Cicely stared at Mackillin in amazement. ‘Is this true? You’re a Scottish lord?’
He shrugged. ‘My title is new to me.’
‘That’ll explain it,’ she said drily.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Explain what?’
She shook her head, knowing she could only say that no sane person would look at him and believe him to be a lord. He could not be blamed for his garments being travel-stained, but they were definitely not made of the finest materials. Beneath his cloak he wore a common leather jerkin instead of the embroidered surcoat and velvet doublet befitting his rank. Her gaze moved downwards and she noted that, instead of silk or costly woollen hose, his legs were shockingly bare. Still, if he was a lord, her father would have expected her to treat him as one.
‘I’ll prepare the best bedchamber, Lord Mackillin.’
‘Despite my appearance?’ he said softly. ‘Forget it, lass. I will not put you to the bother of preparing a bedchamber for one night. You have enough to trouble you this day.’
She did not deny it and inclined her head. ‘If you will excuse me, then. I have yet to tell the servants of my—my father’s death.’
He nodded in response and turned to speak to Robbie and Jack.
She had to force herself not to run to the rear of the hall. One of the dogs trotted at her heels. Beneath the stairway that led to the first floor was a door that opened to a passageway. If she turned left, she would come to the staircase that led to the turret where her bedchamber was situated but, instead, went right and soon found herself passing the buttery, the stillroom, the storeroom and the laundry on her way to the kitchen.
She paused in the doorway, watching the cook taking his ease in front of the fire. The serving maid, Tabitha, was chopping herbs. Tom, a male servant, was conversing with her as he stirred a huge blackened pot that dangled on chains over the fire. Martha, a woman in her early middle years, was singing as she rolled out pastry. They had not heard her coming and started at the sound of her voice. ‘I have sad tidings.’
Cook slowly got to his feet. Tabitha dropped her knife and Tom and Martha paused and gazed at Cicely. ‘What is it, mistress?’ asked the cook.
‘The master is dead.’ Cicely’s voice trembled as she fought to not give way to her emotions.
Martha gasped.
‘We feared as much,’ said the cook with a doleful shake of the head. ‘He was a good master. He’ll be sadly missed.’
‘How did it happen?’ asked Martha, wiping her hands on her apron.
Cicely repeated what Jack had said, adding that they had guests for the night in the shape of a Scots lord and his man. ‘Perhaps you can use the remains of the mutton to add strength to the barley soup I was going to have for supper,’ she said, feeling distraught.
Cook nodded. ‘We could kill a couple of chickens, as well…and I’ll need to bake more bread.’
She agreed. ‘I will leave it to you to do what is needful.’ Running a hand over her hair, she added, ‘You’ll be using the fire in here, so I will use the hall fire to mull some ale. Tom, will you fetch a couple of pallets and blankets from the chest in the passage by the best bedchamber?’
‘Aye, Mistress Cicely.’ He hurried out.
Cicely fetched a jug of ale and a jar of honey from a shelf in the storeroom and, from a locked cupboard, removed cinnamon and ginger. Her grief was like a weight in her chest as she carried the items into the hall. There she saw her brother and Mackillin in conversation, standing where the baggage had been stowed in a corner.
At her approach, they moved away and sat on a bench, watching as she placed a griddle on the glowing logs, and on that an iron pot. Aware of Mackillin’s eyes on her, she prayed that Diccon would sense her need of him and come home. The disturbing presence of the Scots lord and Master Husthwaite’s arrogance made it imperative that she see him as soon as possible. Her concern was that he might have been caught up in fighting between the forces of Lancaster and York. Oh, why did he have to go and give his loyalty to the Duke of York’s heir? The trouble was that her stepbrother could be stubborn and, having little in material goods, was determined to make his own way in the world.
Tom appeared with the bedding and placed it near the fire to air. She whispered to him to see that their guests’ horses had enough hay and water before supper was served. After a wary glance at the two strangers, he hurried to the stables, taking a lantern with him.
Cicely did not leave the spices to infuse for long, certain that her brother and the men were so in need of a hot drink that they would not mind it not being too spicy. She fetched cups and ladled the steaming brew into them, whilst all the time she was worrying about how Matt, now heir to the estate, would cope with the terrible news of their father’s death.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed in the next few days,’ said Jack, watching her approach with their drinks. ‘There’s an eerie glow in the sky above the fells in the west.’
‘That’ll be the sunset,’ said Cicely, dismayed at the thought that if a blizzard set in they might be cut off and she would have to cater for two guests that she would rather be gone. Now was not a time for having to see to the needs of a guest, and a Scots lord at that! She needed to grieve and devote her hours to prayer for her father’s soul and Diccon’s safe return.
‘Is that cup for me?’ asked Mackillin, gazing down at her.
She nodded, steeling herself to meet his eyes with a coolness she was far from feeling. ‘Aye, Lord Mackillin. Is there aught else you need? I could show you to a small bedchamber. Perhaps you’d like to change the garments you’ve travelled in…and have water to wash your hands, face and feet.’
A devilish glint showed in his eyes, lighting facets of gold and green in the iris. ‘Just Mackillin. I appreciate the offer, but I’m warm in my dirt, lass. As for changing my clothes, what’s the use of that when I’ll be travelling in them on the morrow?’ He removed his gauntlets and reached for the pewter cup.
She made certain his fingers did not touch hers. ‘As you wish,’ she said abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’
He inclined his head and she almost fled into the kitchen. He was a savage. She found the women servants plucking chickens and saw that dough was rising on a stone slab close to the fire. Realising that it would be some time before supper was ready, she left them to their tasks. Taking a lantern from a cupboard, she lit the candle inside and made for the door that opened on to a spiral staircase that led up to her turret room.
Built a hundred years ago during the times when the Scots had raided this far south of the border, the house had been fortified. Since then, improvements had been made to the property, but her dead stepmother had constantly said it should be pulled down and a cosier, more convenient one built in its place. Her father had laughingly suggested that his wife might prefer his father’s house and she had not complained again.
Cicely had been hurt at such criticism of the house she had always liked and had hoped that when she and Diccon wed, he would be willing to live here, so they could all be one big happy family. Now her dreams were all up in the air due to his prolonged absence, and with the changes her father’s death would necessarily bring. Her eyes filled with tears again and she brushed them away with her sleeve.
She came to her bedchamber and was grateful for the warmth and light from the charcoal brazier that had been placed there earlier in the day. Darkness had fallen and she could hear a rising wind so, hastily, she crossed the room and closed the shutters.
She yawned and sank on to the bed. Her shoulders drooped as her heart ached with sorrow. She longed to lie down and escape into sleep. Mackillin! Was he being truthful when he’d said he wished for no reward? And what had he meant when he said that she would not wish to pay his price if he were to seek it? She remembered the feel of his lips on hers and the hardness of his chest against