Page 44 of Bond of a Bewitched Highlander

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Um... his lairdship said when you finish eating, he will see you in the solar."

"Could I borrow an arisaid or gown? I lost mine in the sea."

"Oh, aye. Muriel, the lady's maid, already brought one in." Flossie disappeared into the dressing room and returned with an emerald velvet gown.

"Heavens, 'tis a fancy gown. Do you have something simpler?"

"This is the only clothing in here now. 'Twas Lady Catriona's. Lady MacCain said you may borrow it."

"Is she the chief's mother?"

"Aye, of course. And Lady Catriona is his sister."

Had Elsea met them in the past?

"I will ask Muriel to bring in more clothing for you. I'm nay a trained lady's maid, but I can help you if you wish."

"I would appreciate it."

Flossie helped her put on the gown and styled her hair into a simple thick braid. "I'm sorry the braid is nay smoother," she fretted.

"'Tis perfect. You're more skilled than you realize. I thank you for making me presentable. Will you show me where the solar is?"

Flossie smiled. "Indeed."

Her head still paining her, Elsea followed the maid down the steps and along the dim corridor to a carved door. Flossie knocked softly.

"Enter," said a male voice inside... Brodie's voice.

The maid opened the door and showed Elsea into the spacious but cozy room, scented with wood smoke, then closed the door on her way out. A massive carved oak desk sat in the midst of several chairs, some wooden and some upholstered. Ancient, faded tapestries depicting unicorns and other allegorical creatures decorated the walls.

"M'laird." Elsea curtsied, struck by how well-turned-out Brodie was, such a contrast to his untamed appearance on the island.

Standing before the hearth where a small fire burned, he was more fully dressed than she'd ever seen him. He wore a tidy, pleated plaid, a crisp white shirt, a black doublet, and all the fine accessories which labeled him a chief.

"M'lady." He gave a brief bow. His long inky-black hair pulled back in a queue, he observed her so attentively she had a difficult time holding his penetrating gaze. Saints, but he unnerved her with his edgy magnetism. In one way, he was so compelling and familiar, but in another, he intimidated her, as if his temper lurked close to the surface. She could not decipher his expression or his mood. Was he friendly or ruthless?

"How is your head?" he asked.

"It still hurts some, but nay as much." He had her so distracted, her thoughts tumbled and her memories dissipated. To regain control, she glanced aside at the window. The gloom and misty rain continued outside.

"I'm glad you can speak now," he said. "I was surprised when the servant told me."

"Aye. When I woke up from the nightmare, I could talk."

He frowned, his expression vaguely skeptical. "What sort of nightmare?"

The primary reason for wanting to speak to him leapt to the forefront of her mind, though she dreaded the answer. "First, I must ask you, is my father still living?"

"Nay."

'Twas as if someone had struck her with an oar. "Saints." Cold smothered her, and she crumpled.

Brodie darted forward, grabbed her arms, and helped her sit in a chair.

"When? What happened?" she gasped, her throat closing, her head spinning.

"Almost two years ago." With a frown of concern, he knelt by her chair. "He had an accident."