Highlander’s Lost Pearl: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance Page 4

  Peigi only had to take one good look at her to know that the woman was stern enough to make even the Laird of the castle fear her wrath. She doubted that Hendry ever crossed Mrs. MacLeish, even as an adult.

  “What do ye have here?” Mrs. MacLeish asked. “Another stray?”

  There was a soft blush on Hendry’s cheeks at the woman’s words, one that Peigi didn’t fail to notice. So, she wasn’t the only one in need that Hendry had taken in. It gave her some peace of mind, knowing that.

  “Mrs. MacLeish, this is Peigi,” Hendry said, not missing a beat. “She came to our gates, asking for work. Would ye have it in yer heart to turn her away?”

  Mrs. MacLeash sighed, but she grabbed Peigi by the arm and started tugging her away from Hendry. “It doesnae matter what I’d do. In the end, ye’ll bring every man and woman in need in here, and I’ll have to take care of them.”

  Neither Peigi nor Hendry had time to protest their sudden separation, as Mrs. MacLeash seemed to be on a mission to have Peigi ready for work as soon as possible.

  “If ye’ll be staying here, ye’ll have to earn yer keep, ye hear?” Mrs. MacLeish asked as she looked at Peigi from head to toe, grimacing at her dirty clothes. “Glenna will show ye where ye’ll take yer bath, and then I’ll have her bring ye some clothes. We’ll simply . . . weel, burn yer own.”

  Peigi grasped onto her chest, where she kept the bags of money, instinctively, trying to protect them from any harm, but she doubted she could change Mrs. MacLeish’s mind. After all, her clothes reeked, and they were covered in mud, so even if she could keep them, they would have to be cleaned first.

  She could only hope that the clothes she would be given by the woman would have pockets that were big enough for the bags, at least until she could find another place to hide them.

  “Och, dinnae fret, lass.” Mrs. MacLeash took her arm once more and then handed her over to a girl close to her age. “Take her, Glenna. Show her where she can bathe and bring her some fresh clothes . . . and an apron. She’ll need one if she starts working in the kitchens.”

  “Aye.” It was all that Glenna said, before she, too, started tugging at Peigi’s arm, trying to pull her away from the kitchens.

  Peigi looked over her shoulder one more time before she followed Glenna. She gazed over at Hendry, who still stood there, watching her while he was nibbling on an apple that had suddenly materialized in his hand; no doubt, Mrs. MacLeash’s doing.

  She looked at him, at his fiery red hair and the scruff that had begun to grow on his face after a couple of days of not shaving, at his slightly crooked nose that only added to the charm of his sharp angles, and at his single, blue eye. Even with that eyepatch, Peigi had to admit that he looked handsome, very much so.

  Perhaps he looked a little too handsome for comfort. Maybe he looked attractive enough to cause Peigi problems, the kind of issues that she should never have when it came to the Laird.

  Chapter Five

  Life at the Dunbar castle was more than Peigi could have ever expected. She worked long hours, of course, spending her days cooking, mostly, and cleaning when needed, but it was nothing compared to the workload that came with living at her father’s keep, where she was often treated as one of the servants.

  Peigi ran back to the castle, soaked to the bone after the sudden rain caught her in the middle of the forest. Her skirt, heavy with rainwater, was weighing her down, and her boots sank in the mud, making it difficult to walk, let alone run, but she persevered, eager to get back under the castle’s roof and avoid a fever.

  When she burst into the kitchen, she suddenly had five pairs of eyes on her, one of them belonging to Mrs. MacLeish, who looked at Peigi disapprovingly as she rushed to her.

  “What are ye doing, lass?” Mrs. MacLeish asked. “Have ye lost yer mind? It’s pouring outside! Where were ye?”

  “Aye, I ken,” Peigi said, setting her basket down on the nearest table and taking her boots off so that she wouldn’t spread mud all over the kitchen. “I was out before the rain began, gathering things in the forest. Look, there in the basket.”

  Mrs. MacLeish pulled the cloth that covered the wicker basket, revealing Peigi’s bounty; berries, herbs, and . . . snails. Mrs. McLeish wasn’t one to cower at the sight of critters, but seeing the snails up close, in that basket, made her jump back, putting the cloth quickly over the top of it once more to stop them from escaping.

  “Lass . . . do ye ken that there are snails in the basket?” Mrs. McLeish asked as the other women in the kitchen gathered around them, curious to see what Peigi was up to.

  “Aye.”

  It was all that Peigi said before she made her way to the room that she shared with none other than Glenna, who had turned out to be a great roommate and an even greater confidante. She left the other women, Mrs. MacLeish included, staring at her, dumbfounded, as she left, though Peigi herself didn’t know why.

  What could be simpler than a basket of berries, herbs, and snails?

  Once in her room, Peigi poured some water into the basin and dipped a cloth in it, wringing out the excess water before she wiped the mud off the skin of her arms and legs, cleaning herself up quickly. She then dressed once more, this time with fresh clothes that were almost identical to those she wore before; a drab, brown dress with a white undershirt, as well as a white apron that would soon be soiled.

  When she walked back into the kitchen, the wait had done nothing to lessen the women’s intrigue. Even though they were back to their chores, Peigi could see them looking at her from the corner of their eyes, watching her as she walked to the table and grabbed her basket once more.

  She paid them no mind as she began to clean the berries first, then the herbs, and finally the snails, washing them gently before placing them aside to purge them.

  “Is that an English dish, lass?” Mrs. MacLeish asked as she peered over Peigi’s shoulder at the snails that were crawling around the bowl.

  “Aye, it must be,” Glenna replied instead of Peigi. “Have ye ever heard of anyone else eating snails?”

  Peigi shook her head, barely stifling her laughter. “No, Mrs. MacLeish . . . when I lived with my father, we had to eat anything we could find sometimes, and sometimes that was snails. When there was nothing else, no squirrels, no birds, we ate what we could find. I dinnae ken if the English eat it, but I ken that if ye fry them with some butter, they are delicious.”

  Mrs. MacLeish grimaced, as she did so often. “Aye, it must be an English habit. Doesnae anybody else eat these things but the English and the French.”

  “Weel, now ye’ll be eating them too,” Peigi said, though she knew that it would take some convincing to get the women to try her food, even though her cooking had never disappointed anyone before. “We must clean them and starve them for three days and nights; otherwise, we’ll fall ill.”

  “I didnae plan on touching them, lass,” Mrs. MacLeish informed her. “Ye do as ye wish, but dinnae make me touch them.”

  “Ach, alright, I’ll do it myself.” With that, Peigi grabbed the herbs that she had cleaned earlier, rue and water pepper, as well as a mortar and pestle, and began to crush them into a paste.

  This time, the women didn’t question her. Everyone in the castle knew by then that Peigi had a particular affinity for making salves, often better than those of the clan’s own healer, Micheil, who was more concerned with treating potentially fatal wounds than with relieving the servants of their pains.

  Micheil had not liked Peigi roaming into his territory from the start, but he soon realized that allowing her to brew her potions and make her salves saved him from hours of having to listen to the servants’ complaints. The servants themselves were more than happy to have Peigi’s balms.

  “Who’s that for?” Mrs. MacLeish asked when she saw Peigi sitting at the table and patiently crushing the herbs. “Is that why ye went into the woods all alone in this weather? Couldnae it wait one day?”

  “No.” Peigi shrugged. A little bit of rain had nev
er hurt anyone. “I’m making it for ye, Mrs. MacLeish. Ye never complain, but I ken that yer knee aches when the weather changes. I can hear ye huff and puff when ye walk, and this will make ye feel much better.”

  Mrs. MacLeish softened at that, to the point where Peigi thought she could detect a hint of a smile. It was a strange sight, but quite pleasant, and she wished that she could see the woman happy more often.

  Perhaps she should prepare her a concoction for constipation, she thought.

  “Yer a good lass,” Mrs. MacLeish said, walking over to Peigi and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Dinnae worry about me. I may be old, but I have the strength of ten men.”

  “Aye, I dinnae doubt that,” Peigi assured her, as she handed her the mortar and pestle. “Put this on yer knee every time it aches, and ye’ll have the strength of eleven men.”

  Mrs. MacLeish didn’t thank Peigi as she took the salve from her, but she didn’t have to; Peigi knew that the other woman expressed her gratitude in different ways. Sometimes Peigi would find her clothes mended and washed; other times, she would wake up in the morning with one more blanket than she went to sleep with. Mrs. MacLeish didn’t have to say anything, because everyone knew that she spoke without having to say any words.

  “I’d better help the merchants with the sacks of grain.” Peigi stood up suddenly and headed for the door. She had only sat for a few minutes but was already feeling restless, needing something to do with her hands to keep her mind from roaming. It was usually unavoidable at night when she would stay awake for hours, thinking about her father and his men, about whether they had realized she had stolen for them and whether they were after her. So, since she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about it when she lay in bed, she made sure to keep such thoughts out of her head during the day, at least. Having a task, no matter how unpleasant, helped her keep a clear mind.

  By the time that she reached the gates, the merchants were already there, unloading their goods, and Peigi didn’t hesitate for a moment before she grabbed a sack of grains and made her way to the kitchens on wobbly legs. She was strong for her build, but the bag, filled to the brim and lacking a handle, proved a challenge for her. Still, carrying one sack was better than sitting aside, idle, and so she continued her slow, unsteady walk to the castle.

  Peigi could hardly see in front of her, and so when the sack’s weight was suddenly lifted from her hands, she instinctively gripped tightly onto the burlap so that she would stop whoever was trying to steal the grains from her. She even thrust her leg out, kicking the man in the shin.

  The pained howl that left the man’s lips alerted Peigi to his real identity, and she immediately dropped the sack on the ground, only to see Hendry there, hopping on one leg as he clutched onto his hurt shin.

  “M’lord!” Peigi exclaimed, hands hovering over him, at a loss about what to do. “Forgive me, m’lord! I didnae ken it was ye! Why were ye trying to take the sack away in the first place? Didnae ye think that I’d fight back?”

  “Why would I think that ye’d fight back? Why would I think anyone would fight back?” Hendry all but screamed, but he had at least stopped hopping around. “Forgive me for startling ye, Peigi, but . . . perhaps ye shouldnae kick anyone next time they try to help.”

  “I thought ye were a thief!” Peigi protested. “What should I do? Give the grain to a thief?”

  Hendry looked at her then, giving her a look that Peigi couldn’t quite decipher. She could feel his gaze burning holes in her, intense and unwavering, and Peigi couldn’t help but retreat into herself a little, cowering as she waited for the scolding that was sure to follow.

  Then Hendry smiled; then, he laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh, entirely unflattering and endearing at the same time. Peigi found herself laughing along, hiding her giggles with a hand over her mouth.

  “Yer a strange lass, Peigi,” Hendry said, as he picked up the sack with seemingly no difficulty. It made Peigi wonder what was hiding under those clothes; did Hendry have the body of a warrior? If he could lift the sack with such ease, could he lift Peigi too, and if he could, then—

  She immediately stopped that dangerous train of thought, and instead followed Hendry to the kitchens, telling herself that she did so in case he needed help and not because she enjoyed being around him. If the Laird wasn’t already promised to a woman, then he would be soon, and it certainly wouldn’t be a woman like Peigi. It could only do harm, thinking about impossible things.

  Once Hendry had placed the sack down where it belonged, he pulled Peigi aside, much to her surprise. They were still within earshot, of course, so she doubted that any of her late-night dreams would be fulfilled, but that only made her wonder what the Laird wanted with her even more.

  “How have ye been?” Hendry asked.

  Peigi could only blink in surprise a few times. Had Hendry really pulled her aside just to ask how she was doing, and if so, why did he even care enough to ask?

  “I’ve been alright,” she said, a little cautiously. “Why? What have ye heard?”

  It was Hendry’s turn to frown in confusion, then, and he leaned against the nearest wall, watching Peigi carefully. “Nothing . . . why, what should I have heard?”

  It was certainly not the strangest conversation Peigi had had with Hendry, but it topped several others, and she crossed her arms over her chest defensively, taking a step back.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Why are ye asking if I’m weel?”

  The question seemed to take Hendry aback, as though he thought the answer was simple, and perhaps it was. Perhaps Peigi was too paranoid to see the simple truth.

  “I . . . I care about ye,” Hendry said, and then quickly added, “I care about all my people. Ye are part of the clan noo, Peigi. Ye work for me and ye live here, in my castle. The least I can do is inquire about yer health and about how ye are.”

  When anyone else asked her how she was doing, Peigi took it as simple courtesy. Still, she had never expected the Laird of the clan to feel inclined to follow such rules of politeness, let alone be genuinely interested in her wellbeing. Sometimes, her father’s brigands would ask her the same question, but it was simply a way to begin talking to her before asking her to do something for them.

  Yet Hendry seemed genuine. Peigi didn’t know what the sharp pain in her chest was, and she didn’t want to think too much about it, lest she found a truth that she wouldn’t like.

  “In that case . . . I am doing well, m’lord,” she said. “Everyone has been very kind to me here, and I couldnae ask for anything more.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” Hendry sighed. He seemed relieved like his shoulders carried a weight that her reassurances had lifted. It was strange, knowing that someone cared that much about her, let alone the Laird himself, but Peigi didn’t comment on it. There was nothing she could say, after all, other than thanking Hendry for taking an interest in her happiness and comfort.

  “How are ye, m’lord?” Peigi asked. It was only polite, after all, to inquire after Hendry’s wellbeing, as well, but the question seemed to surprise the man.

  They both had a tendency to surprise each other with their words and actions every time they met, and every time Peigi ended up more confused than before.

  “I . . . I’m verra weel, thank you,” Hendry said, though his voice sounded a little strained. Peigi didn’t believe for a second that Henry was telling her the truth, but it was not her place to probe any further. “Only a little tired . . . I havnae been sleeping verra weel.”

  “Valerian root, camomile, and lemon balm, m’lord,” Peigi said. “If ye have Micheil prepare ye a brew, then ye’ll have no trouble sleeping at night, I guarantee it.”

  “How do ye ken about such things?” Hendry asked. “I didnae ken ye were a healer.”

  “Och, I’m no healer, not like Micheil,” Peigi assured the man. “And dinnae say anything like that in front of him, or he’ll be verra angry with ye. When I lived with my father, I had to learn about such things. I can m
ake brews and salves, but I cannae treat wounds like Micheil does.”

  Hendry nodded and then turned to leave. “Weel, either way . . . how about ye make it for me, Peigi? Ye can bring it to me whenever ye have it ready.”

  “Aye, m’lord. I’ll do that.”

  Peigi couldn’t refuse the Laird, though his request made her wonder why he’d rather have her brews. She watched Hendry walk away and thought that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see her in his study or in his chambers, alone.

  She chased that thought away. It was nothing that carrying another sack of grain couldn’t fix.

  Chapter Six

  It had been several days since Peigi had seen Hendry. He seemed to be particularly busy those days, often staying in his study for hours upon hours while clansmen walked in and out of the room constantly. Peigi was dying to know what was happening that required so much of Hendry’s attention, but she couldn’t ask, of course. So she did what she always tended to do when faced with such conundrums; she kept herself busy.