My Highland Lover (9 page)

Trulie combed her fingers back through her hair.
Crime-a-nitly!
Couldn’t she keep her foot out of her mouth for five minutes? Now she had insulted the man by insinuating he was old. She smoothed both hands along the sides of her head and tucked her stubborn curls back behind her ears. “I don’t think you’re old. I have no idea how old you are, and I really don’t care. You said you were the chieftain so I figured you were probably very…mature.” Well, that sounded lame. Somebody just needed to hand her a shovel so she could bury herself in the hole she had just dug with her mouth.

“I have no’ been head of m’clan verra long. M’father died a short time ago.”

“Oh. I am so sorry.” Trulie’s heart dropped with a painful thud. The poor man. No wonder he was so intense. Not only had he just lost his father, but he hadn’t been a leader to his people very long.

Gray’s heavy sigh echoed through the room.

Trulie pulled a strand of hair free and nervously curled it around one finger. After a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence, she leaned toward the blue cloud sitting across the table. Maybe the third time would be the charm. She had to find out what Tamhas meant about helping this man. There was just something about this whole situation filling her with an almost uncomfortable amount of anticipation.
I’m meant to do something here. I can feel it.
Was this why Granny had been so adamant about hurrying back to the past? “How can I help you, Chieftain MacKenna?”

The vibrant deep-blue of Gray’s aura shifted to a dark, disturbing cloud of mist. Trulie eased back in the chair.
Holy crap.
Now what had she said to upset the poor man?

“Gray.”

Trulie folded her hands in her lap and nodded. “Yes. Your aura has turned gray. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No,” Gray said a bit louder. “I would rather ye call me Gray—if ye dinna mind.”

“Oh.” Trulie caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She had never had so much trouble communicating with another human being in her entire life. What the devil was wrong with her? It had to be because she had to rely solely on her extra senses. Yes. That had to be it. Trulie took another sip of water. No way did the zero comfort level of this conversation have anything to do with the fluttery feeling batting its wings around her stomach every time Gray MacKenna rolled his
r
s in her direction.

Trulie batted a tickling curl away from her forehead and leaned forward again. “Okay, Gray. What was Tamhas talking about? He said I was the only one who could help you. So I’m asking…help you with what?”

The loud scraping of a chair hurriedly pushed aside, accompanied by the elongation of the murky aura in front of her told Trulie that Gray now stood. The cloud of color receded, then bounced back and forth with a jerking rhythm. Trulie blinked hard and tried to focus.
Geez.
She wished she could see the man. It was hard to relate to a bouncing blob of shifting mist.

“My parents were murdered. Burned to death in the north tower. I believe the fire was no accident.” The pacing stopped as Gray’s aura darkened even more with his pain. “I intend to find and pass judgment on the killer. Tamhas said ye would know exactly how to make that come to pass. He said ye had the sight.”

Trulie leaned back against the support of the chair and swallowed hard. Murdered? Burned to death? A violent shudder shook through her. What a horrible way to die. And that explained a lot about the eerie feeling of this place battering against her senses.

“I…” Trulie opened her mouth then closed it. What the heck do you say after hearing something like that?

“Once ye find the bastard…or bastards who started the fire, I will handle the rest.”

Gray’s voice growled with emotion. Raw anger and a thirst for vengeance dripped from every syllable.

“So Tamhas told you I can read people?” Trulie knotted her hands back in her lap and pressed them tight against her stomach. The thought of trying to solve the murder filled her with gut-wrenching uneasiness. Had Granny known about all this when she had insisted on returning to this time? Had Granny really wanted to land in the middle of all this conflict? Trulie’s inner voice—the voice that always added commentary where Granny was concerned—snorted out a loud
What the hell do you think?

“Aye.” Gray’s terse one-word response spoke volumes. “He said ye had the sight,” Gray repeated.

Trulie took a deep breath and ignored the uncomfortable queasiness burning at the back of her throat. “Well. I think I need to explain it a bit more. I can read people and get a very accurate sense of what type of person they are, but I can’t always see everything in their minds.” Well. She really
could
see into peoples’ minds. But sorting through a person’s thoughts and memories always made her uneasy. She rarely used that particular gift. It drained her physically, and if she happened across someone’s more disturbing memories, the darkness haunted her for days. There were just some things she never wanted to know. “Uhm. I guess if you already have someone in mind, I could talk to them and see what I could find out. Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

Okay. She needed to stop babbling now. Trulie finger-walked a shaking hand to her glass and brought it to her lips. The cool springwater smoothed the stomach-clenching nervousness churning ever higher.

Breathe, Trulie Elizabeth.
Her oversensitive sense of self-preservation blared a loud and clear warning. Could Gray really be trusted? Was it safe to share the truth about her abilities—all her gifts? How many times had Granny told her keeping quiet about the Sinclair
talents
was key to the family’s survival?

“All I ask is that ye help find the one who set the fire. Help me find the one who bolted me mother’s doors and blocked the stairwell leading down from her private rooms. Help me find the cur who warned m’father of the danger to his woman. The bastard lured me sire there before the fire was set. I want the one who barred the tower entrance from the outside and trapped my parents inside that fiery hell. I want their neck between m’hands.”

The air in the room pulsated with Gray’s anger. His rage battered against Trulie’s senses like a barrage of missiles exploding on impact. Trulie closed her eyes and pressed her palms against her temples. Gray’s heartbreak and bleak sense of complete loss crashed in around her. Trulie flinched and shied away. Yes. Gray could be trusted. All he wanted was to avenge his family.

“Are ye unwell, lass? Should I send for yer grandmother?” Gray’s hands were warm against her shoulders. His aura surrounded her, then lowered to the floor. The man had to be on his knees.

Trulie pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. Here Gray was, racked by such pain, and yet he knelt at her feet out of concern for her. Trulie’s stomach somersaulted and her heart double-thumped a fluttering sigh. Her fingers shook as she smoothed them across her cheeks and blinked against the sting of unshed tears. With a sniff, she straightened in the chair and forced a smile.
He’s just being polite. Don’t read anything into it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break down like that. I’m fine. I’ll be…just fine.”

“Perhaps yer weariness has o’erly taxed ye.”

The vibrant blue aura rose as Gray stood and moved away. The warmth of Gray’s touch slid away from her shoulders, triggering an immediate shiver.
Come back,
all her senses cried out. Trulie rubbed her hands up and down her arms, shaking the feeling away.
Breathe. Just breathe.

“I shall have yer grandmother sent to ye.” Gray’s voice now came from behind her. He was back at the door.

The slow creaking hinges and the soft thud confirmed it. Just that quick, he was gone.

Trulie sagged forward, bowing her head into her hands. Why did alone suddenly seem…lonely? A cold wet nose snuffled against her. Karma grumbled a low, soothing whine and bumped his silky head up beneath her arm.

“I love you too, Karma.” Trulie buried her face in his wooly ruff and rubbed his velvety ears. A metallic clatter and the rasping whisper of a moving door straightened her in the chair. “Who’s there?”

“It’s only me, gal.” A trilling
prrrpp
announced that Kismet accompanied Granny. Soft footsteps echoed across the room, then the gentle weight of Granny’s hand rested on Trulie’s shoulder. “Gray said you weren’t well.” Granny slid a finger under her chin. “What’s ailin’ you, gal?”

“Other than my eyes, I’m fine.”
Who am I kidding? I’m confused as hell.
Trulie patted the table until she found her cup. A rough tongue rasped across the back of her hand, then water splashed across her fingers. “Kismet. That’s my water.”

A lapping sound echoed from the depths of the cup, then the rough tongue swiped her hand again. Trulie sagged back in the chair. “You’re welcome.”

Granny squeezed her shoulders. “Come on. Get up.”

“Where are we going now?” She really would have preferred staying put until her sight returned.

“Coira’s waiting for you in your room. She’ll get you fed and settled in.” Granny gave her shoulders another impatient shake. “Come on, now. Time’s a wastin’.”

“Who is Coira?” Without her sight, she felt like she needed a scorecard to keep up with all the players in this twisted game of thirteenth-century Name That Scot. Trulie held out her hands and slowly rose from the chair before Granny could shake her again. Patience was not one of Granny’s virtues.

Granny steered her clear of the chair, then tucked her hand in the crook of her arm. “She’s our maidservant. I’ve spoken to her. She’ll help you get acclimated.”

“So, she knows about us?” Trulie lifted her face as a waft of cool air brushed past her and the door groaned shut behind them.

“She knows enough.” Granny patted Trulie’s hand and turned her down the hallway.

“Dinna fret now, Mistress Trulie. Coira will have ye all unpacked and settled in yer rooms in no time a’ tall.” The bright-pink aura jabbering away in third person buzzed about the room in such a frenzy it made Trulie’s head spin. Coira must have been a hummingbird in a past life.

“Thanks, Coira.” Trulie moved carefully through the unknown space with both hands extended. Karma’s firm weight against the side of her leg helped keep her on course. “And it’s just Trulie. Remember?”

“Ah now, mistress. Ye’ll have Steward and Cook a whalen’ me arse with a long green switch if I dinna show ye proper respect.” The fuchsia cloud ping-ponged back to Trulie and took hold of both her hands. “Here now. Allow me t’lead ye to the settee. Ye must sit and enjoy Cook’s fine biscuits and mead whilst I undo yer strange wee bag.”

Trulie eased down, expecting another hard bench, but was pleasantly surprised with the softness of a plush cushion. She ran her fingertips over the seat. A knobby weave. Smooth silkiness interlaced with rough knotted threads. The cushions reminded her of Granny’s needlepoint and tapestry pillows.

“Hold out yer hands, m’lady, and I’ll hand ye the cup.” Coira’s cotton-candy-pink aura hovered patiently in front of Trulie.

“I’ll make you a deal.” Trulie held up both hands. “When it’s just you and me in the room, call me Trulie. Okay?” Having a personal servant didn’t feel quite right, but Trulie gladly welcomed a friend and confidante to help her adapt to this strange new world.

“Make…a…deal.” Coira repeated the phrase as though not entirely sure of its meaning. “Is this the same sort of thing as an agreement…or perhaps a pact?”

“Yes.” Trulie nodded as Coira placed a heavy metal cup between her hands. “We’ll make a pact that whenever we’re alone, you’ll call me Trulie. You can do that and not get in any trouble with the rest of the household—right?”

“Aye, m’lady…er, Trulie.” Coira’s aura bounced down, then up again.

Hmm…that must’ve been a curtsy.

The cloud of pink floated a bit to the right as Trulie hesitantly sipped what smelled like a cloyingly sweet wine. Trulie held the liquid on her tongue and slowly breathed in, savoring the unusual flavor. The drink wasn’t like any wine she’d ever had before, and if she remembered Granny’s tales of the past correctly, the unusual twang deepening the flavor of the fermented, fruity liquid had to be honey. Trulie swallowed and quietly smacked her lips. She had no tolerance for alcohol, but this didn’t taste strong at all. Not bad.

An amused snort reminded Trulie that Coira was still very much in the room.

“What?”

“Ye look like Cook when she tastes the soup t’see if more salt is needed. Ha’ ye ne’er tasted mead afore?” Coira chuckled and flitted about the room with soft thuds and pats that told Trulie Coira was still busily setting everything in order while they talked.

“No. I think this is my first taste of honey wine.” Trulie took another sip, savoring the light alcoholic warmth trickling down her throat. The sound of nylon cloth being frantically handled, then a dull thud followed by a word hissed out in a language Trulie didn’t understand, pulled her attention away from the mead. “Do you need some help with that zipper? Sometimes it sticks if you don’t hold it straight while you’re trying to undo it.”

Coira’s hot-pink aura had deepened to a fiery red. “I’m afraid I dinna ken what ye mean, m’lady.” Coira’s voice was strained, as though she was ready to spit nails.

Trulie carefully rose from the bench. Red aura and strained voice. Apparently, sticky zipper had won this round with Coira. Trulie held out the cup of mead with one hand and reached out with the other. “Here. Take this and I’ll open the bag. I’m used to it being ornery.”

“Where are ye from, mistress? Yer grandmother nay saw fit t’tell me, and for the life a me, I barely understand what yer saying half the time. I ken I’m no’ a dull-witted lass, but lore a mercy, I wonder at the emptiness of me own head whene’er ye speak.”

There was that word
mistress
again. Apparently, Coira’s manners were so deeply engrained that it was going to take a bit to overcome them. She decided to let it pass.

“Uhm…” Trulie patted the bag until she found the silk rope attached to the pull of the main zipper. She stretched it taut between her hands and yanked with no success.
Well, crap on crackers.
The silly thing was really stuck this time. She pulled it closed and jerked again as a suitably vague answer to Coira’s question finally came to her. “I’m from a land quite far from here. Really far. Kind of off to the southwest.” Coira seemed genuinely nice, but best ease her into the complicated world of the Sinclair family until Trulie knew her better.

“I see,” Coira replied in a tone that clearly said she didn’t see at all.

With a successful
whirrup
of the heavy zipper, Trulie pulled open the backpack. Before she could pull free any of the contents, Coira gently pushed her aside. “Nay, m’lady. ‘Tis my job to set yer things in order.”

At Trulie’s exasperated huff, Coira giggled and carefully turned Trulie, then helped her sit on the edge of the bed. “What I mean t’say is, nay, Trulie. ’Tis my duty t’stick m’wee nose through all yer things so I can see all yer treasures.”

Trulie relaxed, scooted back on the bed, and assumed her favorite cross-legged position. Maybe there was hope for a friendship with Coira, after all.

“Oh…me…heavens.” Coira’s voice echoed with wonder.

“What?”
Damn my lost sight.
All Trulie could see was another flashing shade shift in the color of Coira’s aura.

“What…” Coira’s voice stalled out as though the girl had suddenly forgotten how to speak. Finally, she pulled Trulie’s hand up and pressed a wadded jumble of silk and lace into her extended palm. “What is…where…how exactly do ye wear…
these.
”

Trulie fingered through the bundle. Lace. Silk. Ribbon. Recognition finally registered. Trulie grinned. She held between her hands what she affectionately called her power package. Be it by intention or by chance, whenever she wore this particular set of black thong panties and show-off-the-girls bra, her confidence soared and she succeeded at whatever she tried. They always brought her good karma. “It’s my favorite set of bra and panties. There’s more lingerie stuffed in those outside pockets, but this set and the red set I’m wearing are my favorites. They bring me luck.”

The satiny articles were slowly pulled out of her hands. Trulie heard a sharp intake of breath and something muttered so low that she leaned forward to try to hear it. “What did you say, Coira?”

Coira cleared her throat with a nervous cough. “These bits o’ lace will bring ye a great deal more than luck if the chieftain sees ye a wearin’ them.”

Trulie did her best to ignore the rising heat flaming across her cheeks. Why would Coira say such a thing? “I’m not exactly going to be parading around the keep in my underwear. I’m sure Chieftain MacKenna won’t get a viewing of my power package. He’s much too busy running the clan to be troubled by a couple of new houseguests…and my favorite underwear.”

“Hmm,” was Coira’s only response.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Trulie scooted to the edge of the bed and carefully lowered her feet to the floor. Coira’s “Hmmm” spoke volumes, presenting all sorts of possibilities that effectively released an oversized horde of fluttering butterflies into Trulie’s stomach.

“Well…” Coira made an odd chirping noise like a hen about to lay an egg. “All I know is how the MacKenna looked at ye when ye walked in front of him in those tight-fittin’ trews yer a wearin’.” Coira giggled out a bubbling chortle as she rattled around in the backpack. “If he caught sight of ye in yer wee bit o’ black lace, the man’s plaid would surely stand out stiff as a banner hung across a pole.”

So the honey-voiced chieftain liked the rear view of her jeans? Trulie pressed both hands to her flaming cheeks, but couldn’t resist joining Coira’s infectious giggling. Maybe this short visit to the thirteenth century wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Holy shit, that’s cold!” Trulie cringed, arms crossed tightly over her bare breasts as the icy water sluiced down her body and splashed into the tub at her feet.

“Aye, mistress.” Coira scrubbed her back with a rough cloth. “Fresh water from the loch gets the humors a movin’ first thing in the morn.”

Humors, my ass.
“Give me that rag. I can wash myself.” Trulie jerked her hand toward the bright pink aura. “C-c-christ, I can barely talk. My teeth are chattering from freakin’ hypothermia.”

“I’ll stoke the fire. Hurry and wash, m’lady. I’ve a nice hot bowl of parritch for ye o’er by the fire.”

“Is there any soap?” Trulie gingerly dipped the rag in the cold water around her feet and scrubbed hard up and down her legs.
Son of a bitch.
The more she scrubbed, the colder the water seemed. “And what the hell is parritch?” She was in an ill mood this morning and freakin’ ice water dumped over her head didn’t do a damn thing to improve it. She was still sightless, had a crick in her neck and a stuffy nose from down pillows, and she was just pretty much pissed off at the world.

“Oats, mistress,” Coira answered in a wounded tone. “Hold out yer wee rag and I’ll guide ye to the bowl of soap.”

Trulie held out the square of linen. She really shouldn’t snap at Coira. It wasn’t the girl’s fault indoor plumbing and foam pillows had yet to be invented. The cool rim of a stoneware bowl pushed up against her hand. She dipped the cloth in the slimy substance and brought it to her nose.
Whew. That’ll burn the hair off my legs.
She soused the cloth in the water, shook it free of the acrid smelling soap, then finished scrubbing her body.

“Here, mistress. Hold fast to m’shoulder and step free of the tub. I’ll lead ye to the fire and rub ye down. Ye’ll feel refreshed in no time.”

Trulie very much doubted that, but what other choice did she have? Giving up on her last shred of modesty, she extended her arms and slowly turned in front of the fire while Coira dried her off. She felt like a rotisserie chicken getting readied for the spit.

“There now. All dry and smellin’ sweet as a spring breeze.” Coira shoved a garment over her head, pulled her arms through the sleeves, and shook it down her body.

Trulie smoothed her hands across the nubby weave. Must be some sort of linen. She shoved the sleeves up to her elbows and pushed her wet curls behind her ears. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’ve never been a morning person.”

“Ne’er ye mind,” Coira said soothingly, as she led Trulie to a chair. “Sit ye down and eat. A warm full belly will lift yer mood.”

Gingerly patting her hands in front of her, Trulie found the bowl and the handle of a wooden spoon. She leaned forward and inhaled deeply.
Ugh. Oatmeal.
She pushed it away and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m really not hungry this morning. If I could just have a nice hot cup of tea, that would be awesome.” Coffee would be even better, but she knew that was an impossibility.

Coira pulled her wrist out of her lap and wrapped her fingers around a warm cup. “Yer grandmother told me of yer druthers. There’s a nice hot bannock here for ye too. Fresh from Cook’s fire.” Coira guided her other hand and rested it atop what felt like a toasty square biscuit.

“Thank you.” Her frame of mind improved considerably with every sip of the honey-laced tea. The warm bannock melted in her mouth, rich and oaty, in a good way.

Coira’s pink aura bounced about the room, banging furniture and fluffing cloth as Trulie ate. “Mother Sinclair says Master Tamhas has a fine poultice that will hurry the healin’ of yer eyes. Once yer dressed, the wagon’s a waitin’ in the bailey to carry ye to his croft.”

Trulie popped the last of the bannock in her mouth and washed it down with a gulp of hot tea. If Coira had told her that in the first place, she would’ve been a lot more cooperative. She was sick and tired of being sightless. She patted the table and stood. “I’m ready. Let’s move it.”

“Nay, mistress.” Coira carefully walked her around the table and moved her closer to the fire. “Ye must finish dressing first. Ye’ve nothin’ on but yer shift.”

Trulie fluffed the loose-fitting garment about her legs. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

“First yer stockin’s.” Coira gently pushed her down and to one side. “Sit on the wee bench so ye dinna fall.”

Trulie propped herself on the edge of the cushion and lifted a foot. Coira smoothed what felt like a thick wool sock up to her thigh and secured it with a tightening tug and pull of some sort of string. Trulie patted her fingers atop the strange stock and the ribbon knotted around her thigh.

Coira batted away her hands. “Dinna untie the ribbons or yer hose will be down about yer ankles.”

Flexing her toes in the soft wooly weave, Trulie latched onto the edge of the stool as Coira yanked a soft leather shoe onto her foot and tied it about the ankle.

“Too tight. My toes will turn blue.” Trulie bent to loosen the shoe only to have her hands batted away again.

“Quit yer haverin’ and lift yer other foot. The ties will ease as ye walk. They dinna need loosening.”

Coira was turning out to be bossier than Granny. Trulie stuck her bare foot in the air, drumming her fingers on the cushions as Coira secured the other stocking and shoe. “Hurry up.”

“Hush now. Up wi’ ye then.” Coira pulled on her hands and led her across the room. “Up with yer arms. All we’ve left is yer overdress and belt. Then it’s down to the bailey and off to Master Tamhas’s croft.”

Thank goodness. Trulie rolled her shoulders and smoothed the heavy wool about her waist. Who knew getting dressed could be such an ordeal? “Now are we ready?”

“Aye, Mistress,” Coira snorted out in an exasperated huff. “Aye, yer ready at last.”

“Once I wipe yer eyes with this poultice, the rest of yer sight should return.” Tamhas pressed a cool cloth, sticky with some sort of unimaginable glop, against her closed eyelids.

Yuck.
Trulie forced herself not to recoil. If the nastiness hastened the full return of her sight, she could tolerate a little slimy grossness. “Granny, you didn’t answer me. Did you know about what happened to Gray’s parents before we came here?”