Page 33 of Darach

As he watched her set out the food on the table Struan wondered what they were feeding her in the kitchens. Likely scraps from the clan’s meals, as she was new and as such had no status among the other servants. The thought of sending her back with an empty belly made him think of Fyn. Like the maid the hunter had ever been helpless to escape his lot in life.

At least Struan could do something to change that for Revna. “You’ll eat the berries, and drink the cider. Sit down.”

Her pale eyes widened. “Oh, I darenae sup with you, my lord.”

“’Tis my command. Do as you’re told, wench.” Struan watched her gingerly perch on the other chair at his table as he placed the plate of food between them, and put the cup in her hand. “How fare you in the kitchens?”

“I’m learning, my lord.” She took a tiny sip of cider. “I dinnae ken any of the other maids, but they seem kindly. The pantry keeper, he’s teaching me my duties with great patience. Even Cook doesnae shout or beat me when I’ve a mishap.”

She knew well enough not to criticize the other vassals, another sign of her innate cleverness. He tore a piece of bread in two and offered her half. “Did your sire beat and shout at you?”

“Da? Only when he’d come home well-pished from drinking.” She hunched her shoulders. “I favor my mam, and sometime he’d mistake me for her. She died birthing me.”

Learning that she had been raised without a mother made sense of her strange behavior; she’d never been taught how to properly speak to a man, or what might happen to a maiden wandering through the forest alone at night.

“You’ve no other kin?” When she shook her head he cut a wedge of cheese and put it in her hand. “Eat.”

Revna kept chin down and nibbled like a mouse as he ate the rest of the meal, but now and then stole a glance at him. The coldfire orb in the forest had painted her in a blue glow, but now his chamber lanterns revealed the soft golden-brown shade of her hair. Her dark eyelashes had gilded tips, and thin rims of gold encircled her pale blue eyes. He could see the delicate veins showing plainly through her pallid skin, as well as the narrow fineness of her bones. She would never be regarded as comely, as his male vassals preferred their wenches plump and well-curved. She reminded him of a dandelion.

All wishes and wisps, this wench.

Because Revna didn’t resemble any of the strong, sturdy female vassals who served the Carack, her differences would likely cause her some grief. He could tell from the way the laundress had spoken of her she’d already stirred disapproval among the other females. Then too, every member of the household came from families who had served his clan for many generations.

For being born to poor villagers, and abandoned by her only blood-kin, Revna would always be considered an unwanted outsider.

Struan commanded an army of battle-hardened warriors, had more wealth at his disposal than any other highland laird, and enough important allies among the nobility and court to do whatever he wished when he wished. Yet he could do nothing to help Revna make a place for herself at Dun Deigh. Any favor he showed her would only cause resentment among his other vassals, who would see to it that the maid suffered in a hundred ways.

He could send her away with enough gold to make a fresh start somewhere far from Carack land, but living alone in a strange place with no one to protect her would likely end badly for the lass. What she truly needed was a husband, but since her father had run off and left her penniless a marriage seemed unlikely.

“You’ve had no word from your sire?” he asked.

Revna cringed. “No, my lord.”

Struan had questioned the groundskeeper and several other vassals who had known the trapper; they all claimed that while sometimes too fond of drink the man had been steadfast with his work and devoted to his daughter. The villagers grudgingly accepted Revna because her sire’s parents had been well-respected, but all seemed uncomfortable with the girl. None would say why, but Struan’s steward thought it might have to do with her resemblance to her mother, who had also been an outsider.

Struan wondered if he should intervene further in the girl’s life. “’Tis someone you wish to wed?”

Revna dropped the berries in her hand onto the table, where they rolled around his plate. “I cannae marry, my lord. I promised my da I wouldnae.”

A strange pledge to make, although he could see the sense of it. Her sire had not married again, so he obviously had wanted his daughter to stay and look after him in his old age. Yet if that were the case, why had he abandoned the girl?

“Your sire’s gone. You may do as you wish.” When she said nothing Struan leaned forward. “’Tis someone you care for, then?”

“The midwife in the village, she said I’m too small in the hips.” Revna wouldn’t look him in the eye now. “If ever I birth a bairn ’twill likely end me. My da’s run off. I’ve no dowry, and naught to tempt a man to offer for me.”

“’Tisnae what I asked you.” As she got up and started putting the dishes on the tray he reached across the table and took hold of her wrist. “Who would you wed?”

Revna’s bottom lip trembled, and then she turned her hand in his grip so that her cool fingertips brushed across his forearm. “Who should want me, my lord?”

In that moment Struan knew with one tug on her arm he could have her against him. She would not resist him, either. Three strides to his bed, and a few moments to strip her out of that cheap gown. Thanks to her thinness he wouldn’t even have to douse her skinny young body with icy water to cool down her skin so he could fondle her and suck her breasts and sink his heavy, aching cock into her virginal quim. He’d be the first man to take her, and by the Gods then would he be the last, for he’d keep her as his bed wench.

Until she grows old, and loses what bloom and beauty she possesses, a voice that sounded remarkably like Callum’s murmured inside his head. All while you remain young and handsome and strong.

Struan jerked his hand from her arm and pushed the tray into her hands. “Return to the kitchens now, wench.”

After she had fled he spent a long time trying not to think of her, and failing. He wanted to blame it on Callum for dying, for if he had still been laird, Struan might have done as he pleased. His bedchamber grew stifling, so he stalked out and walked the passages until he found himself climbing down the stairs into the dungeons.

Instead of seeking the cool, quiet space where he spent the hottest part of the day Struan went to the cells and walked down to the door at the end of the big chamber. It had been secured with a crystal lock his sire had enchanted to assure that only the hand of the laird of the Carack could open it. Since he had refused the title Struan wondered if the vault would open for him, and yet as soon as he placed his palm into the lock’s recess the white-blue crystal flared with cold light, and hidden gears turned.