They both stared in the direction Gillespie had left.
“Think on it.” Duncan rose quickly and made his way to the noise where he found Gillespie sitting amid a pile of pots.
The servant put his hands up. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” He shook his head. “I shouldna have grabbed that one.” He eyed the smallest pot with hostility before fixing his attention on Duncan. “Do ye wager she’s a daughter of Morrigan?”
Duncan had dreaded the suggestion, even as he’d anticipated it. Telling Gillespie it wasn’t possible was not the issue-it was saying the words aloud. Admitting it to himself. The lass had arrived starving, with naught to her name but a simple bow and a serviceable sword. He’d caught sight of the sword when they’d made their way inside. It jutted two inches higher than the scabbard, noticeably not made as a pair. The hilt was flat and unadorned, the blade nicked along its sides.
It was obviously not a weapon belonging to a goddess’s daughter. Certes, not one belonging to the goddess of war and death.
Duncan shook his head. “She’s no’ a daughter of Morrigan.”
The skin around Gillespie’s eyes tightened. “Ye’re sure?”
Duncan bent to retrieve a large pot, one too large for the older man’s slender arms to lift, and set it into place along the shelf. “I canna say it’s arisen in conversation.”
Gillespie snapped his long fingers. “Then ye dinna know.”
“She’s a peasant.” Duncan lowered his voice. “It’s been more than a day since she ate. She has no home, no coin. I’ve no’ ever heard of a goddess’s child so poorly cared for if she is one.”
Gillespie moved about the kitchen, deftly retrieving pots to return to the shelf. “I’ll prepare the bed for her regardless. We ought to summon servants.”
Duncan shook his head. He’d had his fill of enchantments in his life, and Gillespie’s claims to be a druid’s grandson were little more than tales from Gillespie’s whimsical mother. In hindsight, Duncan never should have given the man the crumbling tome from the witch’s effects.
“Laird, we canna have a guest in our home, a woman who might be the one, without having her properly seen to. Allow me to make the attempt.” Gillespie’s face went red with excitement, his eyes bright. “Please.”
Long ago, Duncan would have been able to deny the old man without remorse. However, with Gillespie as his sole companion, the only one who had stayed as everyone left, Duncan found he did not have the spirit to deny the aging man this request. For when Duncan died, there would be no one to care for his most loyal servant.
“Ach, fine. But mind ye dinna disturb—”
“Aye, I’ll no’ disturb the rowan tree.” Gillespie bobbed his head emphatically. “Ye know I’d no’ ever touch it.”
Duncan sighed. “Verra well.” He hesitated, almost afraid to say the next order, and in doing so, allow himself to fall into the light of optimism radiating from Gillespie. “Prepare the chamber.”
The chamber had been set aside early on, outfitted to fit the needs of a princess, with the finest of furnishings and coverlets. Most importantly, at its center was a four-poster bed rising high enough to accommodate twelve stacked mattresses.
Gillespie lifted his thin shoulders and rubbed his hands together.
“And have a care ye dinna get yer hopes too lofty.” Duncan said it to Gillespie, but he meant it for both of them. Even as he spoke the words, his pulse came faster and his breath hitched.
Try as he might, he could not stop the desperate welling inside the despair of his soul.
For what if Evina was absolutely the daughter of Morrigan, and what if she ultimately might save him? The prospect left his body prickling with excitement, with a sensation he hadn’t possessed in the fourteen years of his curse - hope.
CHAPTER 3
EVINA HAD SLEPT in unusual places through the course of her life. In stables among hay and beasts, on the floor of an employer’s castle with their servants. Once she’d been so tired after battle, she’d fallen to the bog and slept there among the reeds and soggy peat. She’d been invited to several estates and provided a well-appointed chamber, but nothing – nothing - was as grand as what lay sprawled before her.
Fine tapestries and furnishings adorned a room large enough for three families to live in. Marble statues stood like sentries on either side of a fireplace yawning so wide, it could easily swallow a bed. Well, mayhap any bed but the one in this chamber. The magnificent four-poster bed rose to the painted ceiling and was complete with a series of stairs to access the mattresses stacked not five or even ten, but… She ticked off the numbers in her head as her eyes lifted from the bottom mattress to the top. Twelve.
Twelve mattresses.
“I hope ye find it to yer liking, my lady.” Gillespie gave a quick, awkward bow, his long limbs akimbo. “I’ll send in a maid to assist ye with yer bath.”
At once the servant disappeared and a large tub sat before the hearth. Had it been there before? She was sure it had not.
But then, she wasn’t one to argue. Not when a bath awaited. A warm one, at that! She dropped her bag to the floor where it landed with an ungainly clunk.
Steam curled up from the mirrored surface of the bathing tub. Innocent and alarmingly normal. She moved closer and noted the delicate perfume of roses emanating from the water. Heat from the nearby fireplace warmed the chill from her bones.
It had been a shamefully long time since she’d done much more than a hasty scrub with a cloth. The idea of sinking into the scented water and letting it wash over her like silk almost made her moan.
“My lady, are ye ready for me to assist ye?”
Evina spun about to find a woman with a fair complexion and white blonde hair waiting. The door hadn’t opened. Evina was certain she hadn’t heard it open.
She may be invincible,
