The Radiance of the Moon (The Hebridean Shield Book 1) by Ashley Worrell

Author:Ashley Worrell [Worrell, Ashley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-27T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

Duart Oighreachd - September 13, 1383

Light had not yet begun to penetrate the dark sky when the door to the chamber opened. Cara opened one eye and observed a slight figure place a basin on the table, then stoke the embers in the hearth. The girl tucked a dark curl back inside her bonnet and laid a new brick of peat on the fire.

“Good morning,” Cara croaked.

The maid looked over her shoulder and gave a brief nod of acknowledgment but remained focused on her task, blowing into the embers until the smoking brick of peat caught light. “Good morning, mistress.”

Cara buried her face in the softness of the pillow and wondered how she would ever be able to pull herself out of the warm bed.

“I’ll send Bethia up to you and be back with some food to break your fast.” The girl curtsied. It was a new and odd feeling to have someone curtsy to her.

“What’s your name?”

“Aoife.” An Irish name, but the girl’s voice was burred with Scottish.

“Thank you, Aoife.”

The door clicked shut. Stretching against the deep mattress, Cara yawned, shaking the last vestiges of sleep away. Despite the predawn hour, she’d never felt so rested. The smell of leather and mint clung to the pillow, and she breathed deep, inhaling Hector into her senses. Peculiar as it was to be plunged into his world, she could get used to the feeling that he was near. Though, at that moment he was back at Moy seeing to the completion of improvements to the keep before the wedding.

Sleep threatened to blanket her once more, and she sat up and hung her head limply. Mhairi was counting on her to arrive to chapel on time, and she couldn’t make a poor impression.

Half-awake she swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose, forgetting the small footstool she’d used to hoist herself into the hulking bed the previous night, and falling three feet onto her backside.

“Grand.”

Alert now, she sat for a moment, the great differences in their height a reminder of the stark differences between her world and his.

Trying to quell paralyzing thoughts, she committed to memory to ask that steps be constructed for their marital bed at Moy and staggered to the table. Upending the jug into the basin, she splashed cold water onto her cheeks. Soap, beautifully pressed into a smooth, ivory cake, sat on top of fine linen. Cara felt the tightly woven, yet porous, linen and lifted the cake to her nose and inhaled sage. Everyday luxury here at Duart, but another stark contrast to the dark tallow soap at home.

Shedding her chemise, she washed, skin prickling against the cool harvest air. Having finished her ablutions, she opened the trunk positioned at the foot of the bed where she’d stored her four leines and a few undergarments, removing a fresh chemise and one of Hector’s woolen tunics. The tunic hung past her arms by a dozen inches, but she was grateful for the warmth it provided her skin and the strength it imbued to her heart.

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