“Only to you.” Gyllis bit her bottom lip. “Though given the circumstances, I should have held my tongue.”
Heat flooded Helen’s cheeks right down to her toes. God forbid she would never utter a word about her unpleasant experiences in the bedchamber.
Thank heavens Mr. Keith stepped across the threshold with his arms laden. “All the parcels are unpacked.” He set them on the table. “Is there anything else you need, m’lady?”
Helen surveyed the abundance of stores, still unable to believe her fortune. “I think not. Thank you ever so much for your fealty. You will have a place in my employ as long as you should require it.”
He bowed. “’Tis my pleasure, m’lady.”
“And you will carry my message to Sir Eoin and let him know exactly what has happened?”
“Aye.” Mr. Keith narrowed his eyes. “You are certain we can trust him?”
“Sir Eoin is a most dear friend of the family,” Gyllis said.
Helen had to agree. “And he carried my missive to His Worship. He will help us for certain.”
“Then I shall meet with him discreetly.” The guard bowed.
“Thank you.” Helen walked them outside and bid good day, anxious to move on with a new chapter in her life.
Chapter Twenty-One
As usual, after he’d reported news of the MacDonald galleys mooring alongside Dunyveig on the Isle of Islay, things hadn’t moved fast enough for Eoin.
They’d been at Tabert Castle for a sennight, and yet their tenure wasn’t near long enough for the king. And Eoin didn’t argue in the assembly when all the nobles agreed that the longer they remained hidden, the more confident the MacDonalds would grow. Everyone seemed to be content to remain idle except Eoin.
This morn while they were breaking their fast, he’d had a gut full of listening to Aleck boast about how the MacIain Clan fended off Alexander MacDonald’s attack, and how Aleck wanted the bastard’s head served on a platter. To hear the Chieftain of Ardnamurchan tell it, he and his men were all Scotland needed to bring the isles in order.
Eoin wanted to upend the table and shove Aleck’s face in a bowl of scalding porridge. He made eye contact with Duncan sitting opposite. Though he was MacIain’s brother-in-law, the Lord of Glenorchy rolled his gaze to the ceiling and shook his head. Duncan could be an arse about some things, but the man knew when he was being fed a pile of shite—unlike the young king who appeared to be lapping up MacIain’s every word.
Well, Eoin had enough. He beckoned his men and headed to the wharf.
Fergus hurried beside him. “I thought we had orders to stay away from Islay.”
“Did I say we were sailing to Islay?” Eoin couldn’t very well tell his men he’d reached his limit of pompous nobles blowing flatulence out their arse-holes, instead he scowled and gestured for the men to follow. “We have rigging to tend and I want to inspect the hull. A sea captain is a dead man if he sails into battle with a galley that’s about to sink.”
Eoin’s boat was in top condition, but presently he’d do anything for some fresh air. God’s bones, it had only been three sennights since he’d seen John…His Worship. How the devil would Eoin be able to wait another month or more? And now that the whole goddamned Scottish army was stationed in Tabert, how would Eoin come up with an excuse to visit Lady Helen once he’d received word from the Pope?
A small birlinn tacked toward the wharf, flying the MacDougall colors. Eoin paid it no mind and started his daily inspection of the hull. “Fergus, make a note. The port side timbers need pitch.”
“Again?” The henchman sounded a tad astounded.
“If we do not—”
“Stay on top of it, the timbers will rot without us being the wiser.” Fergus looked to the skies. “I ken. You needn’t tell me.”
“Ahoy the shore,” someone yelled from the MacDougall galley.
Eoin pointed toward the castle. “Sir Sean is in the great hall with the rest of the nobles.”
After mooring the boat, sailors jumped over the side, their feet clomping on the wooden wharf. One MacDougall wore a great helm and mail and kept himself apart from the others.
Eoin watched him out of the corner of his eye. He never trusted any man who completely hid his face—especially on the battlefield.
The helmed man held back, as if waiting for the others to leave.
Eoin pretended to inspect the rigging, while fingering his dirk.
The man stepped forward. “Sir Eoin. May I have a word?” he whispered. “’Tis in regard to Lady Helen.”
Safely tucked away deep in the woods of Fearnoch Forest, Helen’s first two nights in the cottage had been heavenly. Though Gyllis had practically packed half the household, Helen found no cradle for Maggie, and had lined a wooden crate with soft woolen blankets, and the bairn slept soundly.
Helen couldn’t remember ever being so happy. For the first time since she’d married Aleck, she felt as though she could be herself. No affected, serene smiles, no clamping her insides taut to keep from blurting out something that might send Sir Aleck into a rage. True, she had no chambermaid in attendance, and no cook to prepare her meals, but she’d learned enough from Peter to be able to make her own food, and wearing simple kirtles with her stays tied in the front, dressing was easy too.
She had plenty of milk for Maggie, and Gyllis promised to deliver a fresh pitcher twice a week, along with other foodstuffs.
Maggie lay on her tummy atop the sheepskin rug in front of the hearth. Helen held up snipped pieces of cloth she’d found. Sitting beside the bairn, she took Maggie’s wee palm and slid it over the first piece of fabric. “This is silk.”
Maggie gave a gummy grin.
Helen picked up a coarse textured piece. “This is sackcloth worn by the pious when paying their penance. ’Tis made of goat’s fur and very uncomfortable.”
Maggie’s eyes popped wide and she gave a wee gasp, clearly enjoying the new tactile sensations. Shifting the bairn’s palm to the plush wool, Helen grinned. “But I’d wager you like sheep’s wool the best.”
Maggie squealed with delight.
Helen threw back her head and laughed. “Och aye, we two will have so much fun together. There’s no keep to run, no malignant rules to follow, no lemans shooting me hateful glares.” Helen snapped a hand over her mouth. Though Maggie did not yet understand everything she said, Helen must not speak out against the bairn’s father. She’d not err again.
Before dusk, Helen set to preparing the evening meal of boiled mutton pottage and kettle scones. Maggie entertained herself, rolling back and forth over the rug and pushing up with her arms, and, on occasion, sticking a wooden spoon in her mouth and chewing. Teeth were about to come in, no doubt.
As the kettle began a rolling boil, Helen scooped a dollop of pottage with a large ladle. She blew on the steamy liquid and sipped. A bit bland.
She’d seen some houseleek outside. Surely a few sprigs would add flavor. Stepping outside for a mere moment, she strode to the overgrown garden and broke off a handful.
A twig snapped.
An eerie silence blanketed the clearing.
Helen held her breath, but the hammering of her heart roared in her hears. Mr. Keith should be away bearing her message for Eoin and Gyllis wouldn’t approach at this hour. Had it been a deer? She wasn’t about to wander into the woods to find out. Grasping her skirts, she ran for the door.