Chapter 5

Kenna had been obliged to resort to a certain amount of creativity to find the rest of the food for Ewan's breakfast. She made sure that she was the one who was cleaning the dining room when the laird and lady's food was being cleared away. To her delight, there was still plenty of haggis, black pudding, and eggs left, as well as several thick slices of bread. It would likely not fill all of Ewan's stomach, but it might be enough to stop it from rumbling for a while!

Unfortunately, Lady McDonald was in a talkative mood that morning, and so was the laird. Kenna was invited to sit down and was obliged to regale them with details of how she and her mother were.

She answered politely that they were both well and stood up, ready to leave, but then Lady McDonald asked: "And is there no young man in your life yet, Kenna? You are so beautiful; I thought you would be married by now, even with a baby or two." She gave Kenna a playful wink.

Kenna laughed. "Thank you, milady, but I have no plans for that yet. But if the right man comes along, you will be the first to know, I promise."

She could not help smiling at them fondly. They were two of the dearest people she knew.

"We expect an invitation to the wedding too!" the laird called, with a smile on his plump cheeks.

"Of course, M'Laird!" Kenna replied, then with a little wave, a smile, and a deep sigh of relief, she hurried out.

She knew what Lady McDonald could be like when she managed to haul Kenna into a conversation about her life. She would likely have had to describe what she had been doing since the last time they met in minute detail. She could have been there for hours, even though, up until a couple of days ago, Kenna's life had been extremely ordinary. She wondered what the lady would say if she knew about the tall, handsome stranger in her bedroom and laughed at the thought. Somehow she thought it would amuse rather than anger her.

Now that she had the food, Kenna had to find a way of providing new clothes for Ewan, but that was easy since she was one of the maids who mended the clothes for everyone in the castle. She ought to be able to find something quite easily, but she decided to leave that job for later and made her way back to her chamber.

It took Maxwell a moment to realize where he was when he woke up. He was lying on a blanket, and there was another draped over him, but as he looked around, he could see by the cracks of light around the window shutters that it was daylight.

He was in a bedchamber, and suddenly the memories of the previous night came rushing back to him. Where was the woman who had rescued him? He stood up, then realized that his bodily needs had to be satisfied; he panicked for a moment until he found the chamber pot under the bed.

The blankets on the bed were still rumpled as if Kenna had just arisen from bed, and driven by some mad impulse, Maxwell picked up her pillow to inhale her scent. It was a mixture of the natural aroma of earth, a slight undertone of fresh sweat, and rough soap. It was an honest, clean smell, just like the woman herself, and he could have breathed it in all day. He had not lain in a soft bed beside a woman for so long that he had almost forgotten how good it felt.

Maxwell looked for water at the washstand, but there was none, and he sighed and looked down at himself, wishing he had some fresh clothes. He could only guess what Kenna saw when she looked at him: some unkempt, filthy, ragged scarecrow of a man. He could see that he was beginning to lose weight, and he was becoming a shadow of the man he had once been. He wanted to run outside in the fresh air and exercise, but for the moment he was, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner.

Presently, the door opened and Kenna came in with a tray of food for him. He could see by the shape and texture of the puddings and eggs that they had been left over from someone else's meal, but he did not care. The bread, which had obviously been bitten by someone else's teeth, was plentiful, and his mouth watered as he looked at it. Somehow she had managed to find some ale and two apples, and he marveled at her resourcefulness.

"I am sorry, but this is all I could find," she said sadly. "If I had taken anything fresh, it would have given your presence away, but I did manage an extra apple."

"This is fine," he assured her, then sat down to eat.

He tried not to shovel the food into his mouth but ended up doing so since his hunger had gotten the better of him. He forgot all about the refined table manners he had been taught as a child since they were utterly useless when you were ravenously hungry.

The meal did not quite fill him, but Kenna had done her best, and Maxwell was filled with gratitude. So many people would have left him where he was or thrown him out to die in the cold. She had a heart of gold.

While he was eating, Kenna was fetching a bucket of water to fill the washstand. Her movements were graceful and sure, and once more he was reminded of a dancer.

He gazed at her in wonder as she filled the basin.

"Are you always so kind to strangers?" he asked, puzzled. "Why are you doing this for me?"

She turned to him, and he saw for the first time that her eyes were a bright apple-green—beautiful eyes.

"Because strangers were kind to me once," she replied. "It is only fair to return the favor. Perhaps you will do the same for someone else."

"I most certainly will," Maxwell assured her, smiling.

He stood facing her for an awkward moment, then she slipped out again before he could ask her where she was going. He washed quickly, wishing he could indulge in a hot soapy bath, but that really was an impossible dream. He had not had a hot bath in over a year, and the cleanest he had been was when he managed to bathe in a freezing loch or burn.

Still, he did the best he could with the limited means he had. When he had finished washing as much of himself as he could reach, he felt reasonably clean, relatively well-fed, and better than he had in ages.

His beard had grown uncomfortably long, but there was nothing he could do about that. He had washed it, and the color of the water in the bowl was now a deep grey, making him feel sick at the thought of how dirty it had been.

Not knowing quite what to do next, he stood by the window looking out at the view. This room was in a rather secluded part of the castle, and he could see little of interest apart from trees and meadows, but he knew every inch of Invercree Estate. He had been here so many times as a boy that it was practically his second home. He had had some wonderful and not-so-wonderful times here.

He thought of the time he had tumbled out of a spruce tree when he was twelve years old and broken his arm and the look of panic on his friend Lachlan's face.

He remembered the stab of utter terror as his hand slipped on the branch and the feeling of complete helplessness as he felt himself falling through the air. More branches slapped and scratched him as he fell, inflicting bloody scratches and cuts. Then he came to a sudden, sickening halt, hearing and feeling the jarring thud as he hit the ground.

Maxwell felt as if his whole body, from the back of his head, which hit the ground first, to his heels, had been hit over and over again by a giant hammer. For a few seconds he could neither breathe nor hear nor see. He could feel no pain at first, but when it came, it was as though a flame had been held to his arm.

The scream that came out of him made Lachlan cry out in terror. He shook Maxwell, trying to stop him.

"Stay there!" he cried. "I am going to summon help!"

He disappeared, and a moment later a merciful blackness crept over Maxwell as he succumbed to the shock of the pain.

The next few days had been almost completely wiped from his memory. All he could recall were brief periods of daylight and a few echoes of very distant voices. He was told later that Lachlan had been by his side almost constantly during his recovery.

Maxwell had always thought that he had never had a better friend than Lachlan until he found out the truth. Lachlan had pushed him out of the tree, not on purpose, but with a playful boyish swipe on the arm. Maxwell had not found out until one night when they were on one of their drunken sprees at Kirklieth Castle. They were all laughing about the stupid capers they had all indulged in when they were boys, and suddenly Lachlan said: "You remember that day I pushed you out of the tree, Max?" His voice was slurred, and he wore an expression of comical concentration as he tried to focus on his friend's face.

"Of course I remember it!" Maxwell replied.

His eyes were not working too well since his friend's face was blurred. Then a bolt of realization hit him between the eyes.

"Do you mean you—you pushed me? On purpose? Did you try to kill me?" His voice was a squeak of indignation.

"No! Of course not!" Lachlan cried, raising both hands in front of him as if to protect himself. "I pushed you, though, and I am very sorry."

"Why did you not tell anybody?" Maxwell demanded furiously. "Me, for example."

"I-I was scared," Lachlan replied sheepishly. "I am sorry, Max. It was a stupid thing to do, but I thought your father might put me in prison."

Maxwell glared at Lachlan, then walked out. He was too drunk to take in what had happened, but the next morning his friend had come to him as they were leaving.

"Forgive me?" he asked anxiously. "I was a fool, Max." He hung his head, ashamed.

For a moment Maxwell looked down at his friend, not knowing how to feel. He was still furious, but how could he throw away a friendship that had endured since they were little more than infants? He could not do it.

"I forgive you," he answered, smiling at Lachlan. "But my tree-climbing days are over!"

"As are mine." Lachlan sighed, relieved. "I don't deserve a friend like you, Max. Thank you."

Suddenly, he was startled out of his reverie.

"Ewan?" Kenna said quietly as she came in, locking the door behind her.

For a moment, Maxwell ignored her, not recognizing the name as his own, then he suddenly realized that she was addressing him.

"I am so sorry. I was daydreaming," he apologized.

"We all do it," she said, smiling at him. "I found these for you." She thrust a pile of clothes toward him. "I am not sure they will fit a big man like you, but the last laird was quite a big man too."

"These are the laird's clothes?" Maxwell asked incredulously, holding them up to inspect them. "Where did you get them?"

"The late Laird McDonald, who died a long time ago. I stole them," she said frankly.

"You stole them? For me?" He was incredulous. "But what if you had been caught?"

Kenna shrugged. "I have lived here for a long time," she replied. "I know where everything is. The chances of me being caught are very slim."

Why have I never met someone like you before?he thought, puzzled. Then he realized that despite her cultured accent, she was still only a servant. Then he pulled himself up short. Only a servant?

At that moment he realized that servants were people as worthy of dignity as he was. Why had he never thought of this before? But he already knew the answer to his own question. It was this astonishing woman who was showing him ways of seeing things in a light that was completely new to him, and she did not even know she was doing it. She was extraordinary.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Kenna asked suddenly. "Do I have dirt on my face?" Her eyebrows were raised in a question, and her green eyes were wary.

Maxwell blinked. "I am so sorry," he said with an embarrassed laugh. "I can't seem to stop slipping into daydreams today."

"I have no time for daydreams. I have work to do," she announced briskly. "Try these on while I am gone. I hope they fit you, although I have a feeling they might be a wee bit too big."

"I hope so too," he murmured. "Kenna?"

"Yes?"

She turned back to him, and once more he was struck by the luminosity of her bright green eyes.

"You should not be taking risks for me." He looked at the floor, ashamed. "I should be going soon."

"I told you. I am not." Her voice was firm when she said, "Look at me, Ewan."

This time Maxwell remembered the name he had adopted and met her piercing green gaze again.

"Why do you not want me to be good to you?" she asked, frowning in puzzlement.

He dropped his gaze again and sighed.

"You saw what I really am, Kenna. I am not worthy of your kindness."

She was silent for a moment, and he turned away.

"Why do you think so badly of yourself?" Kenna asked at last. "Do you not think you are worthy of kindness or are you just feeling sorry for yourself? Everyone deserves to be treated well."

"No. I am definitely not wallowing in self-pity. There are things in my life that would shock you if I told you about them." He was suddenly angry with himself. "I am putting you in danger staying here, am I not?"

"Yes, I suppose you are," Kenna admitted. "But I chose the risk, and I will smuggle you out as soon as I judge that the time is right. Now, I must go, or everyone will be wondering where I am. Try the clothes on. By the way, I did not steal them…not exactly."

He was about to ask what she meant, but he was too late as he watched her hurrying outside, locking the door behind her.

The clothes Kenna had brought consisted of a fine cotton shirt, a sturdy woolen coat and breeches, a cloak, and a stout pair of leather boots. The breeches fitted him in length but not in girth. The arms on the shirt fitted him, but again the waistline was rather generous, and he judged that the former owner must have been a much plumper man than he was.

However, he could make do by tightening the trousers with his belt and tucking the shirt inside, he supposed. They were better than what he had been wearing.

He was very pleased with his new outfit and kept the clothes on as he waited for Kenna to come back. It did not take him long to realize that he was going to have a long wait. He lay down on the bed and sighed in bliss. It was the first soft surface he had lain on in months, and he closed his eyes.

Within minutes, although he had risen from his bed on the floor only a short while before, Maxwell fell asleep with a smile on his face. He dreamed of a beautiful woman with green eyes.