her husband.
Games aside, she said calmly, “I want a fire and hot water. Please see to it.”
Norval made some sort of ducking bow. “I will return, my lady.” He shuffled out of the room.
She thought about adding a request for more candles, since this one was sputtering, but decided not to press her luck. A fire would do much to cheer the room. Then maybe she could think. She dearly needed to pause and reflect.
A snore sounded from the direction of the bed.
Anne froze.
The circle of candlelight did not extend beyond the footboard—but someone was in the bed. Or something, her active imagination warned her. What human sounded like a bear being baited?
Then “it” snored again.
Anne’s already frayed nerves overreacted. She screamed, dropping the candle to the floor. It extinguished immediately and she was trapped in the dark with “it.” She ran straight for the door, found the handle, and charged into the hall, where she couldn’t see where she was going or feel her way in unfamiliar surroundings.
Fortunately, Aidan bounded up the stairs, holding a torch to light the darkness. Deacon and Hugh and a horde of dogs were in step behind him.
Blessed, blessed light, Anne thought, as she rushed toward her husband. “There’s something in there,” she warned them.
“In where?” Aidan asked.
“My room. Something or someone is in the bed.”
Aidan frowned. “There shouldn’t be anyone here. Take the torch, Hugh,” he ordered as he reached down and pulled out a knife hidden inside his boot. He stepped into the bedroom.
Anne hurried after him, her heart pounding. She hadn’t imagined bloodshed. Before she could say anything, her husband approached the bed, where there was obviously someone under the sheet. The knife poised in one hand, he ripped off the sheet with the other.
The man in the bed shouted in alarm.
Aidan shouted back, “Roy!”
“Yes, Laird?” He scrambled upright, sleepy eyes blinking in surprise. He had broad, hairy shoulders, an overflowing stomach, and short arms and legs. Anne could see why she had mistaken him for a bear. “What are you doing with a knife, Laird?”
“He was about to gut you,” Deacon answered.
“By all that’s holy?” Roy asked, starting to tremble.
Aidan frowned. “We thought you were a brigand.”
“What’s a brigand?” Roy asked dumbly.
Without answering, Aidan replaced the knife in his boot. “Anne, this my cook, Roy. Roy, this is Miss Anne who-won’t-tell-me-her-last-name.”
“Black,” she said.
“Yes, Black,” he replied absently, before going straight to the point. “What are you doing here, Roy?”
“I had a wee bit too much to drink. Elma shouts at me when I’m drunk coming home.” He shrugged. “Ye wouldn’t understand, laird, since you’re not a married man.”
“I’m beginning to have some feeling for your dilemma,” Aidan muttered. “But you can’t sleep here tonight, Roy. We have a guest. This is her bed so you’ll have to be up and out of it. You can sleep in the kitchen or in front of the hearth with the dogs.”
“Yes, Laird.” Roy practically fell out of the bed. Thankfully, he wore breeches but no socks or shoes. He padded barefoot past without another word. The dogs followed him out, probably hoping for a bite of the lamb leg on the downstairs table.
“There,” Aidan said to Anne. “You can sleep now. Good night.” He started to leave but she stepped in his path.
She nodded to the tangled, wrinkled bedclothes, and announced, “I will not sleep in sheets someone else has slept in.” She was certain they hadn’t been changed in years, at least, not if Norval had been expected to do it.
Aidan loomed over her. “I’ll make you the same offer I did Roy. You can sleep in the kitchen or with the dogs.”
He was serious.
“Well, then I will sleep here.”
“Good. Sleep well.” He stomped out of the room. Deacon followed, laughing.
Hugh lingered to put the torch in the wall sconce by the door. “You will want the light.”
“Thank you,” she murmured but then he, too, hurried to catch up with her husband.
Anne stood alone a moment. She could barely look at the unmade bed. There could be lice in the sheets or all manner of untold beasties. Suddenly, in a fit of temper, she crossed the room and slammed the door.
“He’s rude, coarse, obnoxious—!” She doubled her fists and silently screamed out her frustration. No wonder people thought he was mad. Who walked around with a knife in his boot? “It’s probably some medieval thing,” she said to her reflection in the grimy mirror. “No wonder people question his sanity.”
He was the