M ared wasn’t entirely certain why she didn’t send Una to his chambers the next morning, but she didn’t. She went herself and was, astonishingly, a wee bit disappointed to find he’d already gone.
But he’d made sure to leave behind quite a mess for her—his bed was in furious disarray, as if he’d thrashed about all night, and his toiletries scattered about as if he’d intentionally meant to annoy her. If that was his intention, he had succeeded.
Mared picked up a pillow and held it to her face. There was no smell of perfume there, as she had perhaps feared…just the darkly musky scent of Payton that floated down her spine to rest somewhere deep inside her.
His sleep had been as restless as hers, apparently—she’d had trouble ignoring the poignant look in her mind’s eye of his handsome face when he’d held her hand last night. It had struck her oddly—his gray eyes had shone dully with fatigue and desire, but there had been something else in them, too, something that warmed her and exhausted her all at once.
Aye, he exhausted her! One moment she was certain what she felt for him—he was her employer, so firmly in control of her life that she despised him, a Douglas who was to be endured rather than admired. But in the next moment, she saw a man, an incongruently vulnerable man with a hard masculine exterior who wore his heart on his sleeve. And she was not, she was discovering, above being charmed by it, if only for a moment. Several moments, perhaps. All right then, even a lifetime of moments.
The very thought that she might feel anything for him at all angered her. She tossed the pillow aside and carelessly made the bed, then turned her attention to the rest of the room, determined to be done with it. His clothes were scattered about, his toiletries left all over the basin. And there were the curious shards of glass around the hearth.
Just like a Douglas to have no care for expensive possessions, she thought, and carelessly kicked the glass into the fire pit. Then she shoved his toiletries haphazardly into the mahogany box and nudged his nightshirt under the bed. When she’d finished, she made her way downstairs to hand his laundry over to someone who would launder it.
She did not find a washerwoman. But she found Beckwith, whose pained expression seemed to brighten considerably when he told her that Eilean Ros did not employ the services of a washerwoman, as it was just the laird and a few staff living there, and that the last housekeeper had done the laundering every Thursday. Without fail. Or complaint.
“Surely ye jest, Mr. Beckwith,” she said, smiling hopefully. “I’ve no’ laundered as much as a rag before now.”
“Miss Lockhart, why in heaven’s name should I jest?” he asked, and it occurred to Mared that he couldn’t possibly even if he tried. “Follow me, and I will direct ye to the washhouse.”
“But…but I canna carry all of this!” she protested, gesturing petulantly at the mounds of linens and clothing that had been piled in the linen closet, waiting to be laundered.
“I’ll have Charlie bring it round. Rodina will come after ye’ve finished the laundering and bluing and help with the ironing,” he said and proceeded to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Step lively, Miss Lockhart!”
She had a notion to step so lively that he might feel her boot in his backside, and hurried to catch up. Beckwith marched through the kitchen, nodding curtly to Mrs. Mackerell and Moreen as he went by. “I’ll no’ have her using me good pots, Mr. Beckwith!” Mrs. Mackerell shouted as they passed through.
Beckwith ignored her and continued on, through the kitchen washroom and out the small door onto the lawn. Not once did he look back to see if Mared followed him, but marched like a man on a mad mission.
Down the lawn he went, through a rose garden, through tall, wrought-iron gates, then turning on a small path and finally arriving at a washhouse outside the gate, all alone in a space between the house and the sheep. It was a small, square stone building with a weathered wooden door. Beckwith flung open the door and disappeared inside.
Mared followed him. There was a hearth with a large black kettle hanging over it. Three wooden tubs were along one wall, and leaning up against the wall between them was what looked like a boat’s oar. On the opposite wall was a large contraption with rollers of some sort. There were two windows on two walls, the only available light. It looked, she thought, like a dungeon.
“Here ye are,” Mr. Beckwith said. “I believe everything is in order. Ye may draw water from the rain barrel on the south side of the washhouse.” And then he turned as if he meant to leave.
“Mr. Beckwith!” Mared cried, stepping to block the single door. “I’ve no notion how to launder! I know only that there’s a bit of tallow soap involved, and some boiling of water—”
“There ye have it,” he said, and moved to step around her.