Copyright © 2009 Debbie Mumford
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
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Cat woke with a throbbing headache and jangled nerves from a terrifying dream: she’d been compressed, unable to breathe. She pushed the thought away and huddled deeper under the covers, pulling the scratchy sheet over her aching head and adjusting her hips to avoid an offending lump in the mattress. She frowned and opened her eyes a slit. Dim light filtered through a coarsely woven, yellowed sheet. Panic stricken, she threw the sheet aside and, ignoring the sharp pain in her skull, scrambled from the bed. Bare feet connected with cold stone, and memory returned in a rush.
Frigid morning air brushed her skin, and she shivered. She stood in the middle of a stone chamber naked as the day of her birth. Yanking the sheet from the bed, she wrapped herself in its rough, but warm, folds and surveyed the room.
Stone walls and floor, rough-hewn beams supported what could only be a thatch roof. Narrow arrow loops served as windows spilling both sunlight and frosty air into a chamber furnished with a low, wooden bed, a chamber pot, and a rickety table with ewer and basin. A single, crudely fashioned chair stood beside the table.
The door creaked open, and she flattened herself against the wall, hugging the sheet tightly to her breast. The most dangerous man she’d ever seen stood poised on the threshold. Tall, muscular, with long, dark auburn hair, he looked like a warrior prince from a Scottish fairy tale.
Heat suffused her face—and every other part of her body—as his gaze raked her from tousled hair to bare feet. Oh, God! To meet a man like this…wrapped in a sheet!
* * * *
Eideard stared at the woman who’d given his household such a fright. A wee slip of a lass with dark curly hair cut shorter than a lad’s, but with a woman’s curves beneath the sheet she clutched so tightly. Yet her appearance last night had so unnerved the men who discovered her that they’d sent a rider to fetch him home from Edinburgh.
What was it about this lassie that had unsettled seasoned warriors? He’d not find the answer gawking at her pretty face.
“I pray you are well this morning, lady,” he said in the courtly English his father had insisted Eideard learn to speak fluently. The wily, old laird had never trusted Scotland’s neighbor to the south and had insisted his son be prepared.
The tightness around the lassie’s eyes relaxed, and her shoulders lost their rigidity.
“Oh! Thank heavens. You speak English. I didn’t understand a word those guys said last night. Of course, I was really sick, so maybe my brain wasn’t fully functional. Where am I, and what happened to my clothes?”
Eideard fought to keep pace with her words, but the strange accent robbed the bright sounds of meaning.
He latched onto the last word and concentrated on guessing the question her rising tone indicated.
“Truly, lady, we have no idea what happened to your garments. The maids tell me you were most unsuitably attired. Were you ravished? For surely no well-bred lady such as ye would appear in such dishabille.”
Her lovely face underwent a transformation during this speech. Her brows drew together in the most beguiling frown, and then shot to her hairline in undisguised surprise.
“You found my clothes unsuitable?” she asked.
“Not I, gentle lady,” he hastened to explain. “I have only just returned from Edinburgh. The ladies who undressed you reported the strangeness of your garments.”
“I see.” A fascinating, little pout marred her features. She pulled the sheet higher and straightened against the wall. “And what makes you think I’m a well-bred lady?”
He crossed the room in two quick strides and pulled one of her hands free of the sheet. He examined the fine, long-fingered hand, “Not a callous to be seen. Ye have done no hard labor with these dainty hands.”
She jerked her hand away and put a little distance between them.
“Well, unsuitable or not, I’d like my clothes back, please. I’m getting tired of dragging this sheet around.”
Heat flushed his face and neck. He stepped away from her and averted his eyes.
“Of course,” he said to the arrow loop. “Forgive my churlishness. I’ll send a maid to help ye dress at once.” He strode to the door before glancing over his shoulder. “Would ye honor me with your name, lady?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your name,” he repeated, wondering if a fall had addled her brains. “Ye do have a name and a clan, do ye not?”
“Cat,” she said, and then shook her head and reconsidered, “Catriona Logan.”
He whipped around to face her fully. “The hell ye say!”