Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(41)
Crude, perhaps, but none the less true for it.
She dipped her head under the water and plunged her face through the glassy surface one more time, then stepped from the tub. Despite the steamy air, her teeth chattered as the young maidservant rubbed the gooseflesh from her skin with the swathe of linen warmed by a pan of stones heated in the fire. The soft scent of lavender, made more pungent from the steam, filled her nose. It was her favorite scent, and Lizzie saw to it that all the linens were stored with the dried flowers.
The maid started the long process of combing out her hair, hitting a few painful snags along the way. In between the poor girl's horrified apologies, Lizzie thought how much she missed Alys. Donnan was recovering from his wound, but it would be some time before the older woman would chance to leave his side. Lizzie visited their cottage in the village when she could. With five children it was more than a bit chaotic, but she loved every minute of it.
It was everything she wanted and one day hoped to have.
The bath had worked its magic, and for the first time since their kiss, she could think rationally.
Patrick Murray's softly spoken words uttered in the haze of passion had brought all of it back to her. The uncertainty. The heartache. The knowledge that the next time she gave a man her body, she wanted to know that he loved her. Or, she thought sadly, that he would have a legal right to do so.
That was the cold, hard truth. No matter how much she desired Patrick Murray, it wasn't enough.
But …
Lizzie could not shake the nagging feeling that this time had been different. Patrick had roused all the same feelings in her, but so much more. Kissing him, with her body pressed up against his, had felt amazing. Perfect. Right.
A wry smile turned her mouth. Apparently, not all of her naïve wishful thinking had been lost two years ago.
After the maid had finished helping her dress and arrange her hair, she made her way down to the great hall for the evening meal. Although it was less involved and substantial than the midday meal, Lizzie made sure it was prepared and presented with equal aplomb. The tables were festively decorated with colorful cloths, flowers, and candelabra. A harpist sat before the fireplace, infusing music throughout the peat smoke-filled room. A handful of maids circled the tables with pitchers of the potent cuirm and claret, and platters stacked high with cheese, bread, and beef. The room was cozy, warm, and full of life.
Everything was as it should be, yet something was missing. Her eyes went to the dais. For a moment, she could picture Patrick sitting at the head of the table, glancing up to catch her eye and smiling to see her. The image was so strong, she felt a wave of disappointment when it was gone. He wouldn't be at the dais. He was only a guardsman. Hadn't she just told him as much? One kiss and she was imagining things that could never be.
Perhaps it was because she'd just been thinking about Alys and her family, but Lizzie suddenly felt very alone. The cozy atmosphere she worked so hard to create was only a thin veneer to mask her loneliness.
As she approached the dais, she noticed that the room seemed quieter than usual. A quick glance around told her why. Neither Patrick nor any of his men were here.
Dread coiled in her belly like spoiled milk.
Had she driven him away?
No. He wouldn't leave, she told herself. Not when he'd promised to stay. Not without saying goodbye.
She took her seat beside the bailiff and Finlay, both men offering her a pleasant greeting. As they'd been waiting for her to start the meal, she raised her hand and the merrymaking began.
She made small talk with the bailiff for a bit before broaching the question foremost on her mind.
“I don't see the Murray guardsmen in the hall. Were they called to duty for some reason?”
The bailiff frowned, his eyes flickering over the tables crowded with clansmen. “Not to my knowledge, my lady.”
She heard Finlay snicker beside her; he'd obviously overheard—or been listening to—their conversation. “ ’Twas not duty that called them away, my lady.” He had a smug smile on his face, as though he were thinking about a naughty joke. “But a call of an entirely different kind.”
“I'm afraid I don't understand.”
Finlay sobered, but Lizzie caught the gleam in his eyes. “They went to the village to do a wee bit of celebrating.”
Her brows knit together. “But why would they do that? We've food and drink aplenty here.”
Finlay put on a show of looking uncomfortable, but Lizzie could tell that he was anxious to tell her what he knew. “We've not everything here that they have in the village.”
Oh God. Lizzie sucked in her breath, feeling suddenly ill. Women. They went to find women.
A slim dagger slid between her ribs, pricking a tiny corner of her heart—the part that had believed for a moment that there was something special in the kiss she and Patrick had shared. She swallowed. “I see.”
It shouldn't matter. Even if she had some claim on him— which she didn't—men often availed themselves of other women.
But knowing didn't lessen the kernel of disappointment aching inside her. Or the feeling that once again she'd seen something special where there was only lust. Lust that any willing arms would sate.
The comely, buxom lass perched on his lap did nothing to ease Patrick's restlessness. Still, cognizant of the tavern's patrons, he made a good show of enjoying himself as he tossed back another tankard of cuirm, letting the maid fondle him.