Margaret Moore - Bride of Lochbarr

Marianne shook her head and gave Polly a conspiratorial smile. “Once, before I came here, I spilled a whole…” She searched for the right word. “Bucket? No, carafe,” she amended. “I spilled a whole carafe of wine on the Reverend Mother’s head.”

Polly stared, her mouth an astonished O.

Marianne nodded and leaned back in her chair. “I did,” she confirmed. “The Reverend Mother was very angry. She said I must have been sent by the devil to trouble her, and if I didn’t want to burn in hell, I had to pray for forgiveness twice a day and…”

Again she searched her memory for a word. Not finding it, she acted out dipping a cloth and moving it in a circle.

“Scrub?” Polly offered.

“Yes, that’s it!” Marianne cried. “Scrub all the floors for a week.”

Polly’s eyes grew round as wheels. “You never had to wash floors!”

“I did,” Marianne confirmed. “So what is a little wine on my sewing? It isn’t very good anyway.” She studied the stain that was about the size of a coin. “That might even make it look better.”

Polly smiled tremulously. “I think you sew very well, my lady. And the colors are very pretty, the red especially. It’s as bright as holly berries.”

Marianne knew flattery when she heard it.

She didn’t sew well because she hated it. She’d only started this because she wanted some excuse to talk to Polly, for a servant knew many things about the running of the household, such as who would be where, when. Polly was also familiar with the countryside and the people who lived outside the castle, as well as the roads leading away from Beauxville.

As Marianne went back to working on her ugly embroidery that looked like miscellaneous blobs of color linked by green strings instead of intertwined roses and vines, two male servants came into the hall and set new torches in the sconces in the wall. A middle-aged serving woman swept out the hearth, leaving some coals at one side to kindle the fire anew in the evening.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marianne caught a movement to her right. Another servant laying rushes.

Whatever for? They’d just been changed yesterday.

There was something odd about that man….

Marianne stiffened and her hand went instinctively to her lips as the memory of the Scot’s kiss returned full force.

What in the name of the saints was he doing here? And he had to be up to no good—again—to come in disguise. She should call out the guards or summon Herman.

Yet if she did and the Scot was imprisoned, who knew what he might say to Nicholas? He might reveal that she’d been alone with him. Then Nicholas would surely lock her in her chamber until the wedding, with Herman to guard the door. She’d have absolutely no chance of escape.

She had to get that Scot away from here before anybody realized who he was.

She hastily slipped her needle through her linen and addressed Polly, doing her best to sound as if everything were perfectly normal and there was no need for alarm. “I think I’ve had enough sewing for today. Please go to the laundry and see if my shifts are dry.”

Polly rose, reaching for the tray bearing the wine. “Yes, my lady.” She sighed. “I wish you weren’t leaving here so soon. Only two more days, and you’ll be off to Menteith.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Polly,” Marianne truthfully replied. “Now hurry along. I really ought to begin packing. Oh, and see if there’s some extra linen to line the chest, please.”

“Yes, my lady,” Polly replied before scurrying away.

When she was out of sight, Marianne got to her feet. “You there, with the rushes,” she called out. “Come here.”

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