‘Don’t question me, Bertha. She is my mistress. Her name is Connie, and we will weather the scandal when it comes. Just go to my chamber and make it more presentable for a lass, and then take her around Fellscarp so that she can get her bearings.’
Bertha crossed her arms beneath her ample bosoms and ruined his day. ‘And what of Lorna Gilpin? Word will spread that you are sharing your bed with another. What will she think of that?’
‘To hell with Lorna. She can think what she likes. It might do her good to be jealous for a change.’
‘Oh, your tone has changed. I thought she was your true love,’ scoffed Bertha.
Glaring at the only woman in Fellscarp who could talk to him in such a manner, Peyton hurried away, boiling with frustration. Taking Cecily as his pretend mistress was not honourable. But it was better to be dishonoured than dead. Cecily would just have to put up with it. But Bertha was right about Lorna. He was heartily sick of her constant rejection, but they had an understanding - or at least, he thought they did. He had to make things right with the lass.
Peyton rushed to his chamber and took up a water jug and a bowl. If he was to spend his nights with the high and mighty Cecily MacCreadie, he might as well make an effort. And it might help to look presentable for a change. He took his knife and hacked at his beard until his chin was smooth and sore. Then he shouted down the stairs to Bertha to come and bring scissors. He was admiring himself in a mirror, even though it was the worst kind of vanity, when the door squeaked open.
‘Bertha ordered me to bring you these,’ said Cecily, holding out scissors.
Damn Bertha. ‘Where is she? he snapped.
‘She said she had to go and milk a cow,’ said the lass, regarding him with a frown. ‘Why did you cut off your beard? I do hope it wasn’t on my account.’
‘And why would it be?
She shrugged.
‘Aye. Well, don’t just stand there. My hair will not cut itself.’
‘You can’t want me to do it?’
‘Aye. Didn’t you say you wanted to be useful?’ Or is cutting my hair beneath your dignity?’
‘You don’t have to be mean, Peyton.’
‘What else can I do in the face of such pride, Cecily MacCreadie. You think yourself too good for the likes of me, but the likes of me is your only salvation, lass. So, get on with it.’
Cecily approached him warily with a terrible pout on her face, and Peyton sat on a stool before the fire and raked his fingers through his thatch of hair. ‘Make me presentable,’ he commanded.
She arched her brows. ‘That is beyond any skill of mine,’ she said, taking up a strand of hair between her fingers and cutting.
At first, Cecily held her arms out stiffly in front of her.
‘I won’t bite, lass,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to touch you more than is necessary,’ she replied.
‘Very well, but you must do a good job, as I have to impress someone today.’
‘Who?’
Peyton was not about to share his infatuation with Lorna. How this lass would mock him for it. When he stayed silent, she continued cutting rather badly. Her fingers brushed his neck as she assaulted his shoulder-length thicket of hair, and her touch sent shivers up and down his spine. When Cecily leaned in to reach to the top of his head, her breasts brushed his arm, and Peyton stiffened in places he should not.
‘Are we to have no conversation, lass?’ he said into the thickening silence, trying to divert his thoughts from a sudden throb of lust. ‘Don’t you wish to know about the man whose bed you will be sharing this night?’
‘No.’
‘Of course, you prefer blissful ignorance where men are concerned.’
‘I already know enough about you to be sure I will never want to share your bed or learn your secrets. If I am forced to sleep in your chamber, I will take the floor.’
Peyton risked turning his head a little to look at her. ‘You don’t know what you are missing, lass.’
‘Be still, or I might slip and cut your throat with these scissors,’ Cecily replied.
