“I washed yesterday,” the laird protested. “You practically scrubbed the skin from me,” he complained.
“Do you wish to bed me again tonight, my lord?” Adair asked him. “I will not get into bed with a man reeking of his own sweat and that of his horse. And if you think to force me, be advised that after I finished these shirts I spent my time exploring your fine keep. There are half a dozen places I could hide, and you would not find me.”
“I never knew English ladies had such delicate sensi-bilities,” he grumbled.
“You’ll need the least washing,” she said dulcetly.
The three men followed her downstairs to the
kitchens, where the tub had been set up. The women servants stripped them of their garments, and each man washed himself under Adair’s direction. Since women’s duties included helping to bathe the men in the household, neither the laird, his brothers, nor the serving women were embarrassed by the nudity. The men joked, remembering how their mother would supervise their ablutions. When they were dry they were handed clean chemises and their new shirts, and given back their breeks, which young Jack had brushed and aired while they bathed.
“You’ll have to go barefoot,” Adair told them. “Jack will clean your boots for you tonight. Now, if you’ll go back upstairs to the hall we’ll be bringing your supper up shortly.” She shooed them from the kitchens.
“She’s getting above herself, and taking over my keep,” Conal Bruce said.
“Thank God she is,” Duncan said. “Since Mam died everything has gone from bad to worse. But Adair knows how to run a man’s household, and I’m glad for it. You should be too, Conal. You may want her on her back pleasuring you, but I’m happy to have a clean hall, decent clothing, and good meals. So you be content with the Adair you want, and I’ll be content with the one who does all the rest to keep this house a civilized one. I suspect Murdoc would agree with me, eh, youngling?”
“Aye, I do,” Murdoc Bruce replied. “Adair’s a good woman, Conal. You had best treat her well or you will face me.”
“Jesu!” the laird swore, disgusted. “What a pair of precious bairns you two are.”
Duncan laughed at the insult. “Do you want to go back to burned porridge and a flea-ridden hall? We’re living like fine lords now. And do you notice that the men are no longer fighting all the time? In a few weeks’time Adair has brought order to Cleit that you couldn’t.
The women civilize us.”
“Until one of them gets a big belly,” Conal Bruce grumbled.
“The only one that is likely to happen to is Adair if you keep futtering her four times a night,” Duncan mocked. “No one is going to chase after Elsbeth or Grizel. And young Jack watches over his mother like a dog with a favorite ewe sheep.”
“I’ll admit ’tis better now with a small household of women,” the laird said. “I like my porridge with grated cinnamon, and a warm wench in my bed.”
“Then go gently with Adair, little brother,” Duncan Armstrong said.
“You had best tell her to go gently with me,” Conal Bruce replied. “She is not easy. And she has a temper on her. I own her. I paid good coin for her. She is my slave, yet she behaves as if this were her home, and not mine.
I never knew a more disobedient creature than Adair Radcliffe. I’m amazed Willie Douglas was able to catch her at all.”
His two brothers laughed at this.
The serving women began bringing in the evening meal, and the three men went to the high board, while below them the keep’s men at arms sat at their trestles, eager for their supper. Meals were now a good time at Cleit. Even the dogs in the hall were being fed better.
One young wolfhound had, Conal Bruce noted, attached itself to Adair. At first she had not paid any mind to the animal, but he had persisted, and she had given in. Her face when she talked with the animal was entirely different from the face she usually wore. It was softer and sweeter.
One day the laird took Elsbeth aside. “Your mistress has made friends with one of the dogs in the hall,” he said casually.
“The wolfhound,” Elsbeth said. “I know. She had one at Stanton. He was very old and frail. His name wasBeiste, and he had been with her since she was a child.
That blackhearted Douglas killed the poor animal when it attempted to protect Adair. Severed its noble head before her eyes. She wept for days after. Beiste was really all she had left.”
“Thank you,” Conal Bruce said.
The winter had slipped in suddenly a bit early. Adair had been taken as much by surprise as the others, and swore angrily to herself now that her opportunity to escape Cleit was gone for the interim. Oddly, she was finding herself happy, although she would never admit it.
And she was coming to like Cleit. She was also not ready yet to admit that Elsbeth was right. Stanton was gone. Her life as the Countess of Stanton was gone. But if it really was gone, what was to become of her? Elsbeth had said, and Grizel and Flora agreed, that she had to get the laird to wed her. All well and good for them to say, Adair thought. Conal Bruce was a rough man with no real respect for women at all. How could she overcome that? All he thought about was gratifying his lusts. He made her think of her father, whose appetites were never quite satisfied. But of course, he was not Edward IV, with his charm and his way with all people no matter their station. Conal Bruce was a rough-hewn Scots borderer, and she doubted she could ever raise him up from his primitive behavior.
She was noble-born. A king’s daughter, albeit from the wrong side of the blanket. Still, it did not lessen her blood or breeding. It had allowed her to inherit a title in her own right, for all the good that did her now. Henry of Lancaster had stripped her of her title. Had scorned her mother while carefully avoiding the subject of her father, which would, of course, have given insult to his wife, who was sired by the same man. And now, despite everything she had been through, she was brought low.
A slave, bought and paid for by a crude border lord who thought her only value lay between her legs.
