Her Highland Laird: the Logans of Lastalrig, #1 by Debbie Mumford

Author:Debbie Mumford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WDM Publishing

Chapter 9

The next day, Cat’s first as a fully functional fifteenth-century woman, passed without incident. She managed to dress herself, though the lacings on the corsage required her full attention. But when Mistress Mac caught sight of her, the older woman hurried her into an unused pantry, stripped the tartan skirt from her waist and provided an impromptu lesson in the intricacies of folding a proper plaid.

“What are your specialties, dearie?” Mistress Mac asked as the two women toured the castle.

“My specialties?” Cat repeated.

“Aye. Which household tasks dae ye excel at?” When Cat continued to stare blankly, the headwoman prompted, “Are ye a seamstress? Dae ye make a good cheese? Nae? Perhaps ye have a deft hand at brewing beer?”

Cat closed her mouth with an effort and shook her head.

“Come now, lassie, dinnae be modest. Ye cannae have reached maturity without some special skills.”

Cat racked her brain for something this woman would consider a useful skill. “Yes,” she cried in relief. “I know herb-lore ... which plants are safe for dyes and simples.”

“Aye, well, that is braw, dear.” Mistress Mac’s expression and tone announced her disappointment.

“Isn’t that good?” Cat asked.

“Tae be sure, herb-lore is valuable. ’Tis just that every wee lassie above the age o’ seven knows herb-lore. Have ye nae other wifely art?”

She bit her lip and shook her head.

“Aye, well. Ye are a bright lassie, tae be sure. ’Tis certain I am that ye will learn quick enough. Let me see your hands.”

Mistress Mac took Cat’s soft hands in her calloused ones.

“Well, ye are nae suited tae spinning. ’Twould take too long tae build up a proper callous. And Eideard wouldnae thank me for ruining your fine skin with tanning or dying. Come along. Fiona will have ye weaving fine cloth in nae time.”

Fiona kept Cat so busy warping the loom and threading heddles that she didn’t realize she hadn’t yet seen Eideard.

“Well, now, ye have made a good beginning, Mistress Catriona,” Fiona said as she inspected the warp Cat had meticulously threaded through the loom. “Tomorrow I will teach ye tae weave. In a month, ye will be able tae produce a fine kilt for your husband.”

Cat bristled at the word husband, but held her tongue, choosing instead to thank Fiona for her patience.

“Come, lass. I will accompany ye tae the great hall for supper.”

Cat glanced at the high table searching for Eideard’s dark auburn head. She discovered many shades of red among the clansmen, but found no sign of the laird. Reluctantly, she settled at a table with Fiona and tried not to think of a thick, juicy hamburger while she ate the unrecognizable meat set before her.

She ended her meal by licking her fingers clean — napkins being conspicuous by their absence. The sound of benches scraped near the entrance, and she turned to see what caused the commotion. A large, bushy-bearded Scot entered the room, and nearby men leapt to their feet to greet him. The newcomer roared with laughter, slapping men on their backs and women on their rumps.

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