ing fire that drew her in. She inhaled the lavender-scented 30
water in an effort to al eviate the acrid smel that stil in
vaded her senses. “Lovely.” Ali sighed. Her gaze took in the pastoral tapestries that lined the wal s and covered the floors. “What a beautiful room.”
“Aye, the laird spared no expense when it came to his lady.”
“He must have loved her very much.” Ali tried to ignore the tightening in her chest when she stated the obvious.
“Aye, that he did,” the older woman said. “He’s had a hard time of it.”
“When . . . when did she die?” Ali asked.
“’Tis been almost two years.”
She hesitated before asking her next question. “How did she die?” Afraid she already knew the answer.
“In childbirth, lass.” Mrs. Mac watched her closely. Ali spun on her heel and headed for the door. “I’m sorry, but I real y do have to talk to Fergus.” She tried to get around the woman who now stood between her and the door. Mrs. Mac shook her head, taking Ali’s ice-cold hands in hers. “’Twil do you no good, lass. There’s nothin’ can be done aboot it now.”
“Wh . . . what do you mean?”
“Yer bathwater is coolin’. I promise we’l answer al yer questions once you have a chance to freshen up.”
“You know?”
“Aye, I ken what’s happened.” She nodded, sympathy in her gray-blue eyes. “I’l help with the laird while you bathe, and then we’l talk.”
Goose bumps rose along Ali’s arms and she shivered, noting the inviting warmth the steaming tub offered. “Al right,”
she agreed, “but I won’t be put off.”
The woman nodded, then headed out the door. Unbuckling the belt, Ali laid it on the floor along with the length of plaid. Shrugging out of her T-shirt, she stepped into the tub and slid down. She grimaced when her right hand LORD OF THE ISLES
31
hit the water, and turned her palm up. The outline of the knife’s shaft was clearly visible. Slowly, she submerged it, sucking in a breath until the throbbing eased. She reached to take the bar of soap from the stool beside the tub and sniffed. Lavender—obviously Mrs. Mac thought the aromatic scent would calm her. Ali closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep through her knotted muscles and tried to do just that. But her thoughts were in turmoil. Rory MacLeod, the beautiful sixteenth-century laird, alive—at least she hoped he was—
in the room next door.
It was unbelievable, inconceivable, and part of her re
fused to consider the possibility it was true, but the annoy
ing little voice in her head kept flashing the evidence before her: the differences in the castle’s interior from when she’d first arrived, no Duncan, no electric lights, no doctors, no medicines. And the most damning evidence of al
—Rory MacLeod himself.
Fergus’s words came to mind.
“’Tis only me, dear,” Mrs. Mac said, coming into the room. “I thought you might have need of me. Here.” The older woman held out the sheer, white nightgown. “The che
mise goes on first.”
Ali ducked her head, lifting one arm and then the other 32
to slip through the armholes before she released her grip on the towel. Mrs. Mac tsked. “No need to be shy, lass.”
“Sorry. I’m not used to someone helping me dress.”
“Aye, wel , there’d be a lot you’l have to get used to,” the older woman chided, fastening the ruffled skirt at her waist. Ali’s response was muffled as Mrs. Mac pul ed the gown over her head.
“Ye look verra bonny, lass. I didna’ put out a corset fer you, but if you . . .” She prattled on, lacing the gown with brisk competence.
“Ahh, no, I’m fine.” She barely got the words out of her mouth before Mrs. Mac nudged her toward the bed.
“Here are yer stockings and slippers.”
