Chapter 7

"Why not?" Kenna asked, perplexed. "You said you liked it."

"I do." His voice was sad as he met her eyes again, noting the eagerness in them. "Let the servants have their little treat. I will drink wine again sometime, I am sure." To change the subject, he looked at her sewing. "How are you getting on?"

She grinned as she cut down an entire seam with a pair of shears that looked like lethal weapons.

"There is a lot more work here than I expected," she admitted. "But fortunately I have been doing this for years, and I am used to it. In fact, I enjoy it."

"Who taught you?" he asked curiously, watching her nimble fingers as she joined one side of the seam to the other. They were long, slender, and capable, and she was working so quickly that his eyes could hardly keep up with her.

"My mother," she answered. "She is an expert. She has even made dresses for milady, and you should see her embroidery!"

Her voice was full of pride. She was working while she spoke and was so speedy that in no time at all the seam she had been working on was perfectly finished. Despite being done in haste, it was as neat as though it had been done by a professional seamstress.

While she worked on the other seam, a comfortable silence descended, and Maxwell continued to watch Kenna while she sewed. It was a pleasure to do so since she obviously loved what she was doing so much that she hummed a little tune, and there was a tiny smile on her face.

Suddenly Kenna looked up.

"Where will you go after this?" she asked abruptly.

Unprepared for the question, Maxwell froze.

"I…" he began, then his shoulders slumped.

He wanted to go back to Kirklieth, but he could not do that until he had prepared himself a little more. He needed to be confident, self-assured, and unafraid. He did not even know if he had the courage. What if his family turned him over to the McDonalds? On the other hand, he was sitting here in the lair of his foe at that very moment, and he had no answer for her.

"I don't know where I will go," he confessed at last.

Kenna gazed at him, and he could see by the look of her bright green eyes that she knew he was hiding something and wondering if she should try to prise it out of him. He was, after all, indebted to her.

"Don't you have a home?" she asked gently, her green eyes searching his face.

"I do," he replied, sighing, "but I cannot go there."

Kenna looked surprised at his bitter answer. "I see. Do you have family trouble?"

"I have some very personal issues." His tone cut off all further discussion of the subject. "Forgive me, Kenna, but I would rather not discuss the matter."

She nodded. "I understand. I should not have been so nosy, sorry."

He was looking down at the floor, but he was aware of her bright green gaze on him.

There was something about his shaggy brown hair that Kenna found very attractive, although his beard was long and unkempt. She laughed inwardly as she thought how much she would like to take a pair of scissors to it. In fact, she remembered it was one of her first thoughts the moment she laid eyes on him. However, she betrayed herself with a smile.

Presently he looked up again and saw the expression on her face.

"Is something funny?" he asked, frowning.

Kenna touched her face.

"Your beard," she answered. "Would you like me to trim it for you?"

He ran his hand over it. "Is it so bad?" he asked, laughing.

Kenna looked at him for a moment longer. The offending whiskers were long in some parts and short in others, with a hole here and there that exposed the skin underneath. It looked as though a bird had pecked it.

"It looks a bit untidy, Ewan," she remarked. "A little bit like a bird's nest, in fact! Would you like me to cut it for you? Or shave it off?" She held up her scissors and snapped the blades together a few times.

Maxwell rubbed his hands over the scruffy hair on his face.

"I have not looked in a mirror in weeks," he confessed. "I am sure I look dreadful."

Kenna stood up and went to fetch hers. It was nothing but a sliver of glass that had come from a bigger mirror, probably broken in an accident, and he felt infinitely sorry for her. She had so very little, and until recently he had had more wealth than she could ever have dreamed of. He had not been fabulously rich, of course, but compared to her, his wealth was immense, and she deserved it much more than he did.

Maxwell looked in the mirror. The face staring back at him was drawn and haggard and the beard looked like something he had once seen on a scarecrow. His hair was not much better, and he scowled at himself, embarrassed and ashamed.

"I am loath to admit it," he said ruefully, taking handfuls of his whiskers and pulling them, "but I have never had to trim my own beard."

"You had someone to do it for you?" she asked, her eyebrows raised in a question.

He nodded as he gave her back the mirror.

"Yes, I always had a manservant."

He felt ashamed when he once more compared his circumstances to hers, but he smiled when he thought of Jock Taylor. He was a tall redheaded ex-soldier with a long scar across his forehead who had always taken good care of him, and Maxwell smiled as he thought of him.

"He was always very proud of his work, and he always looked on me as his personal project and acted as if I was somehow unfinished if I went without his care."

Maxwell had never given much thought to the lives of those who served him. Neither had he ever thought of the landlord of the local tavern, or the blacksmith, or the washerwoman. All those people had been so far below him on the social scale that he had never seen them as real people; they were mere tools to him, a way of achieving his ends.

"Would you mind having a maidservant?" she asked, grinning mischievously. "Just for today? I have trimmed beards before."

"Is there anything you can't do?" he asked, chuckling.

"I can't sing," she replied promptly, making him laugh. "I sound like a cats' choir!"

She dropped her sewing and wiped her scissors on a cloth, then stood in front of him and grasped a handful of the unwanted bush of hair in her hand before cutting it off in two snaps of the scissor blades before throwing it into the fire.

After that, she began to gradually cut it closer and closer to his face until he could feel the blades against his skin.

"Shall I take it all off?" she asked.

This was a notion that had not occurred to Maxwell before. He looked at himself in the mirror again.

"I look…younger," he observed, astonished. "And cleaner. I feel much better." He hesitated for a few seconds, then said firmly, "Shave it all off, Kenna. I will never grow it again."

"If you wish."

She went to fetch some water and coarse soap, which she slathered onto his face with her hands.

Maxwell had never felt anything so glorious as the gentle pressure of her hands and fingernails as they massaged his face, and he had to restrain himself from moaning with pleasure.

Little did he know that Kenna was enjoying the rasping, tickling feeling of his facial hair against her palms just as much. In fact, she could have quite happily massaged his cheeks all day, but now she needed to get back to the task at hand.

Presently, Kenna took out the dagger he had given her, and he froze with fear as he saw her sharpening it on the stone she used for her scissors.

"What are you doing?" he asked at last.

"I don't keep a razor here in case the odd gentleman happens by for a shave, Ewan," she told him, laughing. "This is all I have, but dagger or razor, I could still kill you if I wanted to if that is what you are afraid of."

"I suppose you could," he agreed, his tension lessening as he heard the laughter in Kenna's voice.

"I will not kill you if you ask me not to," she told him. "But you must ask me very nicely."

"Please don't kill me," he said at once, trying not to laugh. "I really would like to live a while longer."

As he said it, he realized that he meant it. His earlier melancholy had given way to cautious optimism, and it was all because of Kenna.

"Very well, then."

She bent over him and began to shave him. Initially he was nervous, but after a few moments he relaxed as she wielded the blade skillfully across his skin. It was almost like a caress, and it was made even better by her nearness. He could smell the scent of her, feel the warmth of her body as she bent over him, so close that he could see every pore in her smooth skin and the soft plumpness of her lips.

If he had been more daring, he could have kissed her. The thought was infinitely appealing as she stuck the tip of her tongue out of the corner of her lips while she concentrated. It was an innocent gesture yet deeply arousing. However, he knew that she could cut him very badly, either accidentally or on purpose, if he did anything untoward.

"Please don't smile," she asked. "I might cut you, but I am nearly finished."

Maxwell had not even realized he was smiling, and he sat still until she had completed the last stroke of her makeshift razor, then she wiped his face with a dry cloth and stood back.

She held up the mirror so that he could see his face, and he gasped as he looked at himself.

"I can't believe it," he breathed.

He had thought he looked different with a short beard, but now that he was clean-shaven he looked like a completely new man. It had been a long time since he had seen his own cheeks, and now he rubbed his hands over them, surprised to find the skin was so soft.

He looked up and smiled at her. "I look so different," he said in wonder. "Thank you, Kenna."

"You look much better," she agreed as she put her implements away and picked up her sewing again. "This will be finished soon. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

He shooed away the thought that had immediately slipped into his mind. It would be wonderful to hold her in his arms and kiss her all afternoon, but clearly that was never going to happen. She was too innocent and he was too honorable to take advantage of her.

"I think you have done enough for today," he declared. "All I have done is…well, nothing."

He felt ashamed, but then, he was becoming accustomed to feeling that way.

Kenna reached over to a shelf and picked up a book, which she handed to him.

"King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table," he read, and smiled.

"I have only five books in my little library," Kenna told him. "I have read this one dozens of times, but I never become tired of it. It might amuse you for a while."

"Thank you," he said gratefully, smiling at her. "You are so kind. Can you tell me a little about yourself?"

Kenna shrugged. "There is nothing much to tell, really. I have lived here all my life, and I don't know any other home. I came here when I was four years old."

"You were not born here?" he asked curiously. "I thought you were."

"No." She began to twist her hands in her lap. "I-I was born on one of the tenant farms, but it was attacked by bandits when I was very small…and I lost my family. I was the only one who survived. I was brought here and adopted by the cook, who had lost her own daughter to smallpox.

"I don't remember anything about my father and mother at all. I have only ever known Flora Bowie as my mammy, and we love each other as a mother and daughter should. The two men who rescued me, Jack Johnstone and Frank Young, are still employed as guards, and I regard them as my uncles."

"I am so sorry. I hope I did not bring up bad memories." Maxwell reached out and took her hand in his. "I don't wish to cause you pain in any way. You have been so good to me."

"I don't feel pain about the loss of my family," Kenna admitted. "I don't remember anything about any of it." The feel of his hand on hers was warm and somehow thrilling since it was such an intimate gesture. "I feel angry sometimes, and occasionally I think I am about to remember something, but the memory always disappears before I can catch it. And sometimes I have bad dreams, but when I wake up I can never remember them." She shrugged, then smiled happily. "I suppose I never will. But I am lucky to have my mammy. She is my whole life. I don't think I could love her more if she was the woman who gave birth to me."

Maxwell took her hand and turned it over. It was tiny compared to his own, and the palms were roughened, used to hard work. He felt ashamed again. He had led such an easy life! Yet here was a young woman who had endured such a tragedy and still managed to find someone to love and a reason to be grateful. He could learn lessons from her, he realized.

His sister Lindsey had often befriended the servants in the castle where his family lived, and many times he had thought her foolish to do so, but he resolved never to think that way again. This lovely young woman had shown him the error of his ways, and he would be forever grateful.