Chapter Twenty-Five
Clara scratched ather best gown as she stood at the top of the great hall to greet the MacCleal. It was too hot to wear this heavy thing, but she wanted to honor the man with her best attire. As did Beitidh, apparently, who rushed to stand beside her in a scarlet gown that had seen better days. Apparently, she’d made it back early with the rest of the women so that she could prepare for the celebratory feast. Not that Beitidh had done any of the work.
“Step aside,” the woman said as she elbowed Clara. “You can stand there when Liam comes home, but this is my place when the laird enters.”
“You’ve married, then?” Clara asked. “Should this be a wedding feast?”
“What? Get on with you. I’m the laird’s lady, and this is my place.”
Not without benefit of a ring, but Clara didn’t have the time to argue. The noise was growing as the laird threw open the doors and stomped into the castle. He was surrounded by his men who hooted and cheered like every man returning from a successful hunt. Women and children followed or were streaming in from other doors. The mayhem was deafening, especially with the dogs that barked underfoot.
The smell was intense as well, and Clara mentally counted the days until the bathhouse was complete. At least they’d gotten part of it working. But for now, she clapped and cheered with everyone else.
“Welcome—” Clara began, but Beitidh had her own greeting.
“My great hunter returns!” she squealed as she launched herself into the man’s arms. He caught her quickly enough, but Clara noted that he winced as he did so. Perhaps his aging body didn’t appreciate three weeks without a soft bed. It didn’t stop him from bending Beitidh over as he kissed her. Then he straightened up and slapped her hard on the bottom.
“That’s the way to welcome a man home,” he bellowed. Then he turned to Clara. “Is the meat ready? My men are hungry.”
Clara clapped her hands. “The meat has been cooking all day in anticipation.”
It had arrived courtesy of five teenage boys who had lugged the beast into the kitchen with as much fanfare as the older men wanted now. Thankfully, Mrs. Boyce knew what to do and set her sons to cleaning the beast. It looked like a stag to Clara, and everyone agreed. The boys said that the laird had killed the wolf earlier, but they had feasted upon it days ago. Clara declared it one and the same and left them to their work.
“The food will be ready as soon as you return from cleaning off the smell of the hunt.”
“What?” the laird said with a laugh. “You would have us muck to the stream now?” He leaned forward. “That is not the way to treat a man in his own home!”
“I have great news, then!” she cried as she clapped her hands. It was generally a noisy place with each man greeting his family, but at her tone, most everyone quieted. Even the dogs settled. “Mr. Russell has fixed the pump that ran to the bathhouse.” She smiled. “We rushed the work for your return. And now you may be the first to use it!”
She put all her enthusiasm into her voice, but it fell on uncertain faces. It was clear the laird, at least, did not like being sent to the washroom like a dirty boy. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he frowned. “How did you repair it?”
“That is a question for Mr. Russell—” Clara began, but Beitidh apparently disliked the discussion. She stepped between Clara and the MacCleal with an airy wave.
“It is English foolishness,” she cried. Then she kissed the man boldly on the mouth. “I think you smell fine.”
Clara shook her head. “I know Mairi would send every one of you to wash off your dirt. And now we have water right through the north bailey. Don’t you want to see it? It will be beautiful when all the work is done, but right now it is merely functional.” She couldn’t imaginenotwanting to inspect a modern convenience, especially one so badly needed.
Beitidh pitched her voice high and hard. “Och, the Sassenach wants to beautify the castle. She thinks we’ve not got beauty enough here with our strapping Scottish men.” She grinned as she squeezed the laird’s arm.
Clara shook her head. “You are arguing merely because it is my idea.” She pinned the MacCleal with a hard look. “Have you married her, then? Does Beitidh make the rules? I swear Liam learned to wash from someone and it wasn’t her. Not with the stains in her skirts or the mud in her hair.”
It was a risk pointing out the lack in Beitidh’s appearance. She was, after all, the laird’s woman. But Liam had said his father was different before, back when Liam’s mother still lived. And there had to be a reason that the laird had not yet wed the woman.
“You’re a good man who loved a good woman,” Clara pushed. “What would your wife have thought of her?”
She saw the moment the man’s thoughts turned. He looked at Beitidh’s mussed hair and dirty dress. He probably didn’t realize that he’d done half the damage when she’d leaped into his arms. It didn’t matter. She did not look like a respectable woman, and everyone here could see it. Beitidh, too, must have felt the mood turn against her. She bared her teeth and her nails as she launched herself at Clara.
“Bloody Sassenach!” she screamed.
Clara jerked back. The change had been so sudden and so violent. Part of her couldn’t credit that it had happened. Which meant that she was slow. She brought up her arm to block—too late—but before the woman’s nails raked her face, something worse happened.
She stepped on a dog’s tail.
The creature yelped, Clara stumbled, and Beitidh sliced down with her nails. She never touched Clara, thanks to the dog and the laird’s quick reactions. The MacCleal gripped his woman’s arm and jerked her away. Then he cast her back to fall onto yet more barking dogs.
What a disaster. Especially since Clara had fallen with a bruising clatter. But before she could recover, a roar of fury exploded from the base of the hall. From her vantage point on the floor, Clara couldn’t see who was coming. Truthfully, the sound had been dark and guttural, but she had a guess. Or perhaps she had merely wanted him by her side so badly that she imagined him.
He was real.
