Page 14 of Highlander’s Wrath

“What am I to do with the bowl, madam?” Colban wanted to know. He was old enough to understand that the sooner he got the business with the bowl out of the way, the sooner he could accompany his new companion to her bedchamber to retrieve the gift she had brought with her.

Coira indicated that he must follow her down to the kitchens.

When they reached the bottom of the kitchen stairs, Coira was brought up short by some critical-sounding voices she heard inside. She loitered on the last step, holding her hand up in the air to show Colban he must be quiet. The small boy obeyed her, the lure of the surprise in her trunk still uppermost in his mind.

“So, the master says she’s no’ to be treated like a servant, does he?” the cook was saying in a derisive tone. “Then what is she? Every governess I’ve ever heard of does nae have her own horse and maid. She’s no’ related to him neither. Are ye sure she’s nae some fancy piece?”

Another voice coming from the scullery replied, “Her maidservant, Miriam, says the wench volunteered to come here to instruct that wee hellion, Colban, in his letters and numbers. That makes her a governess, no matter how high an’ mighty she may behave.”

The spit roast boy spoke up, “I say she’s his fancy piece—and if she is nae now, she soon will be.”

The cook scoffed, “Have ye run mad? What woman could stand with the master’s storms and tantrums? He’s far worse than his son when it comes to unfathomable petulance, so help me! No maiden could put up with him. One moment he blows hot, and the next, cold! ‘Tis enough to make any wench run out of his bedchamber so fast she’ll leave her nightgown behind in his bed!”

The scullion piped up, “I heard tell he was driven so insane with anger once that he picked up his shaving stand and flung the whole thing at his manservant—bowl, looking glass, and all! And only because the man had handed him a blunt blade with which to shave.”

“And his black moods are getting worse,” the cook complained. “I fear for me life sometimes if he does nae like one o’ the dishes I serve. The wench is lucky the only Barclay for whom she has to care for is the boy because Blackheart Barclay, his faither, behaves far worse.”

At these words, Coira picked up Colban in her arms and ran quietly back up the stairs with him.

She went to the morning room and told the small boy to put his bowl on the table, saying in a breathless voice, “We must not always rely on servants to fetch and carry for us, Colban. Now, it’s time for your present.”

As the small boy followed her upstairs, she heard him give a doleful sniff. Coira turned around. “What is it, Colban? Are you unhappy?”

The small child wiped his eyes with his knuckles. “Nay, miss, ‘tis only that it makes me sad when I hear people fear me faither. Y’see, he’s no’ a bad man...he just enjoys shouting.”

“That I can well believe, Colban,” Coira said, although she privately believed that Laird Barclay could choose to be a very dangerous man if he wanted to be. She pushed open her bedchamber door and ushered the boy ahead of her. When they were both inside, she went to one of the trunks that had traveled up on the coach with her and pulled out a flat, brown, oval shape from it.

“What is it?” Colban asked, looking none too impressed by the soft leather item.

“Watch,” Coira said. She placed part of the leather oval into her mouth and began to blow. The shape began to grow and form a sphere. When it had reached full hardness, she took the tiny tube out of her mouth and tied a knot in it. She held it out to Colban.

“It’s a ball,” the child said with wonder.

“Yes. My brothers made it out of patches of leather sewn together and pig’s bladder. It’s a trick they learned from my father, and he was taught it at his home in the Highlands. Now, let us go outside and play with your new ball.”

Coira and Colban stayed outdoors until dinner. When Miriam came to tell them their meal was served, Coira inquired, “Is it in the nursery?” She had no plans on fostering the servants’ suspicions by dining with his lairdship every day. On being informed that Laird Barclay was waiting for them in the dining hall, Coira bade her maid take two plates of food up to the nursery for them. Only after showing Colban how to wash his face and hands before eating did she ascend to the nursery and eat with her small charge in that room. What his lairdship thought of their absence, she did not know. But he seemed to accept her preference for his son’s company and did not come to accost them.

The afternoon came in misty and cold, and after telling Colban he could not play with the ball inside, Coira spent the time left until supper reading out loud some of the books she had thought to bring with her. She held the small boy on her lap, showing him how the book was illustrated with woodcut prints, trailing her finger across the edifying couplets so he could follow her words.

By the time Miriam brought their bowls of soup up to the nursery, Colban was yawning and rubbing his eyes. Coira sat with him as he cleaned out his bowl and then took him to the washstand in the corner for ablutions.

When she tucked him up in bed, he reached out his arms for a hug. “Thank ye for me ball and book,” he whispered.

She patted his head and blew out the candle, saying to herself, “‘Tis always best to let bairns tire themselves out, then they are happy to go to bed like angels,” as she opened the door and made her way to her bedchamber, only two doors away.

A dark shape loomed out of the shadows and blocked her way.

Coira could not help but utter a small shriek.

“If you make a habit of sneaking up behind me, Laird Barclay, I shall be forced to carry a large cudgel around with me in the hope of dissuading you from continuing it!”

Laird Barclay was not mollified by this outburst. He gripped Coira by the wrist to stop her from entering the bedchamber, growling his words. “What is it ye do? I sat like a fool at dinner and supper, waiting for ye to grace me with yer presence as though I were some lackey! And now I find ye ready to go to bed without so much as a ‘good night’?”

Coira wrenched her wrist out of his grasp, saying with a good deal of asperity, “You brought me here as a companion for Colban, Hamish, not some lady friend for yourself!”

If his lairdship had noticed her use of his first name, he was too angry to dwell on it. His eyes glowed dark in the light of her lantern.

“I am the lad’s faither!” he whispered to her furiously. “Am I to be held to no account?”

Fully as upset as her master was, Coira hissed, “Come into the nursery with me. I have something to show you.”

She opened the door, and immediately, both were struck by how peaceful the atmosphere in the nursery was. Coira led him over to the bed where his son slept soundly.

“See? I tired the boy out and then put him to bed. I believe that’s worth a few missed meals with yourself, do you not agree?”

Laird Barclay was not looking at his sleeping son. His eyes were fixed on the young woman by his side. The Highland winds had whipped her hair out of the tight ringlets the maid had taken such pains to curl on top of Coira’s head that morning; the burnished strands fell down her back, glowing russet in the lantern light. Her neat figure was still stiff with disapproval at his unjust accusation, and he was very aware of the way her full breasts rose and fell with quick breaths. The subtle scent of the dried flowers with which she layered around the clothes in her trunk lingered in the air. He noticed her parted lips and knew from experience that this meant she was poised to say something else. He could not bear to have this golden moment pass by. Laird Barclay leaned toward her, held her in his arms, and kissed Coira on the lips.