He shook off the eerie feeling that things were not always as they appeared. The gypsy woman’s strange words wove their way through his confused thoughts. What had she meant when she told Margaret that she had done what most thought impossible? Surviving a deadly fall or traveling through time?
“I will see to it right away, me lord.”
“What?”
Distracted by his thoughts, he’d missed what his steward had said. Adair starred at him, an odd expression crossing his usually placid features.
“The supplies, me lord.” His brow lowered in puzzlement. “A cart full of materials will be sent to Weem this afternoon.”
“Good. Margaret, ere ye ready?”
She glanced at Adair, smiled, then answered, “Aye.” She rested her hand lightly on Liam’s arm as they left the steward’s office.
“The way be shorter if we go through the kitchens.”
Heat from the cooking area assailed them halfway down the narrow hallway. When they entered the kitchen Iona, the cook, rushed forward to stand before Margaret, wringing her hands, her forehead creased in worry lines.
“Me lady, have ye come to make a special request. Lady Eleanor has planned the menu since yer illness. If ’tis nae to yer satisfaction ye must tell me, and I’ll prepare what’ere ye desire.”
Looking at the distraught woman’s face, he should have remembered that Eleanor refused to step foot in the kitchen and had always made Cook come to her. It was natural when Iona saw the mistress of the castle in such meager surroundings she would assume there was a problem.
Margaret laid a reassuring hand on the nervous woman’s shoulder. “The food ’tis delicious...uh.” She glanced up, a silent question in her eyes.
“Iona.” He supplied the cook’s name.
The cook relaxed when Margaret’s lips parted in an enchanting smile. Eleanor made the castle workers feel inferior, and she never blessed them with a smile or a word of appreciation. By the evening meal, cook will have related the incident in the kitchen with the new mistress, and Margaret’s sweet nature will have won the hearts of all the servants.
“Iona, I do have a fondness for Black Buns.”
“Aye, me lady.” Iona’s shoulders straightened, and she grinned. Apparently more than happy to meet her lady’s request. “Alice can have the buns ready afore tomorrow’s noon meal.”
“Excellent.”
Margaret’s gaze scanned the room. Her brow furrowed as she stared at the smithy’s eight-year-old son who rotated a spitted piglet in the open fireplace. Sweat dripped off his red, overheated face, and his wet shirt clung to his damp back. Cook often assigned the younger boys chores that required no heavy lifting. Her gaze moved to the corner where two older boys played a game of fox and geese.
“Have they nae chores?” Margaret nodded at the two idle boys.
“They have finished, me lady.” Iona worried her bottom lip until Liam began to fear she’d draw blood.
“’Tis good ye have such fine help, but have one of them relieve the lad turning the spit while he cools himself. And have the lad drink plenty of water least he become dehydrated.”
A confused expression crossed cook’s face. “De.... What?”
“That be a good idea.” To avoid the cook’s questions
afraid of what Margaret might answer
he rushed her toward the exit. “The gardens be this way,
gaol
. She will see that the lad be relieved at the spit from time to time. ’Tis that nae right, Iona?”
“Aye, me lord.” Her gray head bobbed up and down.
He entwined Margaret’s arm with his and hurried her toward the door. She peered over her shoulder and smiled when cook replaced the young boy with another then handed him a dipper from the water pail.
He paused just outside the door and took a breath of fresh air. Margaret did the same and gave him a timid smile. The afternoon air felt cool compared to the overheated kitchen.
“Thank ye, for understanding about the lad.”
Her smile of appreciation captivated him, and if her brogue was any indication, she’d gotten over her annoyance with him. He lightly stroked her hand on his arm with his fingers. The light touch stoked the fires burning low in his belly. Darkness couldn’t descend fast enough for him. All day he’d been impatient to get Margaret back into his bed.
“’Tis yer home. Change anything that will please ye.”
When she looked as if she’d refute his statement he said, “Come. The garden be shaded by the castle wall and be quite comfortable this time of day.”
They strolled down the pathway toward the rowan tree. Birds chirped and flittered from limb to limb. In the distance, hounds in the kennel howled for their daily meal. When they approached the stone bench, Margaret paused. Removing her arm from his, she strolled over to stand next to the seat. Her gaze shifted from the bench to high on the castle wall.
“I cannae see this place from me window, yet ’tis familiar. I think I’ve been….” She swayed.
Scooping her into his arms, he sat down, and snuggled her onto his lap. Confusion clouded her eyes. He held her tighter as one expression after another flitted across her face. After a moment, her tension evaporated, and she went as limp as a newborn lamb.
“I havenae been here afore, have I?” Blue eyes beseeched him to explain away why she should feel a familiarity with a place she thought she’d never been before.
Had a fleeting glimpse of when he had brought her here the day they’d married penetrated her memory? That day, he’d devoured her mouth and stroked the fullness of her breasts until he’d been tempted to make love to her in the middle of the garden. Good sense had prevailed, and he’d forced himself to wait until they were alone in the master bedchamber. Only she’d fallen down the stairs before he could finish what their bodies had clamored for.
Could he bring back that memory?
Leaning close, he closed his mouth over hers. Fingers fumbled for the bone pins that held her hair in place. Loosened, the heavy mass fell to her waist. He loved the smooth silky texture of her hair. His hand burrowed in the golden strands as he deepened the kiss.
Her lips opened to his prodding, and he sipped at the sweet nectar of her awakening desire. Her tongue made a cautious foray into his mouth, and he sucked gently until she withdrew.
Lost in a haze of desire, he cupped the soft mound of her breast. Twisting, she arched into his palm. Heat coiled in his loins. A low growl of satisfaction wormed its way up the back of his throat. She responded with a soft mewl and wiggled her bottom on his lap. Blood pooled in his groin, and he grew harder. The soft hand lying on his chest inched upward to tangle in his hair to pull him closer.
Gently, he slid his hand down the length of her back, over the flare of gently curved hips to the hem of her gown. His fingers shook when he thought of what treasure lay beneath the layers of cloth. Girlish giggles filtered through the hedge that separated the garden from the courtyard, and they jerked apart. Panting, they stared into each other’s eyes. Hushed whispers and soft footsteps drifted away.
In the fading light, he could see the pink that tinged Margaret’s cheeks. Lips swollen from his kisses creased into a shy smile. Stroking her cheek with the pad of his thumb, he grinned back. He placed one last kiss on her mouth, stood, and dropped her feet to the ground. He steadied her until she regained her balance.
If it hadn’t been for her nightmare, and the threat of her father taking her away, would she have made love with him? All day the insidious thought had plagued him. He shoved his doubts to the back of his mind and concentrated on the present. If he judged her response correctly, they would spend the night in each other arms. His heart pounded with anticipation. And this time, remnants of her nightmare wouldn’t direct her response.
“Come,
gaol
. It be near time for the evening meal.”
Her fingers trembled as she laid her hand on his extended forearm. He smiled down at her and the tentative smile that barely touched her lips gave no indication of what she was thinking. He hoped she was as eager for nighttime as he was.
They entered the dining area where everyone had already gathered to wait for their arrival. Once he seated Margaret and he had taken the chair next to her, others sat and the servants began serving the meal.
“Please, be more prompt for meals in the future, Liam.” Eleanor’s gaze drifted over Margaret’s unbound hair, pink complexion, then down to where her bodice lay slightly askew. “It is unbecoming in a lord to allow his wife to entice him from being punctual in his duties.” Disdain dripped from his aunt’s lips, pinched into a tight line. “’Twill be late before the servants who must clean the tables can seek their beds.”
Margaret’s cheeks altered from delicate pink to bright red.
“Eleanor....” Dugan’s voice held a hint of warning to his wife.
“’Tis alright, Uncle.” Hand held up to prevent further interference from Dugan, he continued. “Eleanor has had the running of the household for a long time and has been entitled to make such a request.”
His flinty stare settled on his aunt. He wouldn’t allow Eleanor to spew her malice at Margaret as she had him through the years.
“In the future, Aunt, Margaret will perform the duties of chatelaine. Meals will be served when Margaret deems it so. If she requires yer assistance, I be sure ye will do all ye can to make the transition easy and uncomplicated.”
High color fused Eleanor from her neck to her hairline. Her lips compressed into a tight line. “Yes, my lord.”
The polite words were in variance with the cold malice in her eyes. After a hate-filled glance at Margaret, she began to eat.
Thankfully, Eleanor remained silent, and they continued the meal without further mishap. When finished, he rose to escort Margaret to the chair in front of the fireplace where the family gathered to discuss their day. She tugged on his sleeve to halt his departure and waited for everyone else to leave.
“I am rather tired tonight. I think I will retire early,” she whispered. “Please make my apologies.”
She must be more upset over Eleanor’s comments than he realized. Her delightful brogue had vanished and been replaced by the hated English clipped accent.
“Margaret, I
”
“Please, Liam.” Tears made her eyes sparkle like sapphires. Her downcast expression pleaded for understanding. “If you do not mind, I would rather not be disturbed tonight.”
Although, disappointed they wouldn’t finish what they’d started in the garden, one look at the dark circles under her eyes he realized she had done too much since she arose from her sick bed.
“Aye. I will escort ye up the stairs.”
At her chamber door, he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I will see ye in the morn. Mayhap ye will feel better then.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your concern.” A tiny smile etched the corner of her lips before she went inside.
He stared at the closed wood portal and wondered if she realized that when she tried to distance herself from him she formed her words in the clipped, crisp way of the Sassenach? Only when she relaxed did she speak with a natural brogue.
He glanced back down the stairs where he heard Dugan and Conner’s laughter in the great hall. Everyone would think he’d retired with Margaret, and since she didn’t expect to see him until morning, he could begin his search for the brooch with her none the wiser.
Margaret leaned against the closed door and squeezed her eyes shut. The last thing she wanted was to cause strife between Liam and his family. She needed to dissuade him from the idea that she should supervise the household. When she left, Eleanor would still have control over the castle.
Eleanor had taken their tardiness as a personnel affront and for some reason her cold voiced reprimand had sent a frisson of fear racing down her spine. A shudder rippled over her as a memory of danger and terror lurked near the surface, but tumbled back into the darkness of her mind before it became clear and distinct.
Trembling fingers reached behind her and twisted the lock.
A light tap on the door startled her. She jumped forward and whirled to face the dark wood panel. Her hand went to her throat where the pulse at the base of her neck thrummed against her fingertips. Her heart thumped in a heavy, unsteady rhythm. Lungs ceased to function. The knob twisted. Her gaze riveted on the bolt. It held tight.
A louder rap jarred her taut nerves. “Me Lady. It be Ursula.”
Her heart rocked back into its regular tempo as she exhaled. Hands shook as she reached for the door latch.
Ursula stood in the doorway with a tray of food in one hand and the other curled into a fist, raised to knock again.
“Ye had the door latched.” A puzzled frown wrinkled the old woman’s features.
“Aye.” She hated the way her voice quavered.
Please don’t ask, she silently begged. How could she explain the fear that had skittered across the shadows of her mind when Eleanor had chastised her? All she wanted was to race to her room and hide. Something in Eleanor’s tone had rattled her and sent her scurrying for shelter
like a mouse when a cat had sniffed out its nest.
“Well, ye hardly touched yer meal, so I brought ye a bite to eat.”
Dishes rattled as Ursula hobbled in and sat the tray on the table between the chairs in front of the fireplace.