He took her bag and hefted it onto his own shoulder. “What did I tell ye about carrying yer own things?”
“I am too tired to wait for some poor maidservant to run up two flights of stairs to carry a bag I have carried since university.” She gave him another weary smile. “I’ll do better at remembering decorum once I’m rested. I promise.”
While he didn’t agree with her penchant to do everything for herself, he understood it. She would learn soon enough. “What isuniversity? I believe ye’ve mentioned it before.”
Her eyes flared wide, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. A sure sign she was working on a lie. Fern did the same thing right before she blurted out an untruth. He waited. If a liar was given enough rope, they would eventually hang themselves.
“Uhm…surely you’ve heard of the University of Oxford? Established in 1096, maybe even earlier.” She lengthened her stride to keep up with him, swinging her arms as though she didn’t know what to do with her hands. “I studied there. Years and years ago, really.” With a teasing tip of her head in his direction, she gave a tensed laugh. “Not everyone can afford private tutors and such, now, can they?”
“I wouldha thought ye learned yer healing at an abbey.” He stepped back and waved her toward the stairwell leading to the third floor. Their private floor. Solar. Bedchambers. And with any hope, someday, a nursery full of bairns. “Or mastered yer arts at a monastery, even. Although I’m none too sure monks would tutor a woman.”
“Oxford gave me my foundation. London the rest.” She climbed the narrow stone steps faster, as if distancing herself would end the conversation. “So, you think I’ll be able to have a good scrub? Maybe enjoy some hot water?”
She was changing the subject again. A thing he noticed she did quite often. He’d leave off about her education for now. They had all their lives to sort through the truths and lies of their pasts. God help him, he had enough regrets of his own. If she could accept his mistakes, he would accept hers.
Chapter Nine
Evie exhaled, hershoulders sagging in relief when Quinn left her in what he calledthe lady of the keep’s chamber. Ever since agreeing to marry the man, a tense edginess took over whenever she found herself alone with him. Kind of like a spring wound too tight. Thank goodness his sister Fern had supplied the temporary distraction of a complicated birth.
“Cripe’s sake, I’m full-on knackered.” She raked her fingers back through her hair and refreshed her ponytail, securing the loose strands determined to flutter around her face. She didn’t need to be near anyone until she’d rested. Weariness always dulled her sharpness, increasing the risk of her saying something she shouldn’t. The adrenaline rush she always enjoyed after a successful surgery had ebbed into a warm, satisfied glow, leaving little energy for anything other than breathing. Ensuring her words fit thirteenth-century vernacular was most definitely out of the question right now.
She meandered around the large, high-ceilinged room, waiting for whoever Quinn had assignedto serve his lady, as he had so proudly put it. Whoever it was, she hoped they brought hot water. Enough for tea and a good scrubbing. The thought of tea made her sad. Soon, it would run out. Life without her precious tea would not be pleasant. But she had managed it before, and while she wouldn’t like it, would somehow manage it again.
The room was pure dead brilliant. Gorgeous as one of those touristy displays in castles preserved by the National Trust. A massive, canopied bed drowning in pillows reigned supreme, centered between a pair of opulent tapestries wafting down from a beam snugged up where the roof met the stone wall. The rich, velvety bed curtains secured with gold cording were a vibrant navy embroidered with trailing vines and white roses. Identical wardrobes guarded either side of the bedchamber entrance like a pair of massive sentries. An assortment of heavy chests and a scattering of side tables, all crafted from dark mahogany, waited to be explored when she had recharged. The furniture gleamed from polishing, reflecting every flicker of the multiple candelabras strategically placed for the best lighting.
A bench beneath the arched window on the east wall caught her eye.
“Absolute aces.” An appreciative sigh escaped her as she sank into the soft nest of cushions and closed her eyes. Unfortunately, she had reached the point of weariness where sleep refused to visit. Her mind kept shifting into overdrive and revving the gas. Wound too tight to drift off and escape the strangeness of this new life, her eyes popped back open. The tapestry on the opposite wall caught her attention. Elaborate gold tasseling and narrow rope braiding framed a burgundy field filled with a family of strange long-eared rabbits cavorting among a colorful mass of flowers and large green leaves. Garish for her tastes, but she supposed she could get used to it.
With a slow tilting of her head, she studied the odd hares with their vivid pink eyes. They looked angry. Or demon possessed. Not all cute and fluffy like bunnies should be. She rubbed her eyes. “I have hit delirium. Get a grip, Eves.”
A sharp rap on the door pushed her to her feet.
“Yes?”
“Might we enter, m’lady?” inquired a mature voice from the other side.
“Yes. Of course.” Evie braced herself, wiping her sweaty palms on her jeans. She had never had her own staff before. Well, not in private life anyway. She had commandeered many a team at Finchcrest and abroad, but she doubted that counted in this situation.
The door swung open, admitting a tall, thin stern-faced matron followed by the same two young girls who had commandeered her bags when she first arrived. With a click of her fingers, the older woman gave the girls a look that sent them bustling, then she marched forward with a polite dip of her chin. “I am Mrs. Dingwall. Housekeeper here at MacTaggart Keep. It is an honor to serve ye, m’lady.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dingwall. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Evie tried to focus on the housekeeper, but the dark-haired maid unpacking her bag and placing all her medical tools in a neat line across a low dressing table in the corner distracted her. She didn’t like anyone touching her things but bit the inside of her cheek to keep from telling the girl to bugger off. No. She was overtired and needed to dial it back, else she’d look like a fool and overplay her hand.
“That is Lorna, m’lady.” Mrs. Dingwall peered at her like a research scientist studying a rat running a maze. “Is anything amiss?”
“No,” Evie hurried to say. “Forgive me. I am…tired.” Unable to restrain herself any longer, she darted across the room and snatched up the small container holding her precious tea before Lorna reached for it. “Might I have some hot water?” She gave the housekeeper and both maids her politest smile. “Or perhaps a pot I could hang over the fire and heat some water in? Along with a cup. If it’s not too much trouble?”
The other maid, her hair as bright as hot coals, crouched at the hearth tending the fire. She turned and eyed Evie as if she spouted silly gibberish. “Begging yer pardon, m’lady, but the lads are fetchin’ Himself’s verra own tub and all the water needed to fill it. Be that all right? Or are ye needing the water for something else?”
Mrs. Dingwall’s thin lips twitched with a smugness enhanced by her overlarge nose that reminded Evie of a flamingo’s beak. “And this is Agnes, m’lady,” she noted with a gracious nod. “These two shall be yer closest maidservants tending to all of yer private needs. They will take fine care of ye. Whatever ye need, they shall see to it. If they do not…” She paused and assumed a hard-jawed expression that would make the mightiest warrior tremble. “I shall address it.” With a decided squaring of her narrow shoulders, she stood taller. “But I daresay there will be no issues. Lorna and Agnes are my most efficient. Aye, girls?”
“Aye,” both girls said in unison. They added a quick curtsy, then resumed their tasks.
Evie was both impressed and intimidated. Mrs. Dingwall made quite the formidable general, her haughty professionalism enhanced by the severity of her black clothing. Only a single item of her apparel wasn’t dark. The stark white cloth covering her hair and wrapped under her chin.
The older woman touched a hand to her head covering and arched a brow. “Does her ladyship have issue with my fillet or the barbette?”
“Absolutely not.” Evie scolded herself for staring. Hugging the tea container to her chest, she forced an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. I’m just a bit tired. Not rude. At least, not normally.” She was babbling. Weariness did that to her. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I was just wondering if a small pot could be brought up so I might heat some water for te—a broth?” Tea. She needed tea. The caffeine and familiarity of her comfort drink would help her manage whatever they threw at her.
