words startled her into staring at him. ‘What did you say?’
‘If you did not hear, I will not repeat it.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Sit down by the fire, mistress. I will fetch some bread and fowl. I have slept enough and who is to say that you might not hesitate to knife me if I were to slumber.’ His expressive eyes mocked her.
Several times he had shocked her by his words, but that he should believe she would stab him as he slept and the idea that he should wait on her were two things not to be tolerated. ‘I would not harm you. Indeed, if you are to extend your stay, you cannot continue to sleep in the hall. You need privacy. As for you fetching and carrying for me…nay, my lord, it is not right.’
‘I do not care whether it is right or wrong.’ His tone was adamant. ‘I am not so high and mighty that I cannot serve another. Did Christ not wait on his disciples during the last supper? No doubt the following days and weeks will prove difficult enough for you in the light of your father’s death, so take your ease and do not argue with me. And if you are worried about my hands being dirty, I’ve washed them.’
He left her to think on that while he fetched food and drink, trying not to dwell on how erotic he found her appearance in her mourning garb. He had to remind himself that she was the daughter of the house and that he could find a far more suitable bride in Scotland. He had almost made up his mind to marry Mary Armstrong. She was the daughter of one of his neighbours, an arrogant man who ruled his household with an iron rod. His wife had died in suspicious circumstances and Mackillin would like to rescue Mary from her father’s house.
Besides, his mother, the Lady Joan, had been a great friend of Mary’s mother, and she had spoken in favour of such an alliance years ago, although his father had been against it. There had been no love lost between the two men. The disagreement had resulted in one of their quarrels which always ended up with his mother preserving an icy silence towards her husband for days on end. As a young girl she had been carried across Mackillin’s father’s saddlebow on a border raid like a common wench and she had never forgiven him for treating her in such a fashion.
His mother had found no welcome in her future in-laws’ house, one reason being that she could never forget that she belonged to the highborn English family, the Percys. It was to them Mackillin had been sent after his half-brother, Fergus, had tried to kill him seventeen years ago, when he was eight years old. His Scottish half-brothers had resented him, almost as much as they hated his mother. His upbringing would have been less violent if they had been girls instead of boys, but then he might have stayed home instead of leaving to be educated in Northumberland and indulging his love of boats and travel.
Cicely decided that perhaps it was best to do what Mackillin said and sat in the chair he vacated. She stretched her cold feet towards the fire, not knowing what to make of the man. What kind of lord was it that waited on a woman? An unusual one who excused his lowly behaviour by speaking of Christ’s humility. She wondered in what other way he would surprise her during his sojourn in her home. What if he ended up staying a sennight or more? She was thankful there was still food in the storeroom: flour, raisins, a side of bacon, salted fish, smoked eel, a little butter, cheese, fresh and bottled fruit, honey, oats and barley. Also, enough logs remained piled high in one of the outhouses. The animals were not forgotten either and there was some straw and hay, as well as corn in the barn.
She heard a noise and, glancing over her shoulder, saw Mackillin carrying a platter. She rose hastily to her feet. ‘You should not be doing this, Lor—Mackillin,’ she said, taking the platter from him and placing it on the table.
He ignored her comment and put a napkin and knife beside the platter before leaving the kitchen. She sat down, wondering if he would return. No matter. She was famished and the chicken leg and slices of breast meat looked appetising. She picked up the meat and sank her teeth into it. It tasted so good that she closed her eyes in ecstasy.
‘This will wash it down,’ said a voice.
She opened her eyes and saw that Mackillin was holding a silver-and-glass pitcher of what appeared to be her father’s malmsey, a wine he had called the best in the world. ‘You’ve drunk some of that?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Jack said it would go well with the pears and green cheese.’
‘But not chicken,’ she said firmly. ‘We always drink a white wine from a kinsman’s vineyard in Kent with fowl.’
‘We had some of that, too.’
She stared at him suspiciously. ‘My brother was not drunk when he went up to bed, was he?’
Mackillin raised his eyebrows. ‘Nay, lass, he wasn’t. I drank most of the white wine. Although I have to tell you that I have tasted better. Not your fault, but if I’d known I might be snowed in here, I would have thought of bringing some of my kinsman’s vintage from the Loire, instead of shipping it with a courier to my mother. Still, you have the malmsey and that will do you good.’ He added conversationally, ‘The grape used in making malmsey is from the Monemvasia vine, now grown in Madeira, but native to Greece. Sugar is also cultivated on the island and together they produce this sweet dessert wine.’
‘I wanted Father to take me with him on his travels,’ she murmured, watching Mackillin pour the tawny-coloured wine into a beautiful Venetian drinking vessel, which seemed out of place in the kitchen.
‘Perhaps one day someone else might take you there,’ he said, handing the glass to her. ‘Bon appetit, Mistress Cicely. I will leave you to enjoy your wine and see you in the morning.’
She murmured her gratitude, watching him leave the kitchen. He had left the lantern behind, its flame winking on the sparkling glass. Sipping the malmsey, she pondered the unusual behaviour of a certain Scottish lord and sensed it was even more imperative for her peace of mind that he left as soon as possible.
But it was not to be the following morning because although the snow had ceased to fall, it lay thickly over the fields and hills as far as the eye could see. The sky looked heavy with the threat of more to come.
‘I hope Matt reached York before the snow came,’ said Jack, his youthful face grim as he addressed his sister. ‘Perhaps he won’t ride on to Kingston-on-Hull when it clears, but come home.’
She nodded, gazing at the path that had been cleared through the snow to the outbuildings. Mackillin, Robbie and Tom had seen to the horses and Jack had fed the hens housed in the barn.
‘Even Father’s steward won’t be able to reach us while it is like this,’ said Cicely, chewing her lower lip. ‘His concern will be for the tenants’ flocks.’
‘And who can blame him? Even the best of shepherds will have difficulty keeping all their sheep alive in this weather. We can manage here without him.’ Jack stamped snow from his boots and glanced at their guest as they went indoors. ‘I pray you’ll forgive me, Mackillin. It’s my fault you’re stranded here.’
Mackillin shook his head. ‘Nay, lad. It is the fault of those murdering curs in Bruges. Besides, you have no control over the weather. We could have been on the road when the blizzard came and we’d have been caught out in the open. If I’m to be delayed, then best it be here.’
‘Come and warm yourselves by the fire,’ said Cicely. ‘I’m mulling ale and have asked Cook to fry some bacon collops. I thought you might be in need of a second breakfast.’
‘That’s a grand notion,’ said Mackillin, rolling the ‘r’ and smiling down at her. ‘Yet you must
