turned her energetic gaze on Darcy. “Do ye suppose your mother’s dresses might fit?” she asked, oblivious to the heat in his gaze and the unsettling effect it was having on Melanie. “Fetch ye one or two when ye run up to Fraineach. Well, what are ye waiting for?” she demanded. “Go on with ye. Ye canna go to the laird in bloodied plaid.” Fran snapped her fingers in front of Darcy’s face until he stopped staring. He towered over the woman, yet he let her herd him out the door like a bashful boy being kicked out of the kitchen for sneaking sweets before dinner.
Without missing a beat, Fran pinned her husband with her glare. “And shame on you, Edmund Alexander MacFirthen Keith, for bathing before offering the clean water to our guest.” Since ye’re fed and cleaned, make yourself useful. Go fetch some slippers from Hannah. She’s got wee feet like Melanie. Then go up to Fraineach and help Darcy.”
In the next heartbeat, Fran was bent at Melanie’s feet, slipping off her loafers. “Come, now. Let’s get ye out of these clothes and washed up. The laird won’t wait on ye all night.”
Melanie submitted to the woman’s efficient ministrations, because she didn’t have a death wish, and clearly to defy Fran was to court a painful death. Beyond raising her eyebrows at Melanie’s rounded belly when she’d peeled off the maternity-paneled skirt, she made no comment, much to Melanie’s relief. It was awkward enough standing nude in a basin of used, room-temperature bathwater with a stranger rinsing blood and mud off of her, without having to explain being single and pregnant to a sixteenth-century Scottish woman. Fran did not let her get away with being clean-shaven, however.
“Bare as a newborn babe ye are,” she said, crouching and frowning at Melanie’s shins. “Under your arms, too. Where did ye say ye were from?”
“Uh, I’m from across the sea,” she said.
“Ah, Hasburg, aye? The Netherlands?” she added at Melanie’s blank look. “Must be the Spanish influence. Odd, them Spaniards. I’ve always said so.”
“Sure, the Netherlands.” Why not? It was a lie, but it would be a lot easier to explain than the truth. Besides, she was shivering too much to expound, and Fran seemed content to make clucking noises and general disapproving remarks about impractical Spanish fashion. To distract herself from the chill, Melanie interrupted Fran. “So, it sounds like the laird is expecting me?” She made it a question.
Fran made a throaty sound that might have been the equivalent of a modern-day Mm-hm . “Steafan will have heard all about the skirmish, and it seems plenty of men laid eyes on you. The laird will ken about ye by now, and he’ll be expecting ye, all right.” A wary note crept into her brisk burr, reminding Melanie about her earlier conversation with Edmund.
“Is there anything I should be aware of before meeting the laird?” she asked. “I mean, besides the fact that he’s suspicious of outsiders and might punish Darcy if I do anything to harm the clan?”
Fran froze as she searched a drawer. “Punish Darcy?” She stood up straight, a startled look on her face. “He didna claim responsibility for ye before an elder, did he?”
“Is Aodhan an elder?”
“He is,” Fran said with a twinkle in her eye that Melanie didn’t understand. She draped a linen blanket around Melanie’s shoulders and flitted around the cabin, humming to herself.
Frowning at Fran, Melanie stepped out of the basin to dry herself before the fire. “Am I missing something?”
Fran jumped, as if Melanie’s question had pulled her from a private thought. “Dinna fash yourself.” She looked down at Melanie’s abdomen, which peeked through the folds of the blanket, and her face split into a broad smile. “All ye need ken is that Darcy willna abide your harm. Come, now.” With a spring in her step, she led Melanie into the bedroom where her baby dozed with his little fists up by his ears
Without missing a beat, Fran pinned her husband with her glare. “And shame on you, Edmund Alexander MacFirthen Keith, for bathing before offering the clean water to our guest.” Since ye’re fed and cleaned, make yourself useful. Go fetch some slippers from Hannah. She’s got wee feet like Melanie. Then go up to Fraineach and help Darcy.”
In the next heartbeat, Fran was bent at Melanie’s feet, slipping off her loafers. “Come, now. Let’s get ye out of these clothes and washed up. The laird won’t wait on ye all night.”
Melanie submitted to the woman’s efficient ministrations, because she didn’t have a death wish, and clearly to defy Fran was to court a painful death. Beyond raising her eyebrows at Melanie’s rounded belly when she’d peeled off the maternity-paneled skirt, she made no comment, much to Melanie’s relief. It was awkward enough standing nude in a basin of used, room-temperature bathwater with a stranger rinsing blood and mud off of her, without having to explain being single and pregnant to a sixteenth-century Scottish woman. Fran did not let her get away with being clean-shaven, however.
“Bare as a newborn babe ye are,” she said, crouching and frowning at Melanie’s shins. “Under your arms, too. Where did ye say ye were from?”
“Uh, I’m from across the sea,” she said.
“Ah, Hasburg, aye? The Netherlands?” she added at Melanie’s blank look. “Must be the Spanish influence. Odd, them Spaniards. I’ve always said so.”
“Sure, the Netherlands.” Why not? It was a lie, but it would be a lot easier to explain than the truth. Besides, she was shivering too much to expound, and Fran seemed content to make clucking noises and general disapproving remarks about impractical Spanish fashion. To distract herself from the chill, Melanie interrupted Fran. “So, it sounds like the laird is expecting me?” She made it a question.
Fran made a throaty sound that might have been the equivalent of a modern-day Mm-hm . “Steafan will have heard all about the skirmish, and it seems plenty of men laid eyes on you. The laird will ken about ye by now, and he’ll be expecting ye, all right.” A wary note crept into her brisk burr, reminding Melanie about her earlier conversation with Edmund.
“Is there anything I should be aware of before meeting the laird?” she asked. “I mean, besides the fact that he’s suspicious of outsiders and might punish Darcy if I do anything to harm the clan?”
Fran froze as she searched a drawer. “Punish Darcy?” She stood up straight, a startled look on her face. “He didna claim responsibility for ye before an elder, did he?”
“Is Aodhan an elder?”
“He is,” Fran said with a twinkle in her eye that Melanie didn’t understand. She draped a linen blanket around Melanie’s shoulders and flitted around the cabin, humming to herself.
Frowning at Fran, Melanie stepped out of the basin to dry herself before the fire. “Am I missing something?”
Fran jumped, as if Melanie’s question had pulled her from a private thought. “Dinna fash yourself.” She looked down at Melanie’s abdomen, which peeked through the folds of the blanket, and her face split into a broad smile. “All ye need ken is that Darcy willna abide your harm. Come, now.” With a spring in her step, she led Melanie into the bedroom where her baby dozed with his little fists up by his ears
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