True Highland Spirit (16 page)

“Ye are going to leave me bald!”

“Nay, I’ll leave ye a few strands left, I promise. Now sit still. I have done my mistress’s hair since I was eight years old. I ken what I am doing. Dinna worrit yerself.”

“I canna believe I let ye talk me into this,” grumbled Morrigan.

Alys began to hum a happy tune.

“Ye’re enjoying this, dinna deny it!” challenged Morrigan.

“Aye, I have wanted to do this for a long time.” Alys styled Morrigan’s freshly washed hair into the latest fashion. Apparently, female fashion was painful. “Ye have the best hair I’ve e’er seen. ’Tis such a rich color, like chestnuts, and thick like a rope but shiny like silk. None o’ the Campbell lasses have hair like yers.”

Morrigan reveled in the compliment without a word. She had always thought her long, straight hair was simply brown.
Chestnuts
. That was something special. It did occur to Morrigan that Alys may be flattering her to keep her still while her hair was styled. If that was the case, it worked. Morrigan offered no more complaint to the procedure.

“Have ye thought who will be the first-foot this eve?” asked Alys.

It was New Year’s Eve, or Hogmanay, as it was known in Scotland, and tradition dictated that the first visitor, or first-foot, of the New Year must be someone special.

Morrigan shrugged. “We had Harry do it last year.”

“Harry!” Alys did not sound pleased. She stepped around from her work to confront Morrigan, her hands on her ample hips. “The first-foot determines the luck for the entire year. No wonder ye all are in the state ye’re in.”

“Well, Harry is tall,” said Morrigan apologetically. The first-foot was supposed to be tall, dark, and handsome, if you could get it. He was also supposed to bear gifts symbolizing good luck for the New Year. Last year Harry had stumbled in at midnight drunk, the bottle of whiskey he was supposed to gift the clan having been consumed while he waited outside for his cue to enter.

Alys went back to her work with a few extra tugs on Morrigan’s head. “Harry indeed,” she muttered.

Morrigan started mentally going through the list of tall, dark, and handsome Highlanders who could serve as first-footers. It was a short list. In truth, she could not think of one.

“Have ye any thoughts on the matter?” asked Morrigan. Alys was sure to have a better plan than hers. Alys had been the one to organize all of the Christmastide celebrations. They were in the midst of the twelve days of Christmas, and never before had the McNabs been so merry.

Alys mumbled in reply. There was no obvious candidate, but Morrigan was certain Alys would sort it out. Alys was, after all, the one who decorated the castle with holly and ivy. It was she who directed the play of Adam and Eve on Christmas Eve, and she who found a Yule log big enough to last all twelve days of Christmas. Dear to Morrigan’s heart, or more accurately her stomach, Alys had also instructed the cook how to prepare feasts, including boar’s head, mincemeat pies, puddings, stews, and mouthwatering gingerbread.

Initially Morrigan objected to the Christmastide feast, expressing concerns that they would run out of food before they ran out of winter and demanded the plans be changed. The McNabs had not celebrated with anything more than an extra dose of hearty wassail in years. But Alys calmly explained how Morrigan’s ransom prize, in combination with some well-timed gifts from the Campbells and careful economy, made it all possible. Alys may have been barely literate, but when it came to household accounts, she was the mistress of her domain.

Morrigan never ran from a fight, but after hours of ledgers and patient explanations, she sounded her retreat. She would take care before challenging her sister-in-law’s household management again. Besides, Alys had her own recipe for baking gingerbread, one to which Morrigan was becoming quite partial.

As much as Morrigan was uncomfortable and slightly confused by the infusion of celebratory spirit in the McNab household, she could not deny that her people were cheerier than they had been in a long time. Although Archie McNab was not there to witness it, marrying Alys was the one thing he finally got right.

“There now,” said Alys walking around Morrigan to examine her handiwork. “Ye look verra well, if I do say so myself.”

“What have ye done? It feels odd,” said Morrigan reaching for the headdress Alys had pinned to her head.

“Dinna touch it!” scolded Alys. “Yer hair is so thick I was able to do several tiny plaits to make a pattern on yer head, can ye see?” Alys held up a polished, copper mirror and Morrigan tried to see her new style.

“I canna see anything beyond this daft headdress,” complained Morrigan. The headdress itself was quite pretty, made of a gauzy material and gold ribbons. At the nape of her neck, Morrigan’s thick hair was divided to form two plaits entwined with more gold ribbons. Even with the plaits, Morrigan’s hair reached her waist.

“Now for the gown,” said Alys.

Morrigan opened her mouth to protest.

“Have some gingerbread,” said Alys handing her a large piece.

“Buying my compliance with baked goods?” Morrigan grumbled, but took a bite of the special treat.

“Aye and I’m no’ ashamed to say it. Now stand up and stay still. I’ll do all the work, ye just eat and think on the feast we’ll have tonight.”

“I’m no’ a child,” mumbled Morrigan, standing up and taking another bite. She was defeated by her love of gingerbread.

Alys had Morrigan step carefully into the blue silk gown. Alys fastened the tiny buttons at the wrists of the sleeves with nimble fingers. Next she began tightening the ties in the front and back to create a formfitting look through the bodice.

“Is breathing important?” asked Morrigan, her mouth full of gingerbread.

“Nay,” answered Alys cheerily. “Try bending over.”

Morrigan bent over at the waist and Alys cinched her in tighter. “Ow! What are ye doing?”

“Giving ye a wee bit o’ lift.”

“Lift? Lift o’ what?” Morrigan glanced down and answered her own question. The gown was low cut, at least to her standards, and squeezing out of the top was a considerable bit of cleavage that had never before seen the light of day. For Morrigan, who was accustomed to keeping herself bound as flat as possible with linen strips, the sight of her own well-proportioned bosom was a step too far.

“Alys, what are ye going to put here?” Morrigan gestured at her chest.

“Do ye have any jewels? A necklace perhaps? Something from yer mother?”

“Hang that! I canna walk out o’ the solar looking like this. Tell me true, how are ye going to cover my… my…”

“Ye could try for a maidenly blush.”

“Alys!”

“Dinna get yerself in a state; ye look lovely.”

“This isna fair. Ye are wearing a gorget.” Morrigan pointed to the part of Alys’s veil that wrapped under her chin and covered her neck and chest.

“Aye, but I am a married lady, I am expected to dress wi’ more modesty. Ye are verra fashionable. ’Tis what all the Campbell sisters wear.”

“So an unmarried lass is supposed to flaunt her wares like a fishmonger?”

“I woud’na quite put it like that, but aye, a lass should dress to catch a man’s eye.”

“Nay. I winna go down looking like this. They will laugh at me!”

“Nay. None of our lads values his life so cheaply.” Alys gave her a smile.

Morrigan shook her head. In her men’s clothing, she was protected. She knew who she was, and while she may not have been accepted, she was never mocked. Dressing as a lady, she was lost.

“I dinna ken why I let ye talk me into this.” Morrigan began to pace, a simple task she found more difficult in skirts. “No amount o’ gingerbread is worth this.”

“Morrigan, Sister,” said Alys gently. “There can be no future for ye dressing as a man and going to war. Like it or no’, ye are a lady. ’Tis yer birthright. ’Tis time ye claimed it.”

Morrigan shook her head. Not much in the world scared her, but opening herself to ridicule, that put the fear in her.

“’Tis Hogmanay, the beginning of a new year,” continued Alys. “Ye can choose a new path. Ye can be the lady ye were always meant to be. Besides, think o’ what a shock it will be for the clan. Ye should do it to amuse yerself with their surprise if naught else.”

“What is for supper?” asked Morrigan, weighing her options.

“Boar’s head and goose and mincemeat pies and frumenty, oh lots of things.”

“Are ye serving my favorite sauce wi’ the goose?”

“Aye.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes at Alys. “What is my favorite sauce?

Alys sighed and shrugged. “Please, Morrigan, please come down to the great hall wi’ me. Let this be a new beginning for ye. A fresh start. Besides, I need ye. Like it or no’, ye are the only family I have here. Please come down wi’ me.”

Morrigan sighed. She kicked off the pretty little slippers and tugged her leather boots on under the gown. Around her waist she strapped her short sword. Morrigan glared a challenge to Alys.

“Ye look lovely… and a little frightening,” declared Alys.

Morrigan smiled. It was the best compliment she had ever received. “Let’s be done wi’ it.”

Morrigan stomped out of the room, defiance blazing in her eyes. She was determined to kill any man who insulted her by staring at her… and any man who insulted her by not staring at her. It was bound to be a bloodbath—no different from any other New Year’s with the McNabs.

***

Wearing a skirt holds a power of its own. Morrigan had always believed she must bully others into doing what she wanted. Apparently, she could gain the same effect by merely flashing a little cleavage.

Walking into the great hall arm in arm with Alys caused such a stir it was comical. Men stared. Women stared. Even the dogs stared. The room was silenced. It was the best entrance she had ever experienced. From that point forward, men she had known for years rushed to bring her a mug of wassail or a joint of meat. When she expressed a desire for whiskey, five men ran to her with their flasks.

She was not without detractors, however. One man made a rude comment and was escorted out of the hall by Harry and Willy. If his yelps outside the door were any indication, he was sent on his way with a bit of rough treatment. The women’s gossip was another hurdle, but Alys excused herself at one point and said something to a group of whispering women that made their faces burn. Morrigan smiled in spite of herself. She had never before had a female friend, but in Alys she had a powerful ally.

After supper, Alys organized mummers and some entertainment. Though nothing in the world could convince Morrigan to sing or dance, she did enjoy the festivities, much as she was loathe to admit it. Before her a juggler was trying to perform his act. Actually it was a page named Kip, and he could not juggle at all, but his comic attempts had the hall roaring in laughter. And the more they drank, the more amusing the act became.

“Och, Morrigan, help me,” whispered Alys at Morrigan’s shoulder. Alys had disappeared ten minutes ago and returned looking harried, a strand of hair falling free from her generally tidy veil.

“What’s the matter?” asked Morrigan, following her out the side door and into a small passageway beside the hall.

“Look, ’tis the blacksmith’s son, Liam. I canna raise him.” Alys pointed at the young man in a heap on the floor.

Morrigan rushed to the lad’s side and blew a sigh of relief when she found him breathing. “By the saints, he reeks o’ whiskey and beer,” said Morrigan. “He’s fine where he is; let him sleep off his drink. He’ll learn a lesson about moderation in the morn, I wager.”

“Nay, we must get him to his feet. He is the first-foot!”

Morrigan evaluated the lad where he lay. Alys had done an admirable job of finding a tall, dark, and handsome Highlander, albeit a bit young and passed-out drunk. “He would make a good first-foot, but he’s drunk as sin.”

“Help me get him to his feet. Maybe if we walk him around a bit,” said Alys, her brows knit together in worry. This was important to her.

“Alright, up wi’ ye,” said Morrigan wrapping the lad’s arm around her shoulder and hauling him off the floor. For a thin lad, he was a heavy one, as if his father had fashioned him steel bones from his blacksmith shop.

Liam’s head lolled to one side as Morrigan and Alys struggled to get him upright. Finally they succeeded in lifting the lad to his unstable feet. Liam opened his eyes and looked at his rescuers, one on each arm.

“Bonwie lasses. Look, I gots me two o’ em!” Liam grinned and retched on the floor. Morrigan dropped him and stood back to protect the gown. She was still not sure how she felt wearing gowns, but she was certain it was not going to be ruined by a green lad who couldn’t hold his liquor.

“Oh hell!” exclaimed Alys, watching Liam slump back down to the floor.

“Alys McNab!” chastised Morrigan in mock horror. “Such language! I’m ashamed o’ ye. Ye must change the company ye keep.”

Alys flashed Morrigan a wry smile. “Sorry to offend yer delicate ears, but this was my first-foot. Who do we get now?”

“Rider’s approaching!” came the cry from the hall. Both Morrigan and Alys left the snoring lad and hustled toward the main entrance of the great hall.