye make yer father wait...well, ye know what he’s like.” Maudie frowned and tut-tutted as she spoke.
“I know,” Nessa said grimly. Laird Roy Guthrie was famous for his lack of patience. If he was made to wait for anything, he was akin to a pot that simmered quietly over a fire then suddenly boiled over. He inspired real fear in his men, even though he had never struck one of them in anger. It was his commanding presence that made him so intimidating to everyone but Nessa, who had him wrapped firmly around her little finger.
Now, she laughed as she thought of him growling as he sat drumming his fingers on the polished dining room table.
Maudie finished washing Nessa, rubbed her down with a coarse linen towel, then laced her into her plain gray dress.
“I hate dresses,” she grumbled. “I wish I could wear what men wear.”
Maudie swatted her across her shoulder with the towel. “Dinnae be sae soft!” she snapped. “Ye are no’ a man. I have never seen anybody that looks less like a man than ye, mistress! Be grateful ye have nice clothes tae wear, enough tae eat, an’ a roof over yer head.”
Nessa felt deeply ashamed; she had so much to be grateful for, yet she was still complaining. “You are right, Maudie. I am sorry.”
Maudie smiled and hugged her. “Ye’re a good lassie, mistress.” She sat Nessa down and brushed her hair, then twisted it into a neat coil at the nape of her neck. She knew that Nessa would let her hair loose as soon as she mounted Jo, but for now, it had tobe endured while she was with her father, who was a stickler for neatness.
At last, Nessa stood up and faced Maudie. “Do I look presentable?” she asked.
“Of course ye dae,” Maudie laughed. “Ye’re a bonny lass, an’ ye know it.”
They turned at the sound of drumming hoofbeats and looked out of the bedroom window, which fortunately overlooked the main gate of the castle.
“He’s back.” Nessa’s sigh came all the way from her sensible leather boots. She turned to her friend. “Here I go, into the lion’s den, Maudie.”
Maudie giggled and flapped her hand at her mistress. “Away wi’ ye! He wilnae eat ye.”
With another dramatic sigh, Nessa went out, leaving Maudie in fits of laughter.
Laird Guthrie had made himself comfortable at the head of the dining room table by the time Nessa entered, but he stood up and gave her a wide smile as she entered, then came forward to hug her. “I am so glad to see you!” he exclaimed fondly as he enveloped her in a tight warm embrace.
Nessa laughed; home would not have been home without her father’s hugs.
They ate companionably, and Nessa filled her father in on all the local gossip since he had been away for a week and had missed all the scandalous goings-on in the local village of Drumblane.
“Did you hear about Rosie McLeod’s elopement with Rory McGyver?” Nessa asked her father. Rosie was the local blacksmith’s daughter and lived in a cottage at the back of the smithy. Rory McGyver was the son of a local wool merchant, who lived in a mansion at the edge of the village, so the two were obviously not on the same level of the social ladder.
“They had been conducting their courtship in what they thought was total secrecy for weeks,” she said eagerly, warming to her story, “without knowing that their relationship had been closely watched by a gaggle of local women. When they mounted Rory’s horse in the darkness, they rode away thinking they were safe. However, they only got as far as the bridge over the Baldoon before they found a very incensed blacksmith and an equally infuriated wool merchant blocking their path. They were then hauled back to their respective houses, and Rory McGyver was sent away to live with relatives in Glasgow. It is the most exciting thing that has happened here for years, Father!” Nessa giggled, clapping her hands. “We will probably not have another scandal like it for a decade at least!”
Roy Guthrie put his hand over hers on the table. “I missed you,” he said with a catch in his voice. “Ever since Gerald died, I have never been at ease until I am home with you.”
