Free My Highland Bride by Maeve Greyson Page A

up against the wall; she just couldn’t stand the thought of touching it with her hands. Beside the table and with her back to the wall, she stood a better chance at tricking herself into thinking she had a little bit of privacy. She stole one last glance at Coira bustling about the room, then peeled off her soft white tank top and shed her favorite pair of silky white bikinis. She squatted down over the pot and waited. Nothing happened. Come on. Her shy, overfull bladder refused. Running water. Running water. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. She concentrated on running water and lovely white toilets—with seats. Finally. Success.

    Crossing one arm over her bare breasts and keeping the other hand shielding her crotch, Kenna skipped across the room and backed up to the hearth. “I guess I’ll brush my teeth after I wash so I’ll have a place to spit.” Why the hell was she telling that to Coira? Because I’m not used to standing naked and having someone I barely know wash me.
    Coira bobbed her head in agreement. “Aye, mistress. That’s what yer sister usually does.” She soused a cloth in the water, then wrung it out. She smiled and nodded as she spread the cloth across one hand. “Stretch out yer arms.”
    Kenna bit her lip and closed her eyes as Coira vigorously scrubbed her from head to toe with the icy water. When she’d nearly decided that Coira was determined to remove at least two layers of skin, the scrubbing finally stopped. She opened her eyes just as Coira came at her with a drying cloth.
    “Now then. All clean. Do ye no’ feel refreshed?” Coira’s voice shook as she patted Kenna down with quick, efficient strokes of the cloth.
    “Absolutely.” Kenna finally twisted free of Coira’s ministrations. “I’m good.” Scampering across the room, she scooped up a pale linen dress from the back of a chair and slid it over her head. At least now she could brush her teeth without feeling so…on display. Her mood lightened considerably once her mouth was minty fresh. She looked to Coira. “Now what?”
    “Now yer overdress, stockings, and shoes. Then I’ll braid yer hair.” Coira slipped a deep green dress over Kenna’s head and tugged it down into place. “There now. I knew this color would suit ye fine.” She wrapped a long leather belt, fringed on the ends, below Kenna’s waist and fastened it at the front so it rested across the top of her hips, accentuating the long smooth lines of the gown. Bending down, she deftly tugged first one stocking and then the other up to Kenna’s thighs, tugged the ribbons tight, and tied them. A velvety soft pair of doeskin shoes came last.

    Kenna wiggled her toes and tugged the bell-shaped sleeves of the overdress straighter across the linen sleeves of her shift. Smoothing her hands down the nubby weave of the dress, she padded across the room and took a seat beside the hearth. The snug ties of her stockings cut into her thighs and the seams bunched beneath her toes. She forced herself to sit still as Coira combed back her hair. This was going to take some getting used to. Thirteenth-century apparel and style were a far cry from jeans, T-shirts, and ponytails.
    “Ouch!” Kenna flinched and leaned forward. “Give me the comb. I’ll do it.” If Coira kept yanking so hard, she’d end up bald.
    “Och now, dinna fret so. Ye’ve got a bit of a rat’s nest that needs combin’ free.” Coira firmly pulled her back into place and set to combing and tugging with hard quick strokes. “Lore a’mighty, I’ve ne’er seen such a headful of curls.” Coira swept Kenna’s hair up off her neck, then paused and leaned around to look her in the eye. “And no lady of this keep has e’er combed her own hair, so get that thought right out of yer head.”
    “To keep my mind off the fact that you’re scalping me”—Kenna flinched again at a particularly painful yank—“why don’t you tell me what’s expected of me when I go downstairs.” Maybe if she kept Coira