Page 14 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

“The kitchens are this way, me Lady,” she said. “I will show ye. Cook will have made breakfast.”

The shift from maid to mistress felt like a heavy cloak that Chloe had not yet learned to wear. Although she wanted to find her own way, her new maid, Melodie, was insistent and left her with little choice.

Reluctantly, Chloe let the girl lead her through the drafty stone hallways toward the heart of the castle. When they reached the kitchens, the air was thick with the smell of roasted grain and woodsmoke, a familiar comfort that made Chloe’s chest tighten with sudden longing for Jenny’s house.

Melodie pulled out a chair at the small table near the fire, the kind the housekeeper used when she was reviewing orders, set apart from the work but still within the warmth of it.

“Sit, me Lady,” she said. “I will bring ye somethin’.”

Chloe sat. She watched Melodie move with a frantic, nervous energy, her hands trembling as she prepared a tray. In her haste to serve the new Lady O’Brien, the girl’s foot caught on an uneven flagstone. She stumbled, and a bowl of warm porridge tipped, spilling across the fine wool of Chloe’s skirts.

“Oh, mercy! Me Lady, I beg yer forgiveness!” Melodie cried out, her face draining of color as she began to apologize profusely, her voice shaking with the expectation of a blow or a sharp reprimand.

Chloe reacted with the practiced ease of one who had spent years cleaning up similar messes.

“Whisht, lass, ‘tis only a bit of grain,” Chloe said softly, already kneeling to help gather the spilled mess. She caught Melodie’s hands to steady them, her touch warm and grounding. “Daenae fash yerself. I’ve spilled worse than this a thousand times over.”

Melodie went still, staring down at their joined hands as though she expected them to vanish, or turn out to be some kind of trick.

“Ye’re… ye’re nae angry?” Melodie whispered.

“I’ve nae room in me heart for anger over a tumbled bowl,” Chloe replied with a small, reassuring smile.

The tender moment was interrupted by a lively, curious voice from the hearth. They turned to see a maid with a bright spark in her eyes watching the exchange with fascination.

“Isla.” Melodie’s voice carried a warning.

“Me Lady.” Isla curtsied, setting her basket on the counter, and looked at the spreading stain on Chloe’s skirt. “That’ll set if ye daenae get to it.”

“I ken,” Melodie said tightly. “I am handlin’ it.”

“Have ye got vinegar?” Chloe asked.

Both of them looked at her.

“Vinegar,” Chloe said again. “White if ye have it.”

Isla was already moving. She pulled a small jug from the shelf above the salting table and held it out. Chloe took it, poured a small measure onto the cloth, and worked it into the stain in firm, circular strokes from the outside in.

The warmth of the hearth and the thick scent of baking bread provided a shield against the rest of the castle. As Chloe worked at the porridge stain on her skirt, she felt the eyes of the other two women on her.

“Ye’ve the hands of someone who kens the weight of a scrub brush, me Lady,” Isla remarked, her curiosity finally winning out over her caution.

Chloe gave a small, rueful laugh as she wrung out the damp cloth. “I’ve spent more years with me sleeves rolled up than I have in silken gowns. There is nothin’ shameful in honest work.”

Melodie, still appearing a bit startled and cowed by Chloe’s lack of anger, watched her mistress with wide eyes. “We’ve never had one, but the stories we hear of noble ladies… They say they’re as distant as the mountain peaks and twice as cold.”

“I am nae mountain peak, Melodie,” Chloe said, reaching out to pat the girl’s arm to settle her nerves. “And I’d much rather a warm kitchen than a silent hall where every breath feels like a sin.”

Isla leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then ye’ll want to watch for Mrs. Donnan. She’s got eyes like a hawk and a heart like a frozen loch until ye prove ye can keep a tidy hearth.”

“Oh, she will have nothin’ to fret about there,” Chloe responded, thinking of years of training from her mother on how to keep a neat fire. “I fear the Laird thinks I am more servant than bride.”

“The Laird kens little of what it takes to keep a house,” Isla said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He’s spent his life among the barrels or with a blade in his hand. He’s a lonely soul, for all his coldness.”

“Lonely?” Chloe paused, the word striking a chord within her.

“Feared by most, respected by all, but ken by none,” Isla added, her talkative nature revealing the clan’s true perception of Edward.