The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(46)

Once the tapestries were hung in the Hall, she decided to do something with the tables. In the stack of linens, she’d also found some brightly colored cloths and embroidered runners that she had washed, dried, and then added to the tables. A few vases of fresh flowers, a polished candelabrum or two, a handful of sprigs of lavender strewn in the rushes, and the dark, dreary room was nearly unrecognizable.

Pleased with what she’d discovered in the ambry, she made her way to the kitchens in the adjacent building, wondering what treasures she might find in the storerooms.

The kitchens were quite spacious, housed in a long, rectangular stone building with a low, wood-beamed ceiling. The only light came from the open doorway. Black soot from the fires lined the walls and smoke filled the room. Unlike those of the Great Hall, the stone walls were roughly put together, making her wonder whether this was one of the original Norse longhouses her husband had told her about. Despite the heat coming from the oven, she shivered. Compared to this, the Great Hall suddenly looked like a palace.

The cook, a man on the high side of fifty years and missing most of his teeth, didn’t appear pleased to see her. But Christina knew that if she didn’t assert herself now, she would never get a second chance, and that gave her the courage not to retreat.

“Is there something you wish, my lady?” he asked.

Behind him, she could see two lads and a lass—probably a few years younger than herself—eyeing her suspiciously.

“I thought I might have a look at the storerooms, to check the winter reserves.”

The cook didn’t bother to hide his annoyance, but he spent the next half hour going through the provisions and answering her questions. The smoke was better in the storeroom, but her lungs still burned. Back in the front part of the kitchens, she could hear the intermittent coughing of the other servants.

Unfortunately, there didn’t appear to be any old trunks filled with a hidden cache of gold trenchers and goblets. As the cook led her back into the kitchens by the ovens, Christina suddenly noticed the reason for all the smoke.

She pointed to the thick layer of ash and buildup of soot in the oven. “When is the last time this was swept out and cleaned?”

He shrugged. “It’s easier to keep the fires going. It gets cold in here. Besides, the chief likes his bread warm.”

Christina covered her nose and mouth as another great plume of smoke backed into the room. “It must be blocked,” she said, coughing. No wonder there was so much smoke. How could they work in here like this all day? It couldn’t be good for their health to breathe this. “Put it out,” she ordered. “It will be far colder in here without a roof.” She’d seen a kitchen fire once when she was a child, and it was not a memory she would soon forget.

“But what about the evening meal? It will take a long time for the ovens to cool enough to clean and then to reheat.”

“A cold meal will not kill us. The leftover meat and bread from earlier will be fine.” It’s not as if “the chief” was around to object.

The cook shrugged and told one of the lads, “Do as the lady says.”

Lifting a bucket of water, the boy dumped it on the fire. Steam hissed off the hot stone. It took another bucket to completely put the fire out.

Without the heat from the fires, it didn’t take long for the room to cool off considerably. The cook looked as if he hoped Christina was leaving, but she decided to stay and oversee the cleaning. Which was a good thing, because when it came time to clean the debris from the chimney, she was the only one small enough to stand up in the narrow opening.

Using a pole, she pushed the mixture of soot, ash, and leaves free. Unfortunately, she didn’t move out of the way quickly enough and quite a bit of it came down on her.

After a stunned silence, Christina took a look at the horrified expression on the young serving girl’s face and burst out laughing at the picture she must present. After a tentative smile, the girl joined her.

“I think we’d better hurry and get those fires going again,” she said. “It looks like I’m in need of a bath.”

By time they were done, even the old cook was laughing.

It was near dusk when the birlinn pulled alongside the jetty at Dunvegan.

Tor was in a black mood, his pursuit of the attackers having ended in rare failure. By the time he’d arrived at the village, the fires were already dying out. The attack had begun in the dead of night. As before, the raiders had stolen some cattle and set flame to the crops. His mouth fell in a grim line. But this time two of his people had died. One of them was a boy not much older than Murdoch. Standing over the bloody bodies of his clansmen, he’d been filled with a burning rage.

One day earlier and he would have been here to prevent it from happening. If he hadn’t been delayed at Finlaggan, he would have returned in time. This marriage wasn’t off to the most promising of beginnings.

He and his men had given chase, almost catching up with the attackers near the Isle of Lewis, but lost them again during a storm. Not many men could outmaneuver him on a boat. MacSorley was one, and possibly the MacRuairis, if the damned pirates were having a lucky day. So who were they? It could be the Nicolsons, but if they decided to attack he did not think it would be in the dark of night to raid cattle. It had the mark of the MacRuairis, but why would they attack Dunvegan when Lachlan had just agreed to fight under him? It didn’t make sense.