Page 35 of The Forest Bride
“We know who your father is.” He turned to leave the room, beckoning the servant out as well. The door shut, the bar dropped, the latch fixed.
Chapter Nine
Hector sat outsidethe girl’s door, dozing against the wall. He opened an eye as Duncan approached.
“Sir! Effie MacArthur is down the kitchens making a late supper. I will tell you Effie does not like that bar on the door. But I told her we follow Brechlinn’s orders, not hers. But she said to leave the tub so as not to disturb the guest.”
“Aye. Go have your supper, and send someone up with food for the—guest.”
As the old man headed down the steps. Duncan knocked. Hearing no response, he lifted crossbar and latch and entered.
The room was dark but for candlelight. Hearing splashes as he stepped inside, he saw the wooden tub with its draped cloth liner, water puddling on the floor. Visible in the gleam of water was the girl’s head, bare shoulders, and hands scooping water in sparkling streams over russet hair.
“Euphemia, did you—oh!” Margaret glanced at him, eyes widening.
Suddenly he felt like an awkward young knight again. “I—uh—”
“Sir Duncan,” she said crisply. The tub was deep but not wide, so she sat knees high, head and shoulders visible. Over the elegant sweep of her collarbones, a silver chain glinted between the lush curves of her breasts.
At that glimpse, his body surged and he sucked in a breath. “I thought we could speak. I could come back.”
“This is your home.” She waved a hand and rested an arm along the top edge of the tub covered by the cloth liner. Rivulets ran down to pool on the floor. Her arms were lean and limber; he recalled her strength and skill in pulling a bow.
“My home.” His gruff voice betrayed a churn of discomfort.
“I thought you might shut me in a dungeon, so I am thankful to be here, even if you barricade the door.” She dipped her hand in the water, releasing a glitter of water droplets. She was enchanting and distracting. He needed to focus.
“The dungeon is not available at present.”
“Too full already with those who have displeased the laird of Brechlinn?”
“Too flooded with spring rains.” The ancient structure, seated on the edge of the loch, did not fare well in heavy rain. Last year, an English raiding party set fire to it, undoing what work he had accomplished.
She gave him a sour look and sank lower, knees high, head tipped back. She had a graceful profile, a swan-like throat. He swallowed, stood silent.
“I thought you were Effie come to help me.”
“She is making supper.”
“Are there no kitchen servants?”
“We are just a few here. Effie MacArthur helps when she can.”
“So there is no one to deter the laird from entering a lady’s quarters?”
“Most of them think you are a lad.” He watched her shoulders ripple as she lifted slim arms to sluice more water over her head.
“You and Effie know about me. Anyone else?”
“Lennox guessed on the boat.”
“A smart man. Lovely man.” She slid a glance at him. “Considerate. He would not burst into a lady’s bath. I think he did not want me kept captive.”
“He has a soft heart.”
“And does the laird of Brechlinn.”
“Is this a dungeon? It is not.” He went to the table that held a basket and folded linens beside a chair holding a gown of dark blue. He picked up some things to carry toward her. She glanced over her shoulder, covered the tops of her breasts.
