Glenna paused at the head of the corridor when she saw the man standing before her chamber door. Alec, she reminded herself, in charge of the many sailors Tavish Cameron now employed in the village. She began walking once more, wondering with a growing knot in her stomach if he would refuse her entry, but upon seeing her, he immediately stepped to the side of the doorway.
“Miss,” he said, fixing his gaze on the stone wall across from him. “The laird wished me to tell you that he will expect you in the great hall.”
Her step faltered only a bit, and Glenna didn’t think he’d noticed. “Thank you.” She went inside as quickly as she could without throwing herself through the door.
She leaned against the wood with a sigh. Her chamber was again blessedly empty of people, although it had been taken over by several new pieces of furniture. Glenna set the bundled gown and basket on the bed as she looked around, noticing the wide table pushed against a wall and paired with the old, tall chair; four large trunks held closed with great bandings and hasps; a wide, low shelf of sorts, populated like a beehive with a score or more of little square cells, most housing rolls of tied parchment and vellum. A fire had been laid some time ago, it would seem, and the typically cool chamber was warm and quiet.
It smelled different too from when she’d left it only hours ago—before, she’d never thought the chamber possessed a distinctive scent, but now the air seemed imbued with the heady fragrances of leather oil and clove, and even something sweet and floral. Glenna tried to ignore it, but she found herself drawing deep breaths of it, savoring the sensuous atmosphere.
Tavish Cameron had not only taken over her home, but the very air she breathed.
Glenna laid a cloth on the floor before the fire and set to carefully pressing the years-old creases from the blue kirtle with the slickstone until her shoulder ached. When that was done, she quickly disrobed down to her skin then pulled the scratchy woolen work gown back on to cover herself while she pressed her yellowed and frayed underdress. It did little to improve the garment, but it was her only one, and it did look a little better to her eyes after the attention.
The same dented pitcher and bowl and her wooden comb still stood on her own small table, but now there was also a fresh cake of soap and a stack of snowy cloths resting on the wood, and a short, carved cup holding a clutch of sweet violets. Glenna washed thoroughly, relishing the clean feeling of her skin and the scent of the tiny blooms on her wash table. She soaped her hair, scrubbing at her scalp and rinsing it repeatedly until half of the water from the bowl was soaking into the floorboards and the woolen gown was thoroughly wet.
Glenna didn’t care. Gaining confidence in her privacy, she removed the old gray kirtle and used it to press the moisture from her hair, and then sat upon the wool before the hearth while her skin dried and she pulled the wooden comb through her curls until they glistened like gilded flourishes. Then she carefully tightened the brittle cords on her old slippers and brushed at the thinning leather with the rough, damp wool.
She stood and pulled on her ensemble, feeling more and more like that younger, more carefree girl who had once worn this same blue gown. Clean of body, with tidy clothing and freshened shoes; her hair shone and bounced as she gathered it atop her head with a scrap of fabric to cascade in a river of curls down her back. The final touch was a handful of the violet blooms to adorn her hair. She inhaled deeply and was satisfied: She had done her best to represent Roscraig as its rightful lady at the first feast the Tower had known in—
Glenna couldn’t remember.
But tonight she would show Tavish Cameron that she could serve him better as lady of Roscraig than Audrey Keane could ever dream of.
She took a deep breath and opened the chamber door, but stood there for so long before stepping through the doorway that the guard stationed in the corridor finally turned his head.
“All is well, miss?”
“I believe so,” Glenna said with a frown. Then she looked the young man in the face. “Aye. I am well. Thank you, Alec.”
The guard smiled. “You look well, if you don’t take offense at my plain speech.”
Glenna returned his smile.
“Mistress Harriet didn’t wish to disturb you, but she bade me give you this.” When Glenna held out her palm, Alec placed a metal object into it.
Glenna’s eyes widened. It was her father’s shawl brooch, round, silver filigree with a double bar across its center, adorned with a small, polished onyx stone. Glenna wondered where Harriet had found it—Glenna had not seen the piece in years and had all but forgotten about it.
Or perhaps, in the back of her mind, she’d thought Iain Douglas had sold it long ago.
“Thank you,” she repeated, and then turned away slightly to fasten the brooch at the top of the yoke of her kirtle, near the black embroidery. She turned back to Alec, who nodded.
“Just the thing,” he said approvingly.
Glenna inclined her head in thanks and almost laughed as she turned away with a sweep of her old, patched skirts and descended the stairs. This time she did not cower into the stones when another approached her, but looked them in the eye boldly, and it was they who stepped aside for her passing, acknowledging her presence.
“Good evening, mistress.”
“Miss.”
“Beg pardon, miss.”
The roar of conversation and thin strains of music swelled as she neared the great hall, and when she drew close to the doorway, she could feel the heat blasting from it like a forge, carrying the scent of cologne and roasted meat, the hoppy smell of ale. Glenna took another deep breath, lifted her chin and stepped inside the hall.
It was alive with sound and color, so vivid and loud that Glenna was thrown temporarily into a state of wonder—could this lively, bright place be the same haunted, black hall of a month ago, that dripped water onto worn, bare wood, and where the winter winds blasted unchecked through yonder windows, now festooned with billowing draperies and folded-back shutters? The walls rippled with candlelight and colorful woven pictures, the air shimmered with twanging music and the smells of the steaming platters of food coursing along the current of bustling servants.
Glenna’s stomach growled, and she had to swallow the saliva that flooded her mouth. She’d not seen this much food in one place her entire life—perhaps she’d not seen this much food in total in her entire life. And now it was overflowing the long trestle, its considerable length augmented by what appeared to be a half dozen more tables and benches.
A kitchen servant Glenna recognized as one of Harriet’s favorite pupils approached her side with a tray in hand brimming with metal chalices, and she held it toward Glenna with a smile.
