Page 7 of When the Laird Conquers

“Apologies for the delay, miss,” the woman said, carrying a small jug with a strangely twisted cloth over the top. “Brought some warm goat’s milk for the wee’un. Should be good enough for tonight, but I’ll find a lass with milk to spare for the bairn tomorrow.”

The idea briefly horrified Agnes. A stranger, feeding Lizzy?

Is that so different from a wet nurse?

She supposed not, and urged herself to form a few words of gratitude. “That is very kind, ma’am. Thank you.”

“Och! Ma’am, is it?” The tiny old woman cackled. “Iona will do just fine. ‘Tis me name after all, and I tell ye, it has served me well enough these past fifty-somethin’ years.”

Agnes flushed. This had all been so much easier when she had rehearsed how her plan was going to go.

“Thank you, Iona,” she said, and held out her hand for the strangely covered jug.

Iona chuckled, as if sensing her confusion. “Ye just tip it a little bit, let the cloth soak, and the wee’un will suckle it. Back and forth ‘til there’s nothin’ else left, or this beauty decides she’s done.”

She paused to gently stroke Lizzy’s cheek with a hooked finger. Immediately, Lizzy tried to suckle on it, and both women chuckled at the sight, shattering any awkwardness.

“Truly, thank you,” Agnes said as she began to follow the woman’s instructions.

“‘Tis the least I can do,” Iona insisted, smiling at Lizzy as she began to suckle. “Actually gives me somethin’ to do. Somethin’ different, I mean. It’s been too long since this castle has seen a guest, so I for one am glad ye’re here.”

Agnes flashed a wry smile. “I had a feeling that the Laird wasn’t too fond of hosting.”

“Och, daenae mind him,” Iona urged. “Now, while ye’re tendin’ to the bairn, I’ll fetch ye somethin’ to eat. And me husband is comin’ up with some hot water for a bath for ye, so while ye’re soakin’ away yer days of travel, I’ll be readyin’ yer room.”

Agnes frowned. “Readying a room? Is this not to be my room for tonight?”

“Och, nay, this is the Laird’s bedchamber,” Iona laughed. “But he’s given ye the use of it while ye refresh yerself.”

Confusion ripened in Agnes’s mind. “Well, do not go to so much trouble, Iona. I can manage without a bath for tonight, and I am not so very hungry. I would hate for you to disturb the maids on my account.”

“Maids?” Iona snorted. “What maids?”

“There are no… maids here? But I thought lairds were like… dukes?”

Agnes could not begin to fathom how an entire castle ran without maids. Staff. Servants. When she had told the Laird that she knew how to run a household, she had said it to fill the awkwardness, but perhaps he really did need someone who knew what they were doing.

However, she didn’t get to press the matter, as the man himself marched into the room.

“Dukes?” the Laird snorted derisively. “We’re nothin’ like those feeble, fancy lads.”

Accidentally proving his point, he carried two enormous buckets of steaming water in either hand, barely seeming affected by the weight. Had Edwin attempted to wield such weight, he would surely have buckled and scorched himself until he was naught but blisters.

Twice as impressive was the manner in which the Laird set down the buckets, grabbed the not-inconsiderably sized bronze tub from the corner of the room, and heaved it into position in front of the fire.

Agnes watched his muscular arms flexing beneath the shirt he had finally seen fit to don, and realized, as he poured the buckets into the tub, that she had been holding her breath.

He left again without a word, and the ability to exhale quickly returned to her.

“Finely crafted, is he nae?” Iona teased, mischief in her blue eyes.

“If you mean that he is strong, then yes,” Agnes hurried to answer.

And strong is what I need.

“But I thought your husband was bringing the water?” she added.

“Me husband will be along. He’s just a little slower.” Iona chuckled and wandered off to a cupboard, where she rattled some jars and bottles around, searching for something. “There’s nay harm in lookin’, miss. A young lass like yerself should secretly appreciate a man when he looks like His Lairdship. Me own husband was a strappin’ ox of a man when we were first wed. Couldnae take me eyes, or me hands, off him.”