He picked up the precious journal with its lock on one side, the key always stored in his trunk. Cait, his father’s wife and the only woman he’d ever known as his mother, had gifted him with this journal on his seventh birthday, mere days before she’d taken a chest illness and passed away. He’d loved her, no matter she hadn’t been his true birthmother. She’d raised him and Duncan with all the love she could have offered, and this gift was one he’d forever cherish. Aye, that day she’d gifted him this journal, she’d told him to store all his memories within and he’d never missed a life-altering moment.
In it, he’d included the night when he and Duncan had first met Kyla. Their father had called them down to his solar and as they’d stood before him, Colin MacKenzie had lowered to his haunches, his gaze narrowed and his next words shocking them. He’d told them that the mother they’d always known until the day she’d passed, hadn’t been their mother at all. Before he’d wed Cait, the Chief of MacLennan’s daughter, he’d in fact handfasted with a fae lass named Beth Matheson, a lass who’d unfortunately passed away while birthing them both. The knowledge of who their true mother had been had remained a secret from even them until that day. Even now they told so very few, only those they implicitly trusted.
Aye, never did their father wish to lose the lands and dowry he’d gained with his marriage to the MacLennan’s daughter, and that could still happen should the truth become fully known to one and all.
Behind him, the maid tossed another log on the fire, her cheeks flushed and the neckline of her kirtle somehow far lower than when they’d entered. She crossed to him and hunkered down, her frilly cap slipping off her head and her long brown locks cascading down to her waist.
“The water awaits ye, my laird.” With a tug, she removed his boots and set them aside then stood and loosened the ties of his chausses. She wriggled them down past his braies, her gaze flicking over him as she scooped up her lost cap and stuffed it in her apron pocket. With care, she lifted one of his arms out of the heavy sleeve of metal, slid the protective mail over his head then down his other arm and with a clunk, set it on the chair next to the tub filled with steamy hot water. “You’re a kind and caring laird, fair and never harsh,” she murmured.
He breathed deep. “Thank you, lass.”
“Ye must get mighty lonely when ye are gone for so long from home.”
“What age are you, Meg?”
“Eight and ten, sir.” She walked to the side table and picked up the bar of soap. “Do ye wish for me to scrub ye as ye bathe?”
She wouldn’t be the first maid to make the offer and he doubted the last, but never had he accepted any of them. Hands on the hem of his under-tunic, he pulled it over his head, tossed it into the corner wicker basket and opened the door. “I’ve no need for aid, will manage well enough. Thank you for your kind offer though.”
“Are ye certain?” She dunked the soap into the tub and built a lather between her hands, then with the bubbles smeared between her fingers, walked around to his back and rubbed. “Ye cannae get your back cleaned once I’m gone. At least allow me to scrub ye clean here.”
With a long sigh, he stood still as she smoothed over his skin, her touch tender-light.
“Ye have a mighty lot of muscle.” The maid stepped around him, her hands gliding over his shoulders then his chest as she worked the bubbles across his skin.
“May I ask something of you, Meg?”
“Aye, I’d like that.” Eagerness shone in her eyes, her hands sliding down his sides and over his hips, the thin brown linen of his braies knotted at his waist thankfully protecting him from her roaming hands dipping any lower. “Would you pour me a drink afore you leave? I find I’m still thirsty.”
“Oh.” Chin lowered, she glanced at the flask of wine on the side table then stepped away and wiped her hands on her aproned skirts. Flask in hand, she poured the wine into a silver goblet and handed it to him. “Ye must be most weary after such a long journey. Rest well, my laird.”
He would only ever long for one woman’s hands on him, and it would never be this maid’s or even his future bride’s. Unfortunately, he’d lost the chance to wed the only lass he’d ever—well, no use going back over that yet again. Fiona was in the past and that’s where she needed to stay. His future was now set, and it was with Elizabeth MacRae.
He closed the door after the maid, shucked his braies and stepped into the bath and sank down. Warm water flowed over his back and chest and once he’d dunked fully down and wet his head, he came back up and worked the soap through his hair then went under again and rinsed.