Juliana woke the next morning to a soft knock on her door, and a moment later, two cheerful-looking young girls entered, one carrying a tin pitcher and the other a pile of clothing.
“I’m Caitlin,” the one with the clothing said, “and this is my twin, Calin.”
“I’ve brought ye hot water to wash with.” Calin placed the pitcher on the dresser near the door. “And some heather soap, too.”
Juliana swept the covers back and sat up. “Thank you.”
“And Sima thought some of this clothing might fit ye.” Caitlin placed the pile at the foot of the bed. “We were told to ask if ye want anything else, since ye are English.”
She was very much aware that Scots considered English ladies to be pampered and spoiled, and she certainly didn’t want to prove them right. “I will be fine. Just tell me where I should go once I am dressed.”
“There’s a small room off the kitchen where most of the household breaks the fast,” Calin said. “Someone should be about.”
Juliana thanked them again and maintained a straight face as the twins bobbed awkward curtsies. It looked more like both of them had gotten a sudden cramp in their legs, but she suspected they’d never attempted a curtsy before. Last evening she’d realized that Greer and Aileen’s mother functioned as the housekeeper and, since these young maids had called her by her Christian name, she obviously didn’t set too much store in formalities, especially not curtsies.
She shivered when her feet touched the cold stone floor. The coal in the brazier had gone out during the night, and the maids hadn’t bothered to relight it. Probably because—as Juliana had discovered shortly after arriving at Strae Castle—people were not expected to stay abed in the mornings. She hurried over to the dresser, poured the still-warm water into the basin, and made fast work of her ablutions. It wouldn’t do to have the MacDonnells think she was lazy. She had no idea of how early—or late—it was, since the sky outside her window was a slate grey that promised more snow.
Moving to the stack of clothing on the bed, she took a moment to run her hand over the fine texture of the wool. Scots were known to be some of the best weavers in the world, and the gown, while plain blue wool, was of good quality. She shed the night rail she’d been lent the night before and donned a fresh chemise, then slipped the gown over. The Scots were practical, too, having the laces in front and keeping the skirts to a simple amount of material that didn’t require hoops or petticoats. Not that she had either. She’d discarded her torn and ruined ball gown along with its necessities when she’d purchased the traveling dress, which had been a practical garment, too. She sat down on the bed and quickly pulled on heavenly warm wool socks and then found her half boots. Quickly braiding her hair into a thick plait that swung down her back, she smoothed her skirts and took a deep breath as she opened the bedchamber door.
Today, she’d no doubt meet Cousin Morag. Had the girl spent the night with Rory?
…
Rory had gotten up at dawn, or as near dawn as he could surmise, given the leaden sky. Juliana would probably not be pleased that they were going to have to stay another day or two until the weather cleared. He wasn’t especially happy about it, either, since he wasn’t as sure as the MacDonnells that Neal Cameron had given up. In addition to a ferocious temper, when his pride was pricked, he would not give up seeking revenge. The ploy that Rory had used to dupe him certainly met that mark, as did their escape. The sooner they could head east toward Drumochter Pass and reach Blair Castle, the better he’d feel.
He looked up from the table as Juliana entered the breakfast room and managed to curb a sharp intake of air. Sima had worked magic—or perhaps the fae had been following them and decided to intervene out of boredom—but Juliana looked breathtaking. The blue of the gown brought out the color in her eyes and made her hair seem on fire. The soft wool clung to her, showing dips and curves that weren’t usually visible in her regular clothes. The neckline was modestly low, only hinting at the fullness of her breasts…a much more tempting illusion than some of the fashionable gowns where bosoms nearly popped out. It made a man want to dip a finger between cloth and skin and pull the material down. He pushed that thought away.
“Did ye sleep well?”
“Yes. It felt wonderful to sleep in a feather bed again.”
A picture of her snuggled into that bed, covers drawn up over her naked body, did nothing to banish his previous thought. Damnation. If he didn’t stop thinking like this, he was going to have to take himself in hand, something he hadn’t done since he was a green lad. Something he hadn’thadto do, although he wondered now if he could last the entire year of a handfasting staying celibate.
He gestured toward the sideboard. “We are nae waited on here, but I can fix ye a plate.”
She gave him a look as though he were daft. “I think I am capable of putting food on a plate.”
He grinned. She’d actually sounded affronted. Perhaps if he teased her a bit, it would get his mind off his lust. “’Tis quite a decision ye’ll have to make. There’s shirred eggs and boiled, porridge, bacon, herring, black pudding, scones, and oatcakes. Jam, butter, and clotted cream as well. And,” he added for emphasis, “ye’ll also have to make a choice between coffee or tea and then decide on the sugar and milk. Are ye sure I should nae just take care of it for ye so ye willna tax your mind?”
Her expression turned to one that might be used when observing someone not quite sane. He suppressed another grin as her eyes began to spark blue fire.
“I am sure I can handle such a demanding task.”
For a moment, he contemplated following her to the sideboard and helpfully pointing out each dish. That would be sure to rile her. He could even suggest how big or small a portion she should have, which would truly cause her to dissemble…which could be interesting in itself. But he held himself in check. He’d accomplished his mission. His lecherous thoughts had subsided. For now.
…
Juliana cast a wary glance at Rory as she brought her plate back from the sideboard. Had the trek up the loch yesterday in the icy cold affected his thinking? Or perhaps he’d overindulged in bed sport last night? Not that she was going to ask aboutthat, but she had overheard a rather risqué widow in London talking aboutla petite mortonce. The lady claimed she’d actually lost consciousness during the act, and it had sounded like it was a good experience. At the time, Juliana had just stared at the woman, wondering how anyone could possibly find it pleasurable to pass out. But maybe that had happened to Rory, and lack of oxygen had marred his thinking. Why else would he have rambled on about making selections and listing every item available? It was quite strange.
“Have the others already eaten?” she asked and hoped he wouldn’t start a recitation of the food items again.
“I doona ken. I suspect Greer and Aileen might still be abed.”
And Cousin Morag? Was she still snuggled in the warmth of Rory’s bed? But then, why would he be down here? Juliana frowned and pinched herself under the table. She had to stop thinking about his paramour. Not. Her. Business.
“Is something wrong with the food?”
She looked up from her plate. “No. Why do you ask?”
