Page 19 of Laird of Flint
Fortunately, no one would be inspecting her handiwork. It was truly rushed and haphazard. Her stitches were crooked and uneven, and she didn’t bother to finish any of the seams.
But it only had to last one night. Afterwards, she’d rip it apart into unrecognizable rags.
Besides, its rustic quality made it a better disguise. No one would suspect the stout beggar hobbling along the hill in tatters was in truth the laird’s daughter.
She tied one final knot in the garment and snipped the thread with scissors. Then she shook out the cloth and stood to hold it up to her waist.
A few nights hence, she’d be in a hurry to dress. She needed to try everything on before then.
She’d never worn men’s trews before. They were surprisingly comfortable. The waist was a bit baggy. So she dug through her chest to find a leather belt to hold them up.
Over her leine, she slipped the voluminous patchwork shirt she’d sewn. The garment, padded in the shoulders and at the front to add bulk, fell to her knees.
She pulled up the thick woolen socks she’d borrowed from her father’s winter chest.
Then she let out a jagged breath. If her da could see her now, he would lock her in her room and throw away the key.
She’d procured a pair of sturdy boots from the stable lad. She’d told him she meant to have them repaired and cleaned for him. Which she would. After she used them to tramp through the muddy hills.
But when she picked up the left boot, it was occupied.
“Oh!” she cried. “Blancmange, what are ye doin’ in there?”
She gently dumped the wee hedgepig out of the boot onto the floor.
“Ye can’t make a nest in that.”
Undaunted, Blancmange waddled toward the second boot.
“Nor there either,” she said, picking it up out of the way.
As she watched the hedgepig continue on toward her discarded slipper, she felt a tingling at the back of her neck.
They weren’t alone. She was being watched.
Sliding her gaze warily to the left, she glimpsed a second spiny beast huddled on her bed, regarding her with beady eyes.
“Pokerounce,” she scolded in a whisper, “ye’re not allowed on the bed, and ye know it.”
She picked up the wriggling hedgepig and placed her on the floor next to her sister.
“Ye two are naughty wee lasses tonight.”
Then she smirked. They weren’t the only ones.
She clucked her tongue at the adorable pair of hedgepigs. She’d rescued them last spring when their mother had been killed by a hound.
Lately they’d had a strong nesting instinct that had led them to snuggle in her skirts, hide in the peat pile on the hearth, and burrow into her pallet. She supposed she’d have to do something about that soon.
Meanwhile, she plucked out the vials of bath oils from her willow basket and propped the basket upside down in the corner for them. They immediately toddled over and made themselves at home within the makeshift nest.
The boots proved roomy but serviceable. She snatched up the hood she’d fashioned out of brown scraps and pulled it over her head. It was perfect. Deep enough to both warm her ears and keep her face hidden under the cold, bright moon.
When she held her mirror out at arm’s length, a wave of shame washed over her again. She looked nothing like the daughter her father was so proud of.
The woman in the reflection was someone even Carenza hardly recognized. A wayward, willful, disobedient scruff of a lass who was about to embark on a mission that was disgraceful. Dishonorable. Deceitful. And dangerous.
When Hew awoke the next morn, it was over.
