Page 30 of Fletcher

“Our màthair died the night after my birth, and our sire ended himself,” Fletcher said flatly. “Shoran, Tilly and Aili died. I’m cursed to kill anyone I love.”

“I yet breathe,” Shaw pointed out.

“The Pritani took the brother I adored, and killed that lad. You’re what came back in his place.” He saw the black ink moving on his brother’s arm, and nodded. “As well you ken.”

Shaw hadn’t liked being told that, and they’d gotten into a brawl that had ended almost as soon as it started. Fletcher ended up holding his bleeding brother as he wept for the three lasses he had loved, and the bleak, lonely future he faced.

Now he thought of Lark’s confession to him, and how she had named herself a jinks after losing all those she had loved. If he told her about the women his curse had ended, she would see that they were the same, and be on her guard. Yet the prospect of confessing sickened him, especially after the night of bliss they had shared.

I shall keep her pleasured, but never permit her in my heart. For her sake, I dare no’.

Chapter Ten

Lark woke when Fletcher silently rose and dressed but, after watching him through her lashes, pretended to be asleep when he looked down at her. She wanted him to kiss her awake, to take his clothes off again and come back to bed, but a few moments later she heard him leave. Frustrated, she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow he’d used, which still smelled of his scent. Her whole body ached a little, but unlike her heart it didn’t hurt. Why had he left without saying good morning or good-bye?

He’s busy, and he’s not in love with you. It’s just sex. This is the new you, remember? Deal with it.

Intimacy had been nothing like Lark had expected. She’d seen love scenes in the movies, of course. One of the productions her uncle had directed had also featured some decidedly explicit interludes between the main characters, both of whom had acted those parts almost naked. Stage sex looked choreographed to her, especially when the actors kissed, which always seemed somewhat forced and awkward.

Being with Fletcher had been the exact opposite; she’d never been closer to anyone. He’d let her touch him however she’d wanted to, which had been incredibly erotic and powerful. At the same time he’d unlocked all these parts of her body that she’d always taken for granted, and thought mainly inadequate. Thanks to the way he’d touched and made love to her, she’d become aware of her breasts and sex as sensual, carnal zones that had come to life almost on their own.

No, Fletcher did that. He let me become the woman I was meant to be.

The night changed everything for her, and Lark had no intention of hiding out any longer in the guest room. She lived in the twelfth century; it was high time she figured out where her place at Dun Ard was during the day. Valerie had mentioned the clan had a seamstress, and from the look of the garments she sewed she definitely could use some help. With a sense of resolve and happy anticipation she climbed out of bed to wash and dress, and then combed out and braided her hair.

A tap on the door came, and a guard opened it to admit Meg. The chamber maid had a tray of food and a mug of brew on one arm, and a pair of slippers in the other hand.

“Fair day, Mistress.” She surveyed her as she came to join her by the hearth, and used a graceful dip to set the shoes on the floor beside her. “I’m to tell you to rest, and fetch and carry for you today. Want you anything more?”

“I want everyone to stop telling me to rest,” Lark said as she tied off her braid and slipped her feet into the slippers, which had been lined with something sinfully soft and fit her perfectly. “Thanks for the shoes.”

“My lady had them made for you.” Meg put the tray on the side table and then planted her hands on her narrow hips. “If you’re weary of staring at these walls, I’ll take you with me today. You should learn your way round the stronghold.”

A tour of the castle didn’t appeal to her. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d like to meet your seamstress, if that’s possible. Lady Valerie mentioned she could use some help.”

“Ah, Idonea.” The chambermaid winced. “Aye, she’s sore in need of young hands and sharp eyes, but she’s a bit proud, if you ken my meaning.”

She thought of all the snooty, highly territorial wardrobe directors she’d worked for on Broadway. “I’ll be respectful, I promise.”

“Och, what happened to the bed?” Meg crouched down and peered at the bottom of the footboard, which Lark now realized was sagging on one side. “The end post, ’tis split.”

She dimly remembered the sound of wood cracking at some point. “I was a little, ah, restless last night.”

As the chamber maid tidied up, Lark quickly ate, and then followed Meg to a lower passage that she called the Hall of Makers, where they passed several busy work rooms. In one a half-dozen women sat carding and spinning fleece wool and flax thread; in another an older man was weaving on one of four standing looms. What she saw reminded her that these people couldn’t buy any of their goods, but had to make them straight from the sourced material: sheep, flax and hemp. Given the number of men in the clan, and the people who lived at the castle, just keeping them in clothes must have been a huge undertaking.

The seamstress’s work room turned out to be a small, poorly-lit chamber with a standing platform for fittings and work tables covered with rolls of wool and linen, garment pieces that had been cut, and beautifully crafted boxes of threads, trims and hand-carved buttons. Near the window an older woman with heavily-graying dark hair stood pinning a skirt to a bundle of straw shaped like a headless, limbless body that had been tied to a long pole wedged between the ceiling and floor. Other bundles of different sizes sat in an open trunk in the corner. A huge basket held a jumble of fabric scraps and strips, and bunches of ribbon and braided trim hung from a long wooden rack of hooks. On either side of the room were doorways to two other chambers, but only one stood open.

“Fair day, Donnie,” Meg said, and bobbed. “I’ve brought Mistress Ambrose, the laird’s guest. She wished meet you.”

“I cannae fathom why.” The seamstress didn’t turn around or stop working. “I’m told she tore apart the gowns I made, and stitched them back together herself. Why should she wish bother with me?”

“I’m afraid I’m rather small, Mistress,” Lark said quickly. “Your gowns are beautiful. I just didn’t want to trip over and tear the skirts.”

Idonea made a rude sound. “Unlike some I’ve no time to chatter.”

“Och, whenever do you?” the chambermaid chided. “I reckoned you’d enjoy meeting another seamstress.”

That stopped the older woman’s hands, and she finally faced them. The fine network of wrinkles around her neat features suggested she was somewhere in her late forties or early fifties. “You’re a seamstress in truth, then?”