Black Richard's Heart (The MacCulloughs #1) - Suzan Tisdale Page 0,32

out for Marisse’s arm and smiled toward Loreen. “That will be fine and we thank ye for yer kindness. Please, let whoever is in charge know that we will be down in an hour.”

Thankfully, Marisse waited until the maid left the room before voicing her opinion. “Bathe below stairs?” she hissed. “’Tis unthinkable.”

Aeschene managed a short giggle. “If ye remember correctly, we bathed below stairs back home.”

“But ye are lady and chatelaine. Ye should nae—”

Aeschene stopped her from protesting further. “We must remember, not every keep and clan does things the way we did.”

Marisse snorted derisively. “Fer that, I am eternally grateful. Still, I wonder if yer husband could not be persuaded to have a tub brought above stairs for ye.”

While that would have been a luxury she would have enjoyed, she refused to even contemplate it. Having men haul a tub and countless buckets above stairs seemed to her a selfish request. The last thing she wanted was for people to think her haughty or demanding. “Nay,” she said with a shake of her head. “I will not ask that of him.”

Too tired to argue on it any further, she changed the subject. “Mayhap a bit of a rest whilst we wait.”

Just as exhausted as her friend, Marisse agreed. “I suppose a we nap couldn’t hurt.”

With it being her first hour in her new home, Aeschene did not wish to start off on the wrong foot with either her husband or the other members of the keep. With her head held high, she followed Marisse and Loreen down the stairs and through the gathering room. Normally, she would have counted every step, memorized every door and hallway. However, she was too distracted by the embarrassment of knowing her husband did not wish to share his chamber with her.

Wishing to give him the benefit of the doubt she decided to conduct herself in lady-like fashion by pretending it did not matter. For now, she would enjoy a hot bath, and after that, clean clothes and a hot meal. Later, when she felt more refreshed and presentable, she would go to her husband and politely ask him the why of it. Hopefully, ’twas all a simple misunderstanding. If it wasn’t, and his intentions clear, she would politely explain the way of things to him. ’Twas simple: Wives sleep with their husbands.

Soon, she had the sensation they were walking through a narrow corridor. A moment later, she heard a door scraping against stone right before bright light flooded the space.

“The kitchens are back here,” Loreen told them.

“Tis a covered walkway,” Marisse explained. “The kitchens are set away from the keep. We be on the north side.”

Absentmindedly, Aeschene nodded her head, although she was not paying any close attention. She could not get her mind off her husband. What had been so important to pull him away from the keep only moments after arriving? Had the poor man even had time to eat or put on fresh clothes?

The more she thought on it, the guiltier she felt. While she did not know the man well, she had the sense that he was a man of honor. Black Richard MacCullough was a man who kept his word, of that much, she was certain.

Nay, the bed chamber arrangements were probably temporary. It could be he was living under the false assumption she wanted a bed chamber of her own.

Tonight, she told herself, while we sup, I shall tell him just what I think of these separate chambers.

Black Richard hadn’t even had the chance to change before he received word about the troubles at Abel MacCullough’s. Abel’s boy, Andrew, all of ten, had been sent to find help. Thankfully, the boy had gone to their nearest neighbor, Traigh MacCullough and now the two of them were in Black Richard’s private study.

He hurried down the hallway, anger simmering just below the surface. Pushing open the door, he had to duck in order to enter, while Rory and Lachlan came in behind him. Little Andrew was sitting on the edge of his desk. The boy’s face was streaked with tears and dried sweat and mud, the knees of his trews torn, his blond hair plastered to his head. Donald was tending to the child’s scrapes when Black Richard walked in. Traigh MacCullough looked murderous. His hazel eyes filled with rage as he watched Donald apply salve to Andrew’s knees.

“’Twas no doubt the Farquars,” Traigh said the moment he saw Black Richard. “The sons of whores have been seen