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Abby wiped her wet face with her even wetter skirt as Iain moored the boat. Once on solid ground, she didn’t know if her legs still thought they were at sea or if it was the three riders galloping toward them that made her legs shake. She stumbled forward, but Iain caught her up before she fell face-first into the wet mud . . . again. He held her under his arm and waited for the riders to slow and then stop.
A great red-haired thing spoke in Gaelic and then laughed.
Abby couldn’t work out where his beard finished and hair began as both sets of locks entwined in the wind.
Iain and Big Red clasped their arms in a forearm shake. Iain also spoke in Gaelic, so Abby had no way of knowing what was being said.
Iain looked at the other two brutes, one with brown hair and a short beard and a younger one, clean shaven, with light-brown hair, and nodded.
The smooth-faced man said something while Short Beard looked Abby over from head to foot.
She squirmed under his gaze, snuggling in closer to Iain.
“Do not worry yer heart over Callum. He can’t keep his eyes off a beautiful lass.”
Short Beard slid from his horse and clasped Iain’s arm in another forearm shake. Whatever he said had the other two bending over in laughter. He had obviously made a joke about her.
Abby straightened her back and, looking down her nose, cast her eyes over his form. She would ask Iain what the joke was later.
“Speak English,” Iain said.
All three men turned their curious eyes to Iain. “Who is she?” the red-haired giant asked.
Iain gave her a one-armed hug. “She’s my angel. She saved me from certain death on the Culloden battlefield.”
He pointed to the red-haired brute. “This be Donal and”—he nodded to Short Beard—“Callum, and the young lad there is Alistair.”
“Ah, I think a story is to be heard this night,” Donal said. “Maeve will be beside herself when she finds you have returned. Alistair, go tell Maeve Iain has returned to us.”
The clean-shaven young man grinned, and turning his horse, he kicked it into a canter. “Aye,” he shouted as he took off, with his long brown hair trailing after him, and disappeared over a rise.
Donal waved his arm at Callum then jabbed his thumb in the air behind his back. Callum leapt from his horse, gave the reins to Iain, and jumped behind Donal.
“We’ll ready the keep,” Donal said, kicking his horse into a gallop the same way they had come.
Abby stared after them. “They work for you?”
“Aye, though ‘work with me’ would be a better way to say it. They are brave and honest men. The best of the MacLaren clan.”
Abby could see by the look of pride on his face how much the men meant to him.
Iain placed his hands around her waist and plopped her onto the front of the saddle before mounting behind her. He drew her in close to his chest. “You are safe here, lass.”
She turned and smiled. She hadn’t meant for her worries to show on her face.
The gate had already been lowered by the time they arrived at the castle. A woman stood on the stairs, and the moment she spotted Iain, she began running toward him.
“Iain. Iain.” The bun at the back of her neck almost gave way as she ran, bunching her skirt up high in front of her.
She wore the MacLaren tartan colors on her shawl. Something attached to her lower leg glinted in the sun that poked through dark clouds. Abby squinted. It was a knife. Did even the women arm themselves? Iain had said she was safe here, but if she had to wear weapons attached to her body, that didn’t bode well.
“That is my sister,” Iain said, admiration filling his voice.
He threw his leg behind the saddle and dismounted. Maeve rushed into his arms. “I have missed ye.”
“And I ye, Sister.” He swooped her up and spun her small frame around. Her legs flew out behind her.
His sister looked about the size of a child in Iain’s arms. And she laughed like one too.
Maeve was still giggling when Iain brought her to a standing stop. She leaned back and eyed Abby. Iain let his sister go and lifted Abby off the horse.
“This is my sister, Maeve.”
Abby smiled at the slight woman, but remembering her manners and the time she was in, she gave a slight curtsy.
With his mouth twitching and his eyes full of humor, Iain gave Abby’s hand a squeeze.
“I am proud to introduce Abigail. She is my angel sent to me from God when I was all but done on the battlefield.”
“You saved my brother?”
Abby glanced down and smoothed her skirt. A chunk of dry mud fell off.
“Aye, she did, and she has seen me healthy enough to return to ye.”
Maeve eyed Abby. “I thank ye, then.”
Abby smiled but couldn’t help but think Maeve wasn’t too pleased that Iain brought a woman to the castle.
Maeve linked her arm into Iain’s elbow and started up the stairs. “We are already preparing for noontime, but now we shall have a feast tonight. Oh, and”—she gazed up at Iain but threw a quick glance at Abby—“the MacKinnons will be here this evening.” She sniffed and glanced back at Abby. “But first, both of ye will bathe, eat, and rest.”
By the time Maeve showed Abby to her room, a tub was already set before the fire.
“Ye don’t talk much, do ye?” Maeve said, regarding Abby with a wary glance.
Abby had hoped the girl would just leave her be. She knew Maeve would question her speech, and there was no way she would try to sound Scottish. She was never any good at accents. Max was the one for that. She had a perfect ear for accents. “No, well, um, maybe you should talk to your brother about that.”
“Yer speech is strange.”
“It might seem so to you, but where I come from, it is average.”
“Where are ye from?”
“America, ah, the Americas.”
Recognition piqued in Maeve’s sky-blue eyes. “Och, aye. Many Scots are sailing there now.”
“I’ve met some.” Abby wasn’t lying; she had met lots of Scots in her travels. She glanced longingly at the tub of steaming water.
“Och, I am sorry. I’ll leave ye to yer bath and go and annoy my brother. Jannet will be along shortly.”
“Jannet?”
“Ay, the maid.”
The moment Maeve closed the door, Abby ripped off the clothes she wore and sank into the heavenly water. She began scrubbing herself with the fragrant soap and hurriedly washed her hair. She wanted to be finished before the maid arrived. She knew in this time, they had servants, and while she liked the idea of someone other than her cooking and cleaning, she didn’t need anyone to help her bathe. She smiled at the memory of her last day at a spa. A massage would be a win, though.
As she began rinsing out her hair, the door opened. She stopped and looked out from under her soapy strands.
A middle-aged woman carrying two buckets of water tisked. “Och, you’ll never get the soap out of your hair that way.” She placed the buckets at her feet and knelt beside the tub. “Get on your knees and bend your head as far forward as you can. And shut your eyes.”
Abby did as she was told. Max would have loved her. The woman gave orders like she was in the army. She pushed Abby’s head down a bit more, and Abby had to hold the sides of the tub to stop from falling forward completely.
“I’m Jannet,” the woman said as she picked up a bucket and poured some of the lukewarm water over Abby’s head. She squeezed out the excess water and poured more, repeating the actions until she was satisfied. “There,” she said, pouring the last of the water over Abby’s head before once again squeezing the excess wetness out. She got to her feet and stood there as if waiting for something.
Abby flipped her hair back and gazed up at the woman. She was a stout woman with a straight back, but her face held warmth and, Abby thought, curiosity.
“Well, stand up.”
“Huh? Can’t you just hand me a towel?”
“Nay. I need to rinse ye off first.”
Letting out a sigh, she stood up. This was just terrific. Welcome to the eighteenth century, Abs. It took all her control not to cover herself in front of the woman as Jannet poured the other bucket over her front, indicated she turn around, and then poured the rest of the water over her back.
“Oot now.”
The moment Abby’s second foot hit the floor, Jannet wrapped her in a robe. “Go sit by the fire, and I’ll brush out yer hair.”
Abby enjoyed Jannet brushing her hair. It was much more relaxing than having it blow-dried. More than once, her eyes closed of their own accord. Of course, she was tired, exhausted more like, but she thought even if she wasn’t, she would find it difficult to keep awake during such ministrations.
A soft knock at the door sounded.
Jannet left Abby and answered. “Thank ye.” She closed the door and put a tray on the small table pushed into the corner of the room.
With her hair nearly dry from the thorough brushing, Abby wearily sat at the table. A bowl of broth, a chunk of bread, and some cheese had her stomach rumbling. After nothing but water for days, she could hardly contain herself from attacking the tray. The smell of the beef broth rose to her nose, and she sighed.
“Eat up and rest. I will return to dress ye before the feast.”
The moment Jannet left, Abby stuffed broth-sodden bread into her mouth and ate her fill. She drained a mug of sweet mead before collapsing on the bed, wrapping herself in the downy cover, and immediately falling asleep.
What seemed like less than a minute later, Jannet roused her. “Time to get out of bed. The feast is already underway.”
Abby refused to open her eyes. “Go away. I was dreaming.”
“Och. Get up. I have to dress ye.” And with that, the rotten maid threw the covers off, and goose pimples erupted all over Abby’s naked body. It took her a moment to remember she had taken off the damp robe the woman had given her earlier before she’d gotten into bed.
Abby tried to haul the cover back, but the woman was stronger.
“If you want to get warm, go stand before the fire.”
Sighing resentfully, Abby slid out of bed, and holding one arm across her chest and placing her other hand at the juncture of her thighs, she waddled to the fire.
Jannet set about pulling a shift over her head, and Abby helped her, thankful to be finally covered. But when Jannet tried to sit her down, Abby fought her off.
“Okay, so where are my panties?”
Jannet stared at her. “Wha?”
“Um, my underpants, um, undertrews?”
“Ye be a lass.”
Abby raised her brows. “And?”
Placing her hands on her hips, Jannet leaned forward at the waist. “Ye dinnae need no trews. Ye wear a dress.”
Abby realized Jannet thought she meant men’s pants. “No, I mean where are my underclothes, my underpants?” When Jannet just frowned, Abby scanned the room, looking for her dirty clothes. “Where are my clothes?”
“Is that what ye call the rags ye wore? There were no pants.”
Hitting her forehead with her hand, Abby tried to talk clearly as if speaking with a child. “They were small pants.” She moved her hands apart to show how big and, pretending to hold a pair of panties, held her hands in front of her lower abdomen.
“Ye talking like an eejit.” Jannet rolled her eyes back and gazed at the ceiling as if she were thinking about what Abby said. She looked back at Abby with piercing gray eyes. “Ach, that tiny piece of rag? Aye, it’s with the rest to be washed.”
“Good, that’s good, then. Do you have any other underclothes I can wear?”
“Ye have yer sark.”
Abby decided to leave it at that. There was no point in telling the woman about underclothes if people of that time never wore any.
The woman looked at Abby as if she were crazy. “Now sit down and let me do ye hair.”
Sighing, Abby sat down, and within minutes, Jannet had Abby’s hair braided and bunned with her bangs in ringlets. She pulled Abby back onto her feet and popped a beautiful satin gown over her head and buttoned up the back.
Abby took it all with good grace, her mind dipping into thoughts that Fiona MacKinnon would be at the feast.
She absently played with a lock of her hair and gazed at the orb. What would happen to her when the MacKinnons arrived? Would the MacKinnon laird be expecting an announcement? Would Iain agree to the marriage and the joining of the clans?
Jannet nudged Abby to the long, polished metal mirror someone had hung on the wall, and Abby pushed thoughts of Fiona and her father out of her mind. She could do nothing about them.
She stepped in front of the mirror and gasped. The sapphire blue of the gown matched her blue eyes perfectly. She frowned at the low neckline that seemed to increase the size of her breasts. She felt them, wondering if there was some padding under them. Nope. It was all her. She tilted her head and smiled at her reflection. She had never envisioned having an hourglass figure, but the dress showed one off in its entire splendor. She grinned. Not bad. Not bad at all.
She couldn’t help wondering what Iain would think of her now that she was clean and so finely attired.
A knock at the door sounded a split second before it opened. Iain stood on the threshold. Abby’s heart flipped at the look of him in his clean clothes and shaved face. He could have been straight out of the cast of a historical movie. And with his clean belted kilt, the white shirt that made his tanned skin seem even darker, and his ebony curls flowing over the shirt’s collar, he would have been the hero for sure.
She wiped her clammy hands down the sides of her dress as his eyes roamed over her from head to foot, and as they rose again, they lingered on her décolletage before spearing her eyes. Her insides dipped, and tingles ran along her backbone. Heat, red and molten, flooded her cheeks as she locked her gaze with his.
No one moved until Abby glanced at the ever-watching Jannet. The woman peered from Abby to Iain and, smashing her lips together as if she were trying not to smile, wrapped a thick scarf in the same green plaid as Iain’s kilt around Abby’s shoulders and ushered her to the doorway.
“You are beautiful,” Iain whispered.
“So are you.”
His lips quirked in a smile, but his eyes remained filled with admiration.
They had only reached the top of the stairs, when a commotion broke out below. The shouts for Iain sounded distraught.