Free A Trust Betrayed by Candace Robb

window toward the back and a fair-sized bed that took up most of the space.
     
    “I am sleeping here at present,” Murdoch said.
     
    “You could plant a garden in the dirt and dust.”
     
    “I would not mind some tidying.” He caught her eye. “I would be a fool to turn down your offer, eh?” He did not smile, but his anger had cooled.
     
    “What of the storeroom?”
     
    “We shift things often enough it needs no cleaning. Tend to what is suitable, the guest rooms. While they are empty!”
     
    They descended to the backlands and bowed their heads against the rain that pelted them on their way to the stairway that led to her chamber. The stairway was roofed, praise God. Margaret already felt the damp soaking through her clothes and shoes. On the floor on which she was staying, Murdoch showed her the room to the right, which was the chamber in which they had talked on their arrival. The bed had been tidied, a man’s tunic lay on an ancient chest, a pack lay on the floor. It was a wide enough bed to sleep two or three. The room opposite was much larger, with several pallets and one substantial bed without bed hangings. A man snored beneath a tattered hide. Two cloaks hung on hooks on the wall, some clothes were strewn on one of the pallets. The air in the room was stale—surprising with the draft from the doorway. Both doorways were covered by hides, not wooden doors. How cold it must be to lie on the floor in the draft.
     
    “You will not interfere with the business of the tavern, Maggie.”
     
    “This will be sufficient. I have a husband to find.” “If it’s too much work, find a good replacement for me, eh?” At last Murdoch smiled. “Now I have work to do. And so do you.” He bowed to her and headed down the stairs.
     
    She thanked God her uncle had accepted her offer. It would buy her time.
     
    5
     
    A Face in the Rain
     
    Margaret tucked her hair up in a cap and the front hem of her gown up in her girdle, wrapped cloths round her forearms to protect her sleeves, and set to cleaning Murdoch’s temporary chamber. Celia daintily dusted the doorway, the furniture.
     
    “For pity’s sake, clean the rest of the room before cleaning the furniture,” Margaret said, losing patience. “The ceilings and the wattle walls are full of dust that will just settle again on the furnishings.”
     
    “I was sent here to be your maid, not a chambermaid.” Celia flicked dust off her shoulders.
     
    Margaret fought the urge to slap her. “Neither am I a chambermaid, eh? But as my uncle was good enough to give us his room, this is the least we can do for him.”
     
    “I would as lief stay in a less favored room at such a price.” Celia regarded the rafters with a grimace and a shudder.
     
    “You would speak to me in such a manner?” Who did she think she was? “I am done with making apologies for you. You’re of no use to me and you never will be. I don’t know what my goodmother sees in you. You do nothing for your keep.”
     
    Celia had dropped her gaze to the floor.
     
    “Get yourself off to the chambermaid’s cot. You will sleep there until I arrange an escort for you back to Widow Sinclair, where the work is more to your liking. I’ll ask my brother to make arrangements.”
     
    Celia glanced up at that, her jaw dropping unbecomingly.
     
    “Get you gone,” Margaret repeated, waving the maid on with a dusty cloth that produced a cloud she thought certain to disgust the dainty woman.
     
    Celia tossed her cloth to the floor. “Look at my hands.” She held them out, palms down. The nails were even and clean, the skin unbroken.
     
    “A lady’s hands,” Margaret said. “I am not surprised.”
     
    Celia turned her palms up. “It took a long while to soften and smooth them so my mistress would let me touch her silk gowns.”
     
    “So be off in search of your lady.”
     
    “I thought as Master Roger’s wife you would at least live as well as my mistress.”
     
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