linen shift or some threadbare hose? Yet would I guess sewing is nae one of yer favorite pastimes.”
“I wonder if she’s e’er actually fired that bow,” Nathair said.
“Yer vera close to finding out, Highlander.”
6
Sorcha gritted her teeth. She’d almost blurted out she’d sewn up many a ragged battle wound.
But she was supposed to be a maid servant, skilled at such banal things as changing rushes, cleaning vegetables, plucking fowl and scaling fish, seeing to the hearths and basins in each room, wiping down tables and benches, and of course seeing to all of her lady’s personal needs.
She stuck her nose in the air. “I ha’e ne’er sewn up a man’s bleeding buttocks nor would I e’er wish to. So if ye find my arrow sticking in yer sorry hide, ‘tis because yer gormless fools.”
A smile crested the face of the man with midnight black hair but there was something dangerous about it. He said something in Gaelic to the blonde man, who laughed again.
“What did ye say?” Sorcha asked.
“Ye dunna speak the old language?”
“I speak good plain Scots, nae that Highlands muck.”
“I asked him if he thought ye’d need a hand down from that tree. I could offer my hand upon yer rump so ye could keep yer balance.”
“I dunna need yer help or yer hand upon my arse!”
“’Tis good news lass, as I’d hate for my laird to be surprised by the likes of ye in that tree with a bow and arrow. He may get the wrong impression.” There was something hard to the set of his mouth now. “He may e’en think he’s nae welcome here. And he’s already in a sour mood about having this marriage forced upon him.”
Sorcha felt an unexpected stab of hurt. Why should she be surprised that the Highlander also loathed this arrangement? Perhaps it was because several of the men in the clan had been eagerly trying to convince her to marry one of them instead, and their attentions were flattering. She supposed she was not undesirable, but she did not have the kind of delicate, blonde beauty that Nessa had nor near the amount of suitors she’d managed to put off thus far. Even though Nessa was a maid servant, she often caught the admiring glances of nobles. And some of their attentions had been less than noble, with near disastrous results for her friend.
Sorcha grunted and shimmied down the tree with expert grace. “I need no man’s aid. Certainly nae a Highlander’s .” She put the arrow in her linen bag and looped the bow over her shoulder. Wind ruffled the unruly curls that weren’t secured by her braid. Irritated, she pushed them from her forehead and looked to the hill above the men, searching. “Tell me, what sort of character does yer laird possess? Does my lady ha’e need to fear him?”
“He eats wee children and maid servants with bows and arrows who climb trees,” the blonde giant said, amusement shining in his deep blue eyes.
“What is yer name?” the dark-haired one asked.
She almost said “Sorcha” but bit her tongue. “Nessa.”
“Nessa. Somehow ‘tis nae a fitting name for a wild lass such as yerself. Tell me, what ha’e ye heard about the Maclean laird?”
She thrust her stubborn chin even higher into the air. “He drinks the blood of his enemies from their hollowed out skulls. He can cut a man’s heart from his breast with a single glance and eat it. He’s an ogre who lives to fight at the merest insult and will bed any willing wench with open legs. He possesses the Sight, and ‘tis said his wits are scattered to the winds.”
The blonde man nearly toppled from his horse
“I wonder if she’s e’er actually fired that bow,” Nathair said.
“Yer vera close to finding out, Highlander.”
6
Sorcha gritted her teeth. She’d almost blurted out she’d sewn up many a ragged battle wound.
But she was supposed to be a maid servant, skilled at such banal things as changing rushes, cleaning vegetables, plucking fowl and scaling fish, seeing to the hearths and basins in each room, wiping down tables and benches, and of course seeing to all of her lady’s personal needs.
She stuck her nose in the air. “I ha’e ne’er sewn up a man’s bleeding buttocks nor would I e’er wish to. So if ye find my arrow sticking in yer sorry hide, ‘tis because yer gormless fools.”
A smile crested the face of the man with midnight black hair but there was something dangerous about it. He said something in Gaelic to the blonde man, who laughed again.
“What did ye say?” Sorcha asked.
“Ye dunna speak the old language?”
“I speak good plain Scots, nae that Highlands muck.”
“I asked him if he thought ye’d need a hand down from that tree. I could offer my hand upon yer rump so ye could keep yer balance.”
“I dunna need yer help or yer hand upon my arse!”
“’Tis good news lass, as I’d hate for my laird to be surprised by the likes of ye in that tree with a bow and arrow. He may get the wrong impression.” There was something hard to the set of his mouth now. “He may e’en think he’s nae welcome here. And he’s already in a sour mood about having this marriage forced upon him.”
Sorcha felt an unexpected stab of hurt. Why should she be surprised that the Highlander also loathed this arrangement? Perhaps it was because several of the men in the clan had been eagerly trying to convince her to marry one of them instead, and their attentions were flattering. She supposed she was not undesirable, but she did not have the kind of delicate, blonde beauty that Nessa had nor near the amount of suitors she’d managed to put off thus far. Even though Nessa was a maid servant, she often caught the admiring glances of nobles. And some of their attentions had been less than noble, with near disastrous results for her friend.
Sorcha grunted and shimmied down the tree with expert grace. “I need no man’s aid. Certainly nae a Highlander’s .” She put the arrow in her linen bag and looped the bow over her shoulder. Wind ruffled the unruly curls that weren’t secured by her braid. Irritated, she pushed them from her forehead and looked to the hill above the men, searching. “Tell me, what sort of character does yer laird possess? Does my lady ha’e need to fear him?”
“He eats wee children and maid servants with bows and arrows who climb trees,” the blonde giant said, amusement shining in his deep blue eyes.
“What is yer name?” the dark-haired one asked.
She almost said “Sorcha” but bit her tongue. “Nessa.”
“Nessa. Somehow ‘tis nae a fitting name for a wild lass such as yerself. Tell me, what ha’e ye heard about the Maclean laird?”
She thrust her stubborn chin even higher into the air. “He drinks the blood of his enemies from their hollowed out skulls. He can cut a man’s heart from his breast with a single glance and eat it. He’s an ogre who lives to fight at the merest insult and will bed any willing wench with open legs. He possesses the Sight, and ‘tis said his wits are scattered to the winds.”
The blonde man nearly toppled from his horse
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