“Aye, my lady,” the woman said, not bothering to look up.
Lena set her hand on the woman’s forearm, feeling it tense underneath her fingers. Greer drew her gaze to Lena, and Lena could see she had dark shadows underneath both eyes. “Call me Lena, please.”
“Ye are the laird’s wife,” Greer said, her mouth turning down before her lips pressed together in hard line.
“Aye, I am,” Lena said, sensing the woman was judging her and deciding whether she was friend or foe. “But I am also a woman who wishes to make some friends.”
Greer’s wary gaze snapped wide. “Friends?” Astonishment colored her voice.
“Aye,” Lena said, nodding. “Friends.”
“I’m nae certain the laird would care for such a grand lady as yerself to be friends with the likes of me.”
Lena gritted her teeth. This was the second woman to imply she had no choice in the matter of who she befriended. She didn’t like that at all. “I’m certain my husband will allow me to decide with whom I wish to be friends.”
“If ye say so,” Greer said with obvious doubt. “But I am the lowliest kitchen maid here. Most the women here dunnae even bother with me.”
Lena wondered if it was because Greer had a guarded, unapproachable look about her and not anything to do with whatever was attached to the woman—nor the fact that she was the lowest kitchen maid, as the woman put it—but Lena would keep that to herself for now. She studied Greer for a moment. The woman had ratty hair and dirt smudged on her face, and her gown was torn and had speckles of caked mud on the skirts and bodice. She didn’t know whether Greer did not bother with her appearance or if she purposely kept herself this way to avoid attention from men or others. “I thank ye for yer praise of calling me grand.”
When Greer gaped, Lena bit her cheek to keep from chuckling. She’d suspected the woman had called her grand as an affront, and the look of worried shock on the woman’s face proved it.
Lena smiled sweetly as if she did not suspect it at all. “I can assure ye I have nae always been so grand, as ye so generously put it.”
Greer quirked her mouth this way and that before speaking. “I imagine a woman as clever as ye has always been grand,” she replied, looking contrite.
Lena felt as if she’d won a small victory and that she and this woman were now talking as equals. “There was a time that I did nae brush my hair, change my gown, or clean my body for too many sennights for me to truly remember.”
Greer’s gaze swept over Lena and then to her own gown. The woman raised a tentative hand to her hair and then brushed her fingers over the mud spattered on the front of her bodice. “Was it because of yer husband that ye did nae care for yerself?” she asked, her voice a hushed whisper.
“Aye,” Lena said, her jaw clenching with the memory. Findlay had made her hate herself, therefore she had wanted to disappear, to be unseen. Her sisters-in-law and brothers had helped to lessen the self-disgust so that she at least kept herself tidy, but Alex had made her feel alive again and given her back the desire to be seen by others—most especially by him. She wanted to do that for this woman, if that’s what she needed.
“He was nae a good man, and he made me want to disappear,” Lena said.
Greer’s fingers strayed to the edge of her gown sleeve, and Lena saw that the woman tugged on it in an effort to cover the dark-purple bruise. “Yer husband now is a good man. Ye’re verra lucky,” she added. “I’ll likely nae ever have a husband like the laird.”
Maybe Lena had misjudged the bruises. Or maybe someone else besides a husband had given them to Greer. Lena picked up the dough to knead it, so she’d have something to do besides gape at Greer, which might make the woman feel uncomfortable. “So ye are nae married?”
Greer shook her head. “Nay. I wished to be at one time. I thought myself in love with the butcher, but my brother had grand ideas that I’d marry well to elevate his own status,” she said, bitterness edging her voice.
“What happened with the butcher?” Lena asked, finding that she’d leaned closer, truly enthralled.
Greer took a long, deep breath. “My brother denied his request for marriage, sure that I’d marry Archibald MacLean.”
“Archibald!” Lena said, unable to help her gasp.
Greer gave her a wry look. “I see ye ken about Archibald MacLean.”
“Oh aye,” Lena said, grimness settling into her thoughts of Alex’s cousin, who’d plotted with the English in hopes of taking the MacLean lairdship from Alex. Archibald’s aspirations had almost cost Lena’s brother Graham his life.
“Well,” Greer said, drawing the word out as if she were now reluctant to admit the rest of the tale, “when Archibald’s treachery was discovered, the laird questioned my brother to see if he kenned anything about it.”
“Did he?” Lena demanded, finding herself angry.
Greer shrugged. “I have my suspicions,” she said, “but I dunnae have proof, except for the fact that my brother and Archibald had shared long talks into the wee hours of the morning many a time. I suppose yer husband could nae decide my brother’s guilt for certain so he spared his life but stripped him of his status as a warrior.”
“I see,” Lena said evenly, understanding fully now why the women kept their distance from Greer and why Lara might think that Alex would not want her befriending the woman. But if Alex had allowed the man to remain at Duart, he must not consider him a threat, unless he kept him here to watch him. Either way, it was not Greer’s fault that her brother might have been conspiring with Archibald, and Lena could not see how it was right, nor fair, to shun her because of it. The woman obviously needed a friend and quite possibly help.
“Ye dunnae have to remain, my lady. I’ll nae shed buckets of tears if ye depart my company without a backward glance, so dunnae fash yerself.”
