Page 31 of The Forest Bride
“Here’s my sister, come to tend to you.” He jabbed a thumb toward the doorway. “Campbell says you are injured. He thinks the wee bairnie needs a mother.”
“I am not a bairn. And I am not injured badly, just a twisted knee and shoulder. They will heal.” Her mouth was already crammed with cheese that was buttery soft and wonderfully good. She glanced toward the door. “Sister?”
“Aye.” The woman came into the circle of candlelight and set a basket on the table. “I am Euphemia MacArthur.” Her voice was warm.
Margaret blinked, expecting a female version of Bran, large and beefy, perhaps disagreeable. But Euphemia MacArthur was young, a large woman yet small beside her massive brother. Where he was creased and scruffy, untidy and scowling, she was lovely, golden pink, and calm in a gray gown. Her round face was pleasant, her form generous and curving, her honey-gold braids were wrapped about her head in a pretty frame. Her eyes were ice blue under arched brows, and her dimpled smile brightened the room.
“After you eat and bathe, I will tend to your wounds.”
“A soak in a hot bath will do. You can both leave.”
“Sir Duncan asked me to see you. He says you had a trying day and need to rest here in the guest chamber.”
“Is that what he calls it,” she said wryly.
“Sorry?” Euphemia looked baffled.
“Are you wanting that oatcake?” Bran asked.
Margaret shook her head and handed it to him. She smiled at Euphemia, feeling relief despite all. The past few days had been difficult. Having sisters, she found she missed the company and comfort of a female friend, and here was a kind stranger. Food, candlelight, and the prospect of a bath would help too. But the hospitality originated with Duncan Campbell.
“Thank you, Euphemia.”
“It is Effie, if you will. Here is the bath,” the woman said, as Margaret heard a noisy clunking and scraping outside the room. A lanky boy stepped through the doorway, dragging an empty wooden tub that he had pulled from another room. He rolled it to the middle of the chamber. An old man followed, lugging a basin of steaming water that he dumped into the tub.
“Not much, but we will fetch more,” the old man said. He beckoned to the lad and both disappeared down the steps.
“Thank you, Hector, Artan. Bran, it is chilly in here,” Euphemia told her brother. “The shutters should stay closed and that brazier should never go out. This room should always be ready in case Sir Duncan brings a guest.”
“It is a waste to keep it fresh. No one has used it since the last priest we—”
“Give me a candle,” Effie said briskly. Taking it, she knelt beside the brazier in the corner, lit a twist of cloth, and applied the flame to a small stack of peat bricks inside the brazier. “This will take a while. Do eat,” she told Margaret, standing. “Bran, you may go. Please tell them to hurry with the bathwater.”
While Margaret ate, Euphemia moved around the room, tucking sheets on the bed, adding blankets. The old man and theboy returned with buckets to pour streams of water into the tub, vapor rising.
Euphemia thanked them as they left, shut the door, and went to the table to open the basket. She took out a ball of gooey soap and rolled linen toweling.
“Now then, my dear,” she said quietly, “let us get you into that tub.”
Margaret stared. “Do you know—”
“Aye. Duncan told me, and Malcolm Lennox knows too. My brother thinks you are a lad and will not guess otherwise until he is told. Duncan asked me to help you. He says your arm is hurt, or your knee. Warm compresses will help. Do you want those clothes, or this?” She dipped into the basket to hold up a soft drape of dark blue cloth. “I thought to lend it to you.”
“It is lovely,” Margaret said.
“I brought a shift too. You might be tall enough to wear my gowns with a belt, but they will be large on you. Are you done eating? Sorry. Bran does not know much about serving food.”
“He was kind to bring it. And I appreciate the gown.”
“You should give up that awful cap too. Oh, my saints!” Euphemia said as Margaret tugged it from her head, red-gold tresses spilling out. “What glorious hair! Though not a lucky color, is it, such red, they say. But you have been a lucky girl, and you are in a good place here. I brought a comb too, if you like.”
“Effie MacArthur, I rather love you,” Margaret said.
Chapter Seven
Duncan strolled acrossthe bailey yard, cheese in hand—reminding himself to ask Euphemia if she could make some decent meals while she was here—and looked around at the castle in the blue twilight. Somehow its features and flaws showed fresh in the light. Trotting beside him, one of the tall hounds gave a low woof.
“I know, Mungo,” Duncan murmured. “Look at this place. Stout and strong once, aye, and we have done some work. But there is more to do.”
