Free My Laird's Castle by Bess McBride Page B

cheeks, already red from exertion, flamed. She bobbed another curtsey.
    “Oh, it is naethin, mistress.” She set the bucket on the floor and left the room. I eyed the closed door for a moment, wondering how I was going to manage without crème rinse. The presence of the empty bucket suggested that Sarah would soon resume running up and down the stairs carrying my soapy water off to wherever it was water went—hopefully not to dishes. Unless she just planned to toss it out of the window.
    I sighed, contemplated a long life of adjustments and dunked my head under the water to wet my hair. Rubbing the soap into my hair, I could work up no suds, but it would have to do. I reached for the pitcher, forgetting that the water was still hot. More improvisation.
    I dunked my head again and emerged to ferment in the tub while the water cooled. The tub was such that I couldn’t straighten my legs and lay back, but I managed to pull my knees to my chest, and I waited for about ten minutes. It didn’t take long for the water in the pitcher to cool. Although Sarah had stoked the fire on one of her water trips, the castle walls seemed only too willing to share their chill.
    After what seemed like the most complicated bath I’d ever taken, I climbed out of the tub, wrapped myself in a lovely white linen cloth and dried off. Unwilling to begin the next round of dressing, I exchanged the wet linen for the warm tartan, and I lowered myself onto the settee in front of the fire to relax for just a bit.
    In hindsight, I should have combed my hair, for I fell asleep, and when I awoke, my hair, now dried, looked as wild as Colin’s.
    I had no idea what time it was when I awakened, but night had not yet fallen. I’m sure Mrs. Agnew would have alerted me if it was time to dress. How did people tell time here anyway?
    Was Colin back? I peeked out the window but could see nothing out of the slit. The castle didn’t seem to have conventional large windows, but only small openings, large enough for a bow and arrow.  
    Someone tapped on my door.
    “Come in,” I said, turning away from the window.
    Colin opened the door and stepped in.
    I gasped, having assumed it was Mrs. Agnew, and I grabbed the slipping tartan and clutched it. I swung around, unsure what was showing, if anything.
    “Och! Ye arna dressed. Why ever did ye say to come in?” Colin barked.  
    Fumbling with the tartan, I looked over my shoulder. He had shut the door and swung around so that he faced it.
    “Well, I thought it was Mrs. Agnew. You can turn around now. I’m decent.”
    I turned, and Colin looked over his shoulder.
    “Well, I never thought ye werna decent,” he said, his lips breaking into a smile.
    His lips! His wide, generous smile, visible for all the world to see. He had shaved his beard. My knees weakened as he turned to face me. A firm dimpled chin anchored what I had already thought of as a handsome face. He had tied his hair back, revealing long, dark sideburns that framed an angular face notable for wonderfully high cheekbones and snapping dark-blue eyes.  
    “Oh, my word!” I said, staring at him.
    “Is my face so homely?” he asked, his smile fading.  
    “Oh, no,” I said, keeping my distance. “Quite the contrary.”
    His blush stained his cheeks, and my heart thumped. They just didn’t make men like him in my time. No.
    “Ye’re teasing me, Mistress Pratt.”
    “No, I’m not. You’re a very handsome man, Lord Anderson. Looks, brains, a title. What’s not to like?”
    One would have thought I’d had a glass of wine—or three—at my boldness, but I was caught up in admiration of something truly gorgeous, and I couldn’t hold my tongue.
    “Enough now, madam,” he said, running a hand across his chin and dropping his eyes to the floor for a moment. “I think ye must dress. It is almost time for supper.”
    “I wondered about that. How do you all tell time around here?”
    “By the position of the sun, the length of time to burn a