“Ahh…bad memories for ye. I understand.” The lass patiently waited until Mila emptied the cup, then took it and set it aside. She grabbed a pitcher from the floor, dipped it into the tub, and smiled. “Now we shall return yer hair to its loveliness, aye? That will make ye feel better. I gathered the best soaps and oils to make sure we rid ye of all those muddy tangles.”
Mila opened her mouth to argue, then gave up and closed it. Grissa’s determination would not be stopped. She leaned forward and bowed her head. “Dinna drown me, aye?”
The maid laughed. “I willna drown ye, mistress.” Her voice took on a gossipy, excited lilt as she dumped the water over her. “I did find out the best thing whilst fetching yer tea.”
Hidden in the curtain of wet hair, Mila covered her eyes while waiting for another dousing. “Did ye now? And what might that best thing be?”
“Himself sent for a seamstress and told the lad to have her bring her finest wares.” Grissa soaked her with another deluge, then started scrubbing.
The soap made Mila’s scalp tingle, but not in an unpleasant way. A floral scent spiked with the crispness of peppermint filled the air. She failed to see why Teague sending for a seamstress was so exciting to the girl. Perhaps she hoped to get a new dress? “That will be nice for the ladies here. Are many of them needing new things?” She flinched as the maid scrubbed her head with renewed vigor. “Ye are digging into my brain, Grissa. Let up a bit, ye ken?”
“Sorry. I get carried away sometimes. Time to rinse. Shut yer eyes tight. The oils in Mrs. Cain’s soap can burn like a fiend.”
Several pitchers of water sloshed over her in rapid succession. When the dousing finally ceased, Mila flipped her hair back out of her face and straightened. She held out a hand. “If ye will hand me the soap and a rag, I’ll scrub myself, aye?”
Grissa’s snort conveyed that she didn’t agree, but she complied without argument. “Here ye be. Now back to yer question about the ladies here needing new things.” Her beaming smile returned as she squatted by the tub and propped her arms on its side. “Himself sent the seamstress so ye willna have to wear borrowed things that dinna fit ye proper.” She shrugged. “And even if they do fit, they still are borrowed. Ye need yer own things.” Her expression became even more animated as she lowered her voice to an excited whisper. “I think himself fancies ye.”
“Himself does not even know me.” Mila lathered the rag and started scrubbing, realizing too late that once she washed away all her deodorant and body spray, that was the end of it. She sniffed the soap, wondering how the lather might react with her armpits if she let it dry to use as an antiperspirant. “And I am sure ye’re mistaken. I gave him a case of the red arse right before he left me.”
Grissa waved away the excuse, then snatched back the soapy rag. “Move yer hair so’s I can scrub yer back. And himself never stays angry long. Leastwise, not over little things. Why, one of the stable lads let a horse run away. Most chiefs wouldha ordered him whipped for it. But not himself. All he did was make the boy scrub the garderobe sluices for a fortnight.”
Mila only half listened. She was too hypnotized by the pleasant back scrubbing. “Himself probably stole the horse in the first place,” she said, then clamped her mouth shut. She should not have said that, even though horse and cattle lifting were common practice in the Highlands.
Grissa laughed and paused the washing. “That is exactly why himself didna have the lad thrashed! He said so, even.”
Water sluiced down Mila’s back, reminding her she needed to pee. While she wouldn’t mind learning more about Teague, the urge had become impossible to ignore. “Is the garderobe close by?”
“Oh no, mistress. Ye dinna want to go there. ’Tis on this floor but a good ways down the hall.” She drew Mila’s attention to a small cabinet next to the door leading back to the bedchamber. “Himself brought this fancy piece in from France.” She flipped back the top, then pulled open the side door, revealing a seat with a hole and the porcelain chamber pot underneath. “Is it not fine?” She tapped on the small drawers on the other side. “And in here are bits of wool and such for cleaning yer bum and lady parts.” She snapped her fingers and her eyes went wide. “I must add some rags to the bottom drawer for when yer courses come. ’Tis not done yet, but will be. I swear it.”
Her courses. Mila almost groaned aloud. No more decent feminine products. A despondent sigh escaped her as she mentally calculated when she would have to deal with that uncomfortable inconvenience. She stepped out of the tub and looked around for some sort of towel.
“Here, mistress.” Grissa descended on her with an enormous length of linen, scrubbing her dry and squeezing the water from her hair.
Mila grabbed the cloth. “I’ve got this. Could ye get my clothes laid out? I will finish drying, use the facilities, then join ye.”
“Facilities?” The lass fixed her with a befuddled frown.
“The chamber pot. I prefer to take care of such things in private.” Mila willed the girl to leave while wrestling with the urge to shout at her. It wasn’t Grissa’s fault this time-traveling rabbit hole had swallowed her. “Ye can leave the door open and tell me more about himself while I—relieve myself, aye?”
“Oils for smelling pretty are in those bottles.” Grissa pointed at a trio of dark vials lined up on the table beside the tub. She wrinkled her nose as she lightly patted her armpit then delicately pointed below her waist. “Keeps down the stench in yer oxters and such, ye ken?” After that sage advice, she twirled about and bounced out of the room.
Mila closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath, reveling in the quiet. She had always been a loner. Never the sort to join in on chatty girl gatherings, pub crawls, or midnight gossip sessions. One close friend had been enough. Tana. Robbie’s mum. Tana had helped her learn to cope and actually get out in the world. Even enjoy being a tour guide for busloads of people. Heaven help her, she missed Tana.
She shook away the attack of self-pity and availed herself of the chamber pot, knowing the quiet wouldn’t last.
“What would ye like to know about himself?” Grissa called out from the bedroom.
Might as well solve the mystery of Drummond Maclain. Mila took her time drying off and selecting an oil that smelled of lilacs as her new deodorant. “How long has he been acting chief?”
The maid stuck her head through the doorway, looking confused. “What?”
Mila wrapped the linen around herself, tucking it under her arms. She hoped the flowery scented oil soaked in soon. The slimy feel was not pleasant. “I assumed Teague is watching over the clan while the chief is away.”
Grissa fluttered her fingers, urging her through the doorway. “Himself has been chief since he was born.” Her voice dropped, taking on a somber tone. “He was born the night of the massacre, ye ken?” She shook out a simple white shift, then slipped it over Mila’s head. “His mam birthed him in a cave with no one to help but his grandmam and his mam’s sister. The poor woman died bringing him into this world. Thank the Almighty his mam’s sister had milk to feed him. Her poor wee one froze to death whilst they searched for shelter that awful night.” As Grissa tugged the shift down in place, she continued, “His uncle, Old Maclain, died too. Bloody Campbells killed him in his bed. They murdered himself’s father, too. ’Twas a wonder he survived that bitter winter as a new bairn.” She held up the stays, waiting for Mila to lift her arms. “His grandmam named him after her son, Old Maclain, and raised him with a thirst for vengeance.” She gave another sad shake of her head. “His poor auntie that nursed him died of the ague when he was barely weaned.” She moved around and tightened the stays until Mila could hardly breathe. “Himself has lost so many. That is why he gathered all of us soon as he got old enough. Many MacDonalds were scattered the night of the massacre when their homes were burned. But now we are together and a clan again. With a purpose.”
Grissa’s long-winded tale made little sense. Unless…? “Ye said his grandmam named him after Old Maclain.” Mila tugged on the overly tight bodice, fighting for air. “He told me his name was Teague MacDonald.” The more the lass talked, the more Mila dreaded confirmation of what she suspected.
“Aye.” The girl helped her don a petticoat and tugged it down in place. She walked over to the bed and held up what looked to be two small embroidered sacks with ribbons sewn around their opening. “Mrs. Gillicutty even sent ye some pockets.”
