Never Seduce a Scot (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #1)(62)

Her breath came out in a visible puff and the air felt damp and cold on her face.

As suspected, she found a large woodpile where larger logs were stacked against the back wall of the keep, just outside the door that exited the kitchen.

She managed to wrest one of the logs from its perch, and it tumbled to the ground at her feet. She pushed it upright and after realizing there was no way she could lift it, she set about rolling it on its edge.

When she arrived at the stone steps leading back into the keep, she frowned and stared at the log she held upright.

One step at a time. She didn’t have to lift it for long. Just enough to lug it up each step in turn until she reached the top.

Huffing from exertion, she strained to lift the log just enough that she could slide it onto the first step. For several moments she stood there huffing with exertion, and then she braced herself to pick it up to the next step. By the time she managed to make it to the top step, she’d been working for several minutes.

She propped it on the top step, leaning heavily on it as she eyed the stack of logs behind her. How would she ever manage to bring in enough to lay both fires in the hall by the time the men started trickling down to break their fast?

Well, she certainly wasn’t going to manage the task standing here whimpering about it, that much was certain.

Determined not to be made a fool of, she rolled the log toward the hearth, eased it down to the floor, and then went back for another.

After four more trips, she had enough wood to start the first fire. She was so exhausted and weary that her hands shook as she went to maneuver the wood into the pit. She had the first situated and was about to duck back for the next when a hand tapped her on the shoulder.

Startled, she reared back and took in the horrified expression of one of the younger soldiers. He looked so appalled that she frowned, not understanding what it was she’d done wrong.

“My lady, ’tis my duty to set the logs each morn. ’Tis no job for a lass of your size. Please, allow me to finish. I would not displease the laird by having his wife do such an arduous task. Your hands, my lady. They’re bleeding. Please go have one of the women tend to them.”

She glanced down in bewilderment to see that her hands were torn and bleeding from her struggle with the wood. Perhaps she’d misunderstood Mary, or she’d simply read the wrong words from her lips. She’d thought that it was her task to set the fires, but she was fiercely glad that she wouldn’t have to wrestle more wood into the hall. Her back ached horribly, and now that he’d drawn attention to her hands, they were starting to sting.

Graeme would be furious and the last thing she wanted was for the other members of her clan to see that she couldn’t even handle the task of bringing in wood without it tearing up her tender, dainty hands.

Her overtunic had sleeves long enough that they’d hide her hands. She hadn’t worn one over her underdress this morn, but she’d be certain to don it so that no one would see the damage she’d done to her palms and fingers.

For now, she had to find a place to wash in private. A glance outside told her the sun was already peeking over the horizon, which meant her husband would be making an appearance shortly.

She ducked out of the hall after thanking the young man who’d taken over the task of lighting the fires and then she headed toward the guard tower.

’Twas an inconvenience to have to go through a guard every time she wanted to walk down to the river, but she supposed she could appreciate Graeme’s dedication to the safety of his people.

She called up to the guard, sure she was bellowing since she put all her strength behind the call. He stuck his head out, frowned as though she were completely daft, and then shook his head.

A moment later, a rider appeared, looking none too pleased that he was to accompany Eveline outside the gate. He likely had to miss breaking his fast.

“I’m only going to the river to wash my hands,” she said to the rider. “There’s no reason for you to accompany me. The guard can see clear to the path I’m taking.”

The rider didn’t look impressed with her speech and he ignored her, riding forward and then looking at her expectantly.

Disgruntled with his rudeness, she took out, walking at a sedate pace across the dew dampened ground toward the river. There was a distinct chill to the air, but she enjoyed it, invigorated after the exhausting chore of wrestling with the logs for the fire.

Once she reached the bank where she’d taken her impromptu swim just days before, she knelt and stuck her hands into the chilly water.

Blood had already started to dry over the places where the skin was abraded and had broken. The water was a shock to the tender areas and she winced as she set about picking the splinters from the wounds.

It was then she noticed the blisters from the day before. Two had broken and weeped clear liquid, but there were still several tight pockets that hadn’t yet burst. She sighed, knowing that she’d likely added several more this morning.

As she rose, her stomach growled and then clenched into a knot that had her wavering unsteadily. She hadn’t supped the evening before and now she was late to break her fast. If she hurried, she might still be in time.

“Where the hell is my wife?” Graeme demanded, his voice booming over the hall.

One of his soldiers who was tending the fires looked uneasily in Graeme’s direction and Graeme latched onto that expression and strode forward.