our extremely valuable property any time these last ten days. I know he kissed you, Cissie, but you mustn’t hold that against him. It was a mistake.’
Pink tinged her cheeks and she bent over one of the dogs, noticing it had bits of bramble in its rough coat. She gently removed the thorns and said in a low voice, ‘He thought I was a servant girl. That’s his excuse for behaving like a savage.’
‘He’s no savage. You must curb your tongue, Cissie, and be thankful that he sent Master Husthwaite packing.’ Jack sighed. ‘It seems so strange being home without Matt and Father here. It’ll never be the same ever.’ His expression was bleak.
She agreed, thinking that the long winter evenings were even more depressing since her stepmother had died two years ago. She could only hope spring would come quickly, so they could at least spend more time outdoors. It was difficult filling the hours at this time of year because most of the tasks suited to the long dark evenings had been completed—the bottling, the pickling, the salting of meat and the making of candles—although there was always embroidery, darning, as well as salves and soap to make to keep her busy, but that left her mind free to wander and worry about Diccon. She sighed heavily, wishing desperately for her father to still be alive, but that was a wish that couldn’t come true. Instead she was going to have to be polite to Jack’s rescuer and that would not be easy.
As if he had read her thoughts, her brother said, ‘A hot meal and a warm bed is little recompense for all Mackillin has done for us. Right now some mulled ale would not go amiss.’
‘I suppose you’ll want me to give him the best guest bedchamber and prepare a tub for him as well,’ she muttered.
‘That will not be necessary,’ said a voice that caused her heart to leap into her throat and she wondered why the dogs had not barked a warning.
She took a deep breath, pausing to gain her composure before facing Mackillin. He was standing only a few feet away and not only looked unkempt, but stank of horse and dried sweat as well as something indefinably male. She was amazed that her body should have reacted to his the way it had done. He was so large and strong, but she would not be scared of him.
‘Of course, you must have the best bedchamber. You saved my brother’s life and brought him home to us.’ She tried to infuse warmth into her voice, but it sounded stiff.
He inclined his shaggy head. ‘I gave your father my word.’
‘And you honoured it.’
‘Even barbarians keep their word, occasionally.’ His eyes sent out a challenge to her, daring her to deny that she believed him incapable of behaving like a gentleman.
She held his gaze. ‘They have their price, though.’
Mackillin glanced at Jack. ‘I did not tell her,’ he said hastily.
‘Good.’ A muscle twitched in Mackillin’s jaw. ‘I assure you, mistress, you would not wish to pay my price if I were to demand it. Now I would ask only for pallets and blankets for my man, Robbie, and myself. Here in front of the fire will do us both fine.’
But before she could comment, Robbie spoke up. ‘Nay, Mackillin, you’re a Scottish lord now and should have the best bedchamber.’
Cicely stared at Mackillin in amazement. ‘Is this true? You’re a Scottish lord?’
He shrugged. ‘My title is new to me.’
‘That’ll explain it,’ she said drily.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Explain what?’
She shook her head, knowing she could only say that no sane person would look at him and believe him to be a lord. He could not be blamed for his garments being travel-stained, but they were definitely not made of the finest materials. Beneath his cloak he wore a common leather jerkin instead of the embroidered surcoat and velvet doublet befitting his rank. Her gaze moved downwards and she noted that, instead of silk or costly woollen hose, his legs were shockingly bare. Still, if he was a lord, her father would have expected her to treat him as one.
‘I’ll prepare the best bedchamber, Lord Mackillin.’
‘Despite my appearance?’ he said softly. ‘Forget it, lass. I will not put you to the bother of preparing a bedchamber for one night. You have enough to trouble you this day.’
She did not deny it and inclined her head. ‘If you will excuse me, then. I have yet to tell the servants of my—my father’s death.’
He nodded in response and turned to speak to Robbie and Jack.
She had to force herself not to run to the rear of the hall. One of the dogs trotted at her heels. Beneath the stairway that led to the first floor was a door that opened to a passageway. If she turned left, she would come to the staircase that led to the turret where her bedchamber was situated but, instead, went right and soon found herself passing the buttery, the stillroom, the storeroom and the laundry on her way to the kitchen.
She paused in the doorway, watching the cook taking his ease in front of the fire. The serving maid, Tabitha, was chopping herbs. Tom, a male servant, was conversing with her as he stirred a huge blackened pot that dangled on chains over the fire. Martha, a woman in her early middle years, was singing as she rolled out pastry. They had not heard her coming and started at the sound of her voice. ‘I have sad tidings.’
Cook slowly got to his feet. Tabitha dropped her knife and Tom and Martha paused and gazed at Cicely. ‘What is it, mistress?’ asked the cook.
‘The master is dead.’ Cicely’s voice trembled as she fought to not give way to her emotions.
Martha gasped.
‘We feared as much,’ said the cook with a doleful shake of the head. ‘He was a good master. He’ll be sadly missed.’
‘How did it happen?’ asked Martha, wiping her hands on her apron.
Cicely repeated what Jack had said, adding that they had guests for the night in the shape of a Scots lord and his man. ‘Perhaps you can use the remains of the mutton to add strength to the barley soup I was going to have for supper,’ she said, feeling distraught.
Cook nodded. ‘We could kill a couple of chickens, as well…and I’ll need to bake more bread.’
She agreed. ‘I will leave it to you to do what is needful.’ Running a hand over her hair, she added, ‘You’ll be using the fire in here, so I will use the hall fire to mull some ale. Tom, will you fetch a couple of pallets and blankets from the chest in the passage by the best bedchamber?’
‘Aye, Mistress Cicely.’ He hurried out.
Cicely fetched a jug of ale and a jar of honey from a shelf in the storeroom and, from a locked cupboard, removed cinnamon and ginger. Her grief was like a weight in her chest as she carried the items into the hall. There she saw her brother and Mackillin in conversation, standing where the baggage had been stowed in a corner.
At her approach, they moved away and sat on a bench, watching as she placed a griddle on the glowing logs, and on that an iron pot. Aware of Mackillin’s eyes on her, she prayed that Diccon would sense her need of him and come home. The disturbing presence of the Scots lord and Master Husthwaite’s arrogance made it imperative that she see him as soon as possible.
