Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (13 page)

“Aye.
That is the way of it,” he said gruffly, refusing to be moved by that translucent teardrop.

As every man knew, w
omen were prone to tears. ’Twas their nature. Their tears were like the rain that fell from the sky. It meant naught.

How many tears
did Fiona weep when she begged me not to seek my revenge against Lyndhurst?
Too many tears to count.

However, d
etermined to avenge his brother’s death, Iain had turned a deaf ear to his wife’s pleading. Kenneth had been his other half. The mirror reflection of himself. For nine months, they’d slept side-by-side in their mother’s womb. Until they’d grown to manhood, they’d rarely been parted from one another.

Now
we are forever parted
.

When Kenneth died, it was as if Iain’s better ha
lf had gone to the grave with his brother. Because of that, Fiona could not understand his obsession with Lyndhurst, his wife unable to fathom the hatred that drove him to ride the wild winds. To search the whole of Scotland for the murdering whoreson who killed his twin brother.

‘My
dreams are filled with ravens. ’Tis a premonition of death, Iain. I am certain of it. I fear that if ye leave to hunt down Lyndhurst, I shall never see ye again.’

‘Fear no’, Fiona. I will return to ye.
Alive and well. I swear it.’

And
Iain did return, just as he promised . . . only to discover that his wife and their stillborn child had been dead a fortnight.

Three months he’
d been gone from Castle Maoil. Three months wasted in tracking his English quarry, the bastard always slipping from his grasp at the very last.
I will get him yet
, Iain had nightly vowed as he’d lain shivering on some cold, desolate bit of inhospitable ground, far from the land of his birth. Far from those he knew and loved.

But because he’d
set his course, nothing under the heavens had been able to deter him. Not the tears of his pregnant wife. Nor the niggling voice of reason that spoke to him in those early hours just before dawn. ‘Wee angels’ his father used to call that inner voice that urged men to take the right and honorable path in life. Iain, however, had not listened to those wee angels. And because he’d chosen to ignore them, he now had to live with the endless recriminations. Night after long night.

So many tears Fiona had wept.
All in vain.

She sounds like Fiona
, Iain thought dully as another sob wracked Yvette’s delicate body.

Or mayhap one weeping woman sounded n
o different than another.

About to
press the end of his kilt to Yvette’s cheeks to dry her tears, Iain clenched his hand into a fist instead.

God’s teeth! I’ve
turned monkish!

He
should
have avenged his brother’s death by slaying Yvette Beauchamp that morning on the misty glen.

When
he’d not done that, he
should
have beaten her soundly at the auld standing stones. Just as he
should,
right now, sling her over his shoulder and
take her, kicking and screaming, to his bed. Whereupon he would rip the clothes from her body and—

Damn those wee angels!
They were fair shouting at him.

“I dinna want you . . . not if ye’re unwilling,”
Iain informed Yvette, stepping away from her as he spoke. “Ye asked me earlier if there is a châtelaine at Castle Maoil. Aye, there is one . . . ’tis you. Beginning on the morrow, ye’ll oversee the cleaning of my keep, and the cooking and serving of food in my great hall. And when there are guests at my table, ye’ll see to their comfort. If ye willna serve me in my bed, ye will attend to my household. For I am your lord and master, and you will submit to me . . . one way or the other.”

Having issued
the edict, Iain departed the oriole without a word of farewell.

To Yvette’s stunned amazement, the laird of Castle Maoil had done what no man had ever done before
: he gave her a choice.

And for that unexpected boon, she was most grateful.

She didn’t want to be Iain MacKinnon’s slut. But she would willingly,
nay
, gladly become his châtelaine.

Having just
said her early morning prayers in the empty chapel – there being no priest at the castle – Yvette hurriedly made her way across the great hall. As she did, she compiled a list of everything that needed to be done to ready the chamber for the main meal; changing the fouled rushes that covered the stone floor at the top of the list.

As
she neared the kitchen, she wrinkled her nose, overwhelmed by the off-putting scent of onions.

Uncertain of the reception she would receive
, she nervously stood in the doorway of the kitchen, taking a few moments to observe the bustling activity, the stone-vaulted room a veritable hive. At a scarred wood trestle table several scullions were busy plucking hens. On the other side of the room, a bare-chested baker pulled a paddle full of freshly-baked bread from a dome-shaped oven. Nearby, an equally bare-chested varlet, who looked to be the baker’s son, turned the spit on which a large stag roasted over an open fire.

Just a
s she feared, the level of cleanliness in that part of the keep was no better than in the musty great hall.

Once the kitchen boys were finished with the hens, she would set them to work sweeping the stone floor and scrubbing the soot-encrusted pans that
dangled from large metal hooks. Assuming, of course, that she could persuade them to heed the commands of an English noblewoman.

W
hat if they refuse to obey me?

Suddenly worried that she would be unable to take command of
the intimidating domain, Yvette lifted the trailing hem of her linen
léine
so that she could make a hasty retreat.

Only to be brought up short when
she considered the alternative, the thought of sharing Iain’s bed stopping her dead in her tracks. Much like a splash of cold water on a chill winter’s morn.

Her fate sealed
, Yvette took a deep, stabilizing breath before she stepped through the entryway. Catching sight of Eara seated at the oversized table, she headed toward her. Busily engaged in trimming turnips, the scullion maid raised her head and timidly smiled.

God’s heart
! Surely, she didn’t intend to serve boiled turnips two days in a row!

“Pardon me, mistres
s,” a masculine voice suddenly boomed.

Yvette
just barely managed to sidestep the red-cheeked Fergus as he hauled a heavily-woven basket of codfish into the kitchen, water liberally dripping from the basket of still wiggling fish.

“Is that not the same meal you served yesterday?”
Yvette inquired of Eara, pointedly glancing at the turnips.

“Nay, mistress.
Yesterday I served turnips and mutton.”

Deciding
that the time had come to test her authority, Yvette straightened her shoulders and said, “As Castle Maoil’s new châtelaine, I shall devise the daily menu, thus sparing you that burdensome task. I will also issue a list of housekeeping chores to be carried out each day.”

Yvette’s
announcement met with stupefied silence, the only sound in the room being the dull thud of a turnip rolling off the table and falling to the floor.

“
Will you kindly point me in the direction of the pantry?” Yvette inquired of the scullion, not wishing to dwell on the meaning of that profound and gaping silence.

Wordlessly, Eara raised her arm and, using her knife tip, pointed to a passageway on the other
side of the room. With a brisk nod of thanks, Yvette turned on her heel and strode toward the pantry. En route, she lifted a flaming torch out of its holder.

Ignoring the excited spate of Gaelic that ensued as soon as she stepped into the pantry, Yvette
held the torch aloft as she methodically peered into each and every earthenware crock, wood keg, linen sack, horsehair basket and split-oak barrel. To her dismay, the variety of ingredients at her disposal left something to be desired, Iain MacKinnon’s pantry not nearly as well stocked as that of her late husband, Roland Beauchamp having spared no expense when it came to imported foodstuffs.

Her inspection of the storeroom completed,
Yvette returned to the kitchen, ready to issue the day’s menu.

Since Eara
appeared to be the senior scullion – and the only one who could fluently speak English – that was to whom she gave her orders.

“The codfish will be served with a galantine broth,”
Yvette announced, gesturing to the basket of fish.

Clearly stupefied, Eara mutely nodded.

Yvette next stepped over to a side table and plunged her hand into a frayed basket of hulled wheat. Testing the texture, she let the kibbled bits slip through her fingers.

“This wheat can be used to make a
frumenty
for the venison. As for the hens, once plucked, they are to be simmered in cloves, mace, pepper and cinnamon.”

“Yes, mistress,” Eara murmured, wide-eyed.

When Yvette caught sight of a large bowl full of mushrooms on the side table, she smiled happily and said, “Those mushrooms will do nicely in a cheese pastry.” Then, managing to whet her own appetite, if no one else’s, she pointed to a large basket of fruit. “And at meal’s end, you will serve stewed apples with a pear compote.”

Eara
visibly gulped, her gray eyes having grown as large as two pewter ladles. “I can prepare the apples and the pears fer ye. The rest of it I am no’ so sure about.”

Yvette reached over and reassuring
ly patted the scullion on the shoulder. “Worry naught. I will instruct you in the preparation of each dish.”

“Aye, mistress.
But wha’ am I to do wi’ the turnips?”

Yvette thoughtfully tapped her chin with her index finger, contemplating the fate of her least favorite vegetable
.

“I think mayhap an egg
mousse
with wine and fennel.”

Pleased with the menu,
it came as no small surprise that the job of châtelaine was not nearly as difficult as she had dreaded.

Yvette spent the next several hours supervi
sing the main meal of the day. And though the pantry at Castle Maoil had its limitations, she’d managed to creatively improvise. She’d also used the time to acquaint herself with the kitchen staff. Even though most of them eyed her with suspicion, so far they’d followed her orders without complaint.

As a young girl, Yvette had
often taken refuge in the kitchens of her father’s various castles, drawn by the aromatic smells and boisterous camaraderie. Those hours that she’d spent with the chefs, bakers, scullions and varlets were the only bright spot in an anemic, decidedly unhappy childhood. Sadly, her mother had died in a riding accident when Yvette was twelve years of age; and because she was a girl child, her father had routinely ignored her.

And continued to
do so until Yvette reached a marriageable age. At which point, Lyndhurst callously selected the husband who would bring
him
the most gain, without a thought to Yvette’s feelings in the matter.

Shoving the unpleasant
memory to the wayside, Yvette rose from the newly scrubbed table. She then walked across the newly-scrubbed floor and retrieved a small cask of vinegar from the storeroom. With everyone engaged in one task or another, an air of domestic tranquility filled the environs.

That is u
ntil Laoghaire MacKinnon sauntered into the kitchen.

Dressed as she had been
the day before in a brown linen tunic, blue wool trews, with a sword belted around her waist, the laird’s sister insolently leaned against the side table, her booted feet crossed at the ankles. Daylight streamed through an arched window, turning Laoghaire’s unbound curls into a radiant cascade of molten copper.

Feeling the heat of the other woman’s animosity all the way across the kitchen, Yvette silently c
ursed the unwelcome intrusion.

“’Twould appear my brother has decided to put the Sassenach to work,” Laoghaire remarked, belligerently jutting
her chin in Yvette’s direction. “Did he order ye to the kitchen because there was no pleasure to be found between yer English thighs?”

Certain that
if she permitted Laoghaire to bully her without recourse, her tenure at Castle Maoil would be most unpleasant, Yvette said, “Why do you glare at me as though I were the devil’s minion? I have done naught to you. If we must live together, I would have us do so in a spirit of companionship and good cheer.” As she spoke, Yvette calmly poured several dollops of the wine vinegar into a clay bowl.

Just as calmly, the statuesque beauty strolled across the room and snat
ched an apple out of a basket. Baring a row of pearly white teeth, she noisily bit into the piece of fruit.

“So ye would
have us be friends, would ye?”

“I would,” Yvette
replied as she tossed a small pinch of salt into the bowl.

“As if I could ev
er be friends wi’ a Sassenach,” Laoghaire retorted with a derisive sneer. “If not for you, Hamish MacKinney would still be alive. And if not for yer pustule of a father, my brother Kenneth would no’ lie buried at St. Ives’ kirk.”

Hearing that, Yvette peered at the Scotswoman
. She was surprised to learn that Kenneth was her brother, having been of the mistaken notion that he’d been Laoghaire’s husband.

“I had nothing to do with Hamish MacKinney’s tragic demise,” she
stated matter-of-factly, well aware that all eyes were upon them. “Just as I had nothing to do with your brother Kenneth’s death.”

Laoghaire’s gaze tu
rned a chilling shade of cerulean blue. Then, her every motion enlivened with rage, she flung the half-eaten apple onto the kitchen floor; whereupon two dogs immediately began to fight over the edible scrap.

“Ye can put on airs and behave as though ye’
re the new lady of Castle Maoil. But I know ye for the English strumpet that ye are!”

“How dare you speak to me in
so vile a manner!” Yvette exclaimed, having lost her patience with the surly young woman.

In the next instant, i
n a flash of honed steel, Laoghaire MacKinnon unsheathed her sword and stormed across the kitchen, coming to a halt a sword’s length from Yvette.

Feeling a sudden prick, Yvette glanced downward, shocked to see the tip of Laoghaire MacKinnon’s sword pressed into the upper curve of her left breast, the blade poised above her heart.

No one in the kitchen uttered a sound, the room having become a silent tableau of open-mouthed astonishment and slack-jawed incredulity.

“Put down yer blade ye damned hell-cat,” a masculine vo
ice bellowed from the doorway. “By all that’s holy, ye’ve shamed yer brother’s good name with your mannish behavior and shrew’s tongue.”

At hearing Diarmid MacKinnon’s voice, Yvette g
ave an audible sigh of relief.

Cursing under her breath, her eyes still gleaming with enraged blue fire, Laoghaire
sullenly withdrew her weapon. “I heard how ye took the Sassenach’s side when Iain put her under the blade. ’Tis
you
who have shamed the family name, no’ I,” the red-headed woman hissed before she stalked out of the kitchen.

Unnerved by the episode, Yvette put a trembling hand to her throat, staggered by th
e depth of Laoghaire’s enmity.

With a
n uncharacteristic scowl on his face, Diarmid curtly spoke in Gaelic to the gawking servants. Although one or two of them cast wary glances in Yvette’s direction, they made haste to resume their various kitchen chores.