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Chapter 2

“The kitchens again? You are no scullery maid, girl.”

Cristane smiled at Mistress Amye, grateful her old mentor still cared enough for her reputation to attempt to get rid of her. But she didn’t mind spending time in the kitchens. In fact, when she was feeling poorly, they reminded her of happier times. When her mother was still alive.

“The feast,” she said by way of explanation, carrying an enormous iron pot from its position on the floor and placing it in front of Amye.

“Feast of St. Valentine,” Amye grumbled. “And who did you see first this morn?”

Cristane blushed. She had not yet seen any men, for she’d come straight to the kitchens. She’d known her assistance would be needed. She had been Lady Cait’s maid, but Cait had gone off to England and married an earl. In her letters to Rory, she promised to send for Cristane, although she had not done so yet. The weather wouldn’t permit it. Although the chief now had a wife, he would not be back in Scotland for many moons either, and so Cristane was a lady’s maid without a lady.

“Some days I wished I’d not seen old Edgar first,” Amye said, “pain in my arse the man can be.”

Cristane reached for a carrot. Although she knew Cook adored her husband, she chuckled along with the others at her grumbling.

“Now get you gone. The kitchen is no place for a lady’s maid.”

Cristane fought back a twinge of annoyance. Even though she knew Amye was only acting out of concern for her, she’d been lonely without Cait, something that had only gotten worse as the days had gotten shorter and colder. She still missed her mother too, though that pain should have lessened years ago.

She belonged nowhere, truly.

“Did you truly see Master Edgar first on St. Valentine’s feast day?” she asked, hoping she could distract the cook.

Legend had it that unwed women would marry the first unattached male they saw on Saint Valentine’s feast day. Cristane didn’t believe in such things, but she was hoping her question would distract the cook. Besides which, she did enjoy the tale of how they’d met.

“I did, lass.” For a moment, Cristane hoped her ruse had worked, but she looked up to find the wily cook scowling. “’Tis for your own good,” she whispered, shooing her away with her hand.

Shoulders slumped, she resigned herself to another day of wandering the castle, looking for anyone who needed aid. Cristane took off her apron, hung it on a hook by the door, and left, ignoring resentful glares from at least two of the maids.

Lady Cait had warned her people might react that way to her promotion. And such looks had never bothered her prior to Cait’s departure.

She understood it, the resentment toward her.

Cristane herself often marveled at her luck. Few husbandmen’s daughters had the opportunity to serve the chief’s family. Lady Cait had insisted it was not luck—that she’d earned her position with her sweet disposition and her relentless desire to help, but Cristane wasn’t so sure. Maybe once she had thought good people received good things, and that the opposite was also true, but no longer . . .

Grabbing her mantle from the hook, she bid adieu to Amye and left the kitchens, stepping out into the courtyard. Tossing the fur-lined cloak around her shoulders, she stood there in the cold for a moment, unsure of where to go. No one was about.

She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that Cait would send for her soon, as she’d promised. When she opened them, her gaze landed on the stables, and she quickly moved toward them. Lady Cait’s favorite mare had birthed a foal who’d shown signs of illness. She’d started feeding more vigorously, thank the heavens, but she knew Cait would appreciate it if she checked on her.

The door creaked open, its hinges protesting the cold. It felt empty. Normally at least two stableboys would be present at this time of day, but they were all likely preparing for the feast, one of just a few where all of the men and women at Bradon Moor sat together. All of the servants had been moved inside where they would be needed.

Except for her, of course.

Cristane froze when she heard a noise coming from the foal’s stable. A low murmur, though it was a man’s voice, not a boy’s.

Hisvoice.

Of course it would be. Master Rory spent more time in the stables than the marshal did. He shared her fondness for the horses. But she could not speak to him. Not today.

Cristane turned to leave but stopped when he called out to her.

“Who is it?”

What should I do?

The rustling of hay announced that he’d been sitting. She could not escape unnoticed now, so Cristane heaved out a nervous sigh and walked toward the stall.

“Oh, Cristane, ’tis you.”