“Find those who would suit, and bring them to Lady Cicely for her approval,” the laird replied.
“My lord!” Cicely gave him a stern look, but the laird shrugged it off.
“Finding the right servants is a woman’s task, ladyfaire. Please do this for me,” he said in an almost pleading tone.
“Oh, very well, my lord,” she finally agreed. “Having seen the disgraceful state of this house I cannot help but want to put it to rights. And you have asked me nicely. It is a challenge, and I do love a good challenge,” Cicely told him.
“As do I,” he replied meaningfully with a wicked grin in her direction.
Mab chuckled softly at their sparring. Aye, this lass was the right one for the laird despite being born on the other side of the border. She wouldn’t crumble beneath his hand. She knew how to fight and defend herself. “I’ll bring some folk in on the morrow for your approval, my lady,” Mab said to Cicely.
“What is this?” Bethia demanded to know as she returned to the hall.
“My lady is to bring new servants into the house,” Ian Douglas said to Bethia. “As you cannot get along with her you will return home tomorrow to your husband.”
“My lord, I have served you faithfully!” Bethia cried.
“Your service was barely passable for a man alone,” the laird told her, “but I was too lazy to correct you or make a change. Housewifery is not a man’s task. You will have been paid at Michaelmas past for a year’s service, and you may keep that coin, though you have rendered barely two months of that service.”
Bethia threw aside the broom she had brought into the hall and stormed from their presence, muttering curses beneath her breath as she went.
They would pay! Oh, yes, they would pay. Brought to Glengorm as a captive, she had accepted her lot, married a Douglas, and been faithful. Did it really matter that she stole a wee bit here and there from her master to earn extra coin? All servants stole. Didn’t he have more than one man needed? Those in the village were quick enough to purchase her goods. Yet despite her good service, she had been tossed into the road like so much refuse. She would find a way to repay the Douglas laird in kind if it took her years!
Mab picked up the broom and swept the remains of the meat platter, the rancid joint, the crumbling bread, and the moldy cheese into a pile. “I’ll be back with a bucket to pick it up,” she told them, and hurried from the hall on suddenly spry legs.
“You’ve made an ally,” Ian Douglas said quietly.
“She’s old yet hardworking and loyal,” Cicely replied. “But Bethia is a bully. I am glad you sent her away. She would continue to cause trouble. Now let us eat before this potage grows any colder, my lord.”
After the meal the laird attempted to convince Cicely to take his chamber for her own until the chimney serving his mother’s rooms was cleaned and the chamber freshened, but she refused him.
“Tell me about your mother,” she said, engaging him in conversation.
“I don’t remember her,” he said. “She died when I was barely a year, birthing my brother, Fergus. She was a Stewart. Our father died two years later. He was an honorable man, I am told. They were good but unremarkable people. Our grandfather Douglas was still alive, however, and Grandmam too. They raised us. I’m named for him. He taught us how to fight, how to drink, and how to wench. Our grandmam taught us manners. I am called thecannyDouglas, for I am a careful and thoughtful man, but he was called thewenchingDouglas.” The laird chuckled. “And the women loved him for it, even Grandmam. No man alive could make a woman feel more beautiful or desirable than my grandfather. You’ll hear the tale eventually, but he died in the bed of one of our village women. He brought her to total ecstasy, roared with his own pleasure, and then fell over dead. I do not think he ever thought about dying, but I suspect he appreciated the way in which he did.”
“Your grandfather sounds like a wicked man, and you obviously take after him,” Cicely said. Her cheeks were pink with his story of thewenchingDouglas. What kind of man—or woman, for that matter—enjoyed coupling? Coupling was for the sole purpose of procreation. Certainly people didn’t enjoy it.
“You’re blushing,” the laird noted.
“Your tale is indelicate. I am not some tavern wench you need to impress,” Cicely said in a tight little voice.
He looked closely at her, and then he laughed softly. “Didn’t anyone tell you, ladyfaire, that coupling is pleasing?”
Cicely’s blush deepened. How had he known what she was thinking? “My lord, our Holy Mother Church teaches that there is but one reason for coupling.”
“And whom will you believe, ladyfaire? A man who has coupled with many women, or a dried-up old husk of a priest whose cock is but a conduit for peeing?”
“You speak blasphemy, my lord!” She stepped down from the high board and made her way across the hall towards the hearth.
He caught up with her in a single moment, spinning her about to face him. “There is no blasphemy in passion. Your friend the queen would tell you that if you asked her.” Wrapping an arm about her, he pulled her to him. The knuckles of his other hand gently grazed down her soft cheek as he momentarily lost himself in her blue-green eyes.
Holy Mother!Cicely thought as she realized how hard the body pressed against hers was. And it felt so right, yet how could it be? This brazen laird had no right to handle her in such a way! But while her heart was beating fiercely, she realized that he excited her, and part of her wondered how far he would go. If the truth be told, Andrew Gordon had never excited her like this. But it was wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! “Unhand me, my lord!” Cicely said in what she hoped was a stern tone.
His arm dropped from her waist, but before she could move his two hands captured her small face between them. His mouth closed over hers, and he kissed her fiercely. The full, soft lips beneath his yielded reluctantly, but they yielded. Finally lifting his head, he stared down into her face. “Was that blasphemous, ladyfaire?” he asked softly. Then, turning away from her, he walked from the hall, leaving her alone.
For a long moment Cicely stood rooted to the spot where she was standing. Then, stumbling to the fireplace, she sank down into a chair. What was the matter with her? She should have slapped his arrogant face for daring to kiss her. She was practically promised to another man. But was she? Did she really want to wed Andrew Gordon? The king wanted her to wed him, although Cicely knew he would not force her to it. And she was not so much of a fool that she didn’t realize the king would want her to spy on the Gordons to make certain they remained loyal. But if she married into Clan Gordon, she would be loyal to her husband’s family—unless they attempted to betray James Stewart—but she could not report their daily activities, or whom their guests were. And was Andrew Gordon really the man for her?
Oh, yes, he was handsome enough. He could speak French with her, and he wrote passable poetry he liked to recite. But he was also a little haughty, and had been dismissive of her attempts to speak with him on more serious matters. Sometimes Andrew gave her the impression that he was doing her a great favor by considering her for his wife. And he had already attempted to exert control of her by pressing her into this marriage, which was why she had hesitated. He did kiss nicely, however, and while his first kisses had been delightful, for she had never been kissed before, they had not thrilled her from her head to her toes the way that Ian Douglas’s kisses had.
