She heard Ranald laugh but ignored him. After dropping the shirt back into the pile, she went to collect the bucket. It would require a lot of water to clean those clothes, and would take most of the day. She wondered if servitude in Hacon’s bed could possibly be worse that what he had consigned her to do. Jennet cursed. She doubted Hacon would relieve her of one duty simply because she had accepted the other. Captivity could prove to be a long and exhausting business.
As subtly she could, Jennet opened one eye to surreptitiously watch Hacon. It had not been easy to feign sleep when she woke up wrapped securely in his strong arms. She doubted he had been fooled by her act. He had chuckled softly, touched a light, gently arousing kiss on the side of her neck, and then risen. For one brief moment she had been tempted to hold him at her side. Her attempts to quell her attraction to the man were failing miserably. It was only the third night that they had spent together, and she was already weakening to his touch. She quickly closed her eyes when he glanced at her over his broad shoulder.
Hacon kept his back to her as he dressed. His arousal was all too easy to see. It was difficult to ignore the knowing grins of his men, but he preferred them to taking any chance of alarming Jennet. He inwardly grimaced. The uncomfortable state he was in was probably one he should become accustomed to. Some of Jennet’s wariness had eased, but he doubted she would be prepared to sate the hunger gnawing at him for quite a while yet.
“Ye may as weel rise, lass,” he said as he finished lacing up his jupon. “There are many womanly chores for you to attend to.”
Jennet gave up all pretense of sleeping and glared at his back as he moved toward the table where his men were already helping themselves to a large kettle of porridge. “I thought I was plunder, not a slave.”
“All plunder should be put to good use.” He winked at her before sitting down at the table. “Ye havenae been much use at night so ye might as weel be set to work during the day.” He grinned when his men laughed.
“Ye have the manners of a goat! Although”—she glanced toward the three animals tethered near the door—“mayhaps I should apologize to those poor beasts for belittling them so.”
“Mayhaps ye should cease lolling about and tend the bairn, who’s beginning to fuss. And if ye wait too long, there will be naught left for you to eat.”
She cursed and hurried to fetch the baby, pausing only to quickly wash up. Once the infant’s nappie was changed, she carried him to the table. She sat next to Hacon, settled the baby on her lap, and handed him the wineskin of goat’s milk to nurse from. Hacon set a steaming plateful of oatmeal in front of her. It was not easy to eat with the child in her lap, but, picking up the roughly craved wooden spoon, Jennet realized she was growing adept at it.
“What are ye doing?” she demanded when, finished with her own meal, she looked down at the baby to find Hacon holding a finger covered with porridge before the child’s mouth.
“He looks a big lad. I thought he might wish more hearty fare.” Hacon smiled faintly when the child warily put his mouth around Hacon’s finger and began to suckle.
“That doesnae mean he is ready for it.”
“We willnae give him verra much,” he said as he fed the baby yet another fingerful.
At that moment Jennet’s attention was diverted from Hacon. One of the goats had chewed through its tether and was standing behind Dugald, who was too busy watching Hacon and the baby to pay heed to the animal. The goat began to chew on Dugald’s jupon. Jennet knew there was no way to stop it without alerting Dugald. She hoped there would not be too much trouble even as she had the sinking feeling that it was the same goat that had feasted upon Dugald’s shirt earlier.
Just as she opened her mouth to warn Dugald, he realized what was happening. With a bellow of rage he swatted at the goat, who neatly danced out of reach. Jennet cried out a protest when Dugald leapt to his feet and reached for his sword. A grinning Hacon caught Dugald’s wrist, halting the man’s move to draw his sword.
“Nay, Dugald.” Hacon struggled to hide his amusement even as the rest of the men hooted with laughter. “We need the beast. Besides, he only had a wee taste.”
“’Tis the same hell-begotten beast that chewed up my shirt. Soon I will be forced to go naked.”
“We would ne’er let it come to that, cousin.” Hacon pushed the goat toward Jennet, who grabbed what was left of the gnawed rope about the animal’s neck. “Now, my fellows, we have work to do.”
The men quickly left the table. Hacon ushered his complaining cousin out the door, all the while assuring Dugald that his jupon was not badly damaged. Within moments Jennet was alone. Even Ranald had hurriedly left to take up his post outside the door. She sighed and looked at the goat, who appeared as pleased with itself as any animal could.
“Ye will be turned into a fine stew if ye arenae more careful.”
She settled the baby on a blanket near the table, then re-tethered the goat. After staring at the table, littered with the remains of their morning meal, she sighed and got the bucket. She doubted the men were working as hard as they expected her to.
Jennet paused in scrubbing the plank floor and rubbed the small of her back. It was probably a waste of time to clean the floor, but she felt a real need for some hard, exhausting labor. If she wore herself to the bone, she would not have the strength to think about Hacon. The man was hard to ignore or forget. Instead of getting better at it after almost a week, she was utterly failing. She could no longer tense with rejection when he held her close throughout the night. The way he played with the baby, the way he teased and laughed, and the way he treated his men all worked to make her forget that he was the enemy, the man who had taken her as plunder.
She was puzzling over how to battle the softening she felt toward him when a sound diverted her. A man was swearing, his deep voice hoarse with pain, and the sound was drawing nearer. She scrambled to her feet even as Hacon and Dugald entered supporting a pale, cursing man between them. Something was clearly wrong with the man, whom she recognized as William, the oldest of Hacon’s small band. The gray-haired man had somehow injured his arm. Jennet quickly moved to the table as Hacon and Dugald helped William lie down on it and began to take off his jupon.
“What has happened to him?” she asked, as the rest of the men arrived and encircled the table. “I see no blood.”
“We think his arm has been broken,” Hacon replied, then looked toward Ranald, who stood in the doorway. “The Douglas has a physician with his men. Find Sir Leslie. He would ken where the mon is and help ye find him.”
“Is it now safe for Ranald to approach the Douglasses?” Jennet stared at William’s now bared arm, trying to determine if it was truly broken.
Hacon cursed. “Nay.” He looked at another man. “Ye must go, Padriac.”
“Wait just a moment.” Jennet was sure she knew what ailed William, and it was not a broken arm. “Let me look at him first.” She moved closer to William and began to move her hands over his thick-muscled arm.
“Now, lassie, this is more serious than Ranald’s scratches and bruises. William needs more than a wash and soft words.”
Although Hacon’s words were sharp, even mildly insulting, he did not stop her from looking over William’s arm. “I do realize that.” Jennet nodded when she found exactly what she had expected at William’s shoulder. “My skills go beyond that. Papa always said I had a healing touch. O’er the years I easily and quickly learned a great deal. The nuns also noticed that I was adept at healing and taught me even more. William hasnae broken his arm.”
