She blew out her breath, rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, then turned and marched herself off to help with supper.
It seemed an endless number of hours later that she managed to carefully set a stool down by the hearth in the kitchens and perch atop it without scraping it against the stone. She looked around herself, but all were comfortably senseless. She’d already promised Cook she would keep the fire going for a pair of hours, so she expected privacy for at least that long—privacy and a bit of light for examining what she did her damndest never to bring inside her father’s keep. That treasure would still be hidden in a spot far from the hall if there hadn’t been such a terrible storm the day before and she hadn’t had to run home so quickly down the meadow. She knew she wasn’t entirely safe inside, but perhaps it was late enough that the kitchen lads and lassies would sleep through her dangerous activity.
She shifted a bit closer to the fire and carefully removed her most precious possession from the pouch she’d made on the underside of her apron. She only had a trio of things she called her own: a ring of her mother’s that she had hidden behind a loose stone in her brother’s bedchamber where he would never think to look and the shawl she had woven for herself out of a pattern that had pleased her.
And the manuscript she held in her hands.
She’d managed to keep it hidden for the past year, but that was likely because she had a decent hand with a needle and thread and she’d taken great care to make certain no one looking at her would notice anything she might or might not have added to her apron. She pulled her shawl over her shoulder to shield her book from even sleepy eyes, then turned a bit more toward the fire so she could examine what she held in her hands.
That she could read at all was something of a miracle. Fitting, then, that she had a clergyman to thank for it, one who had simply appeared at the keep one stormy evening, begging for shelter. Strangers were a rare enough sight, but her father had always done his duty of offering hospitality to whomever had survived the weather long enough to ask for it. The bedraggled friar who’d collapsed on their doorstep a trio of years ago had been poorly clad and, once he’d warmed himself sufficiently, not terribly eager to carry on to find other souls to rescue. He’d offered his services to the laird and been granted leave to remain.
Knowing her father’s lack of patience for long conversations, she’d kept the man busy with other things. Having him instruct Ambrose not only in his letters and sums, but in French and the King’s English had seemed wise. Making a production of assuring her father she was willing to make the sacrifice to supervise her nephew as he sat through those lessons had seemed the very least she could do.
She’d never let on to anyone that she’d learned to read and tally numbers right along with her nephew. Whilst her clan wasn’t particularly suspicious by nature, she’d never wanted to give anyone a reason to believe she might possess the supernatural talent of actually making sense of all those scratches on parchment. Besides, she was a score-and-five and too old to be anything but a maiden aunt to her brother’s children. She’d been certain she would be useful to them by making certain messengers bearing the written word were actually reading those words faithfully.
She took a breath to steady herself, but that was the normal progression of things when it came to the astonishing manuscript she seemingly had care of. Once her hands were steady, she permitted herself yet another in an endless series ofstudying the thing to make certain she hadn’t missed anything vital.
She ran her fingers over it, regretting the fact that at some point in the book’s journey to her possession half of it had obviously been lost. The covering was torn and the rear half of the book missing. She knew the first because she could see where it had been damaged, and she’d suspected the latter because she’d realized at a certain point in her lengthy study that the sheaves of parchment bore numbers. She’d made a careful search of the area where she’d found the manuscript, half-buried as it had been in a bed of fallen leaves, to see if she might have missed any sheaves, but there had been nothing else there to help her.
That, and she hadn’t been particularly eager to remain near the spot where she’d found it. The little house half an hour’s walk up the meadow where the MacLeod’s healer had lived for as long as Mairead could remember now stood empty. The previous woman who had lived there had disappeared a pair of years earlier and there wasn’t another soul in the keep with the courage to take up that place, times being what they were. She had no use for silly rumors of witches and their ilk started by foolish souls with too much time on their hands, but that didn’t mean she had any desire to take up residence in that house.
Nay, ‘twas enough that the forest had gifted her the book she dared call her own. She tilted the manuscript toward the fire and admired the painting on the outer cover. It was very fine, obviously something done in a particularly modern and elegant place—London, or perhaps even Paris. The book bore a title that she supposed had at least something to do with the faithful retelling of a history recorded on those very fine sheaves of parchment.
The Duke and the Kitchen Maid.
Obviously the man depicted there was the Duke himself. His blond hair was cut above his shoulders, his clothing clearly expensive, and his black boots that came almost to his knees shiny and well-made. There was a hint of what she had to assume were the kitchen lassie’s skirts there as well, though she couldn’t say for certain.
What she did know was that the Duke called a place named Birmingham home. He was fantastically wealthy, a bit aloof and reserved to those whose acquaintance he had not yet made, and he had been quietly living his privileged life full of many exciting escapades when he’d run into a serving gel—literally. She’d spilled the contents of a chamberpot onto his trousers, yet instead of striking her, he’d saved her from a thrashing by the master of servants and sent her on her way with a grave nod.
The scribe had taken great pains to point out that the kitchen gel had also indulged in her share of thrilling adventures. Not only was she fond of dressing in trews, she could shoot a pistol, best even sober men in games of chance, and toss back a shocking amount of port without it affecting either her aim or her ability to endure scorching looks from the Duke.
Mairead wasn’t entirely certain whatscorching lookswere, but she suspected they might be a prelude to something truly shocking, such as kissing. She had never experienced either, but the thought left her feeling as if she’d spent too long by the fire and a trip to the back garden for a breath of fresh air was called for.
All in all, she could scarce believe that such a lass existed, though perhaps ‘twas more difficult to envision a man such as the Duke who had put himself in harm’s way to save that lass a sharp blow. Then again, her father had never struck her and she’d always managed to step out of her uncle’s way if the flat of his hand had been accidentally aimed in her direction. Knowing his fondness for ale, she suspected that her uncle was simplythrowing his hand out to keep his feet, not intentionally meaning to strike any of his kin.
Her brother was a different tale entirely, but she’d learned early on to avoid him when he’d either had more than his share of strong drink or too much responsibility.
She wondered about the gel described in her book, though, more particularly where she’d come from and how she’d come to have work in the Duke’s hall. No doubt she was from London, for surely clothing so fine wasn’t to be found in Edinburgh.
The final thing that puzzled her was the tongue the manuscript used. The words weren’t in her language, nor in French, nor in the King’s English that she had taken such pains to learn right along with Ambrose, though sounding them out carefully—inside her head where she wouldn’t be marked—had suggested that they might be some sort of English.
The letters used in the Duke’s diary had been difficult to make out at first, but she’d done what she could there as well. She’d given it quite a bit of thought over the past year and decided that perhaps it was simply a very sophisticated variant of the king’s tongue spoken only by those high-born souls living in the south. Whether or not she was pronouncing them properly was beyond her ken.
What she was certain of was that the tale was nothing less than a faithful history of the Duke of Birmingham, a city she was certain was a very famous and notable place south of Hadrian’s Wall.
“Bloody fool, get yerself out of my way!”
Mairead shoved her book—for that was what the clergyman had termed wee collections of the printed word—quickly under her apron and safely into its pouch, then stood and made her uncle a spot near the fire. She helped him sit on the sturdiest chair she could find, then resumed her place on her stool as if she’d had nothing better to do.
“Don’t suppose you’d fetch me ale,” Lachlan said wearily.
“I wouldn’t want to wake anyone,” she whispered. “The stew might suffer tomorrow because of it.”
He nodded, which she found to be something of a relief. He continued to speak, though, which was less of that same sort of thing.
“You’d best be careful out minding the sheep and goats,” he said, nodding knowingly.
“I always am,” she said soothingly.
