from her cousin, not wanting Fia to see the flush Catrìona could feel rising in her cheeks. “Like you, he would scold.”
“And rightly so.”
Catrìona ran her fingers through her wet hair feeling Fia’s eyes upon her. “How can you be younger than me and still act the older sister?”
“Hmm. Mayhap because I would not be so foolish. You had better get dressed or they will be upbraiding us for being late to the evening meal. Here,” said Fia, picking up a drying cloth. “I’ll help with your hair.”
Fia placed the drying cloth over Catrìona’s head and rubbed vigorously, soaking up much of the remaining water. Catrìona’s thoughts turned to the scribe and the way his eyes had lingered on her lips. When he had drawn her into his warm embrace, she had melted into the heat of his muscular chest. Even through her wet gown she had been very aware of his body touching hers. His strength had surrounded her. She knew she should have pulled away but, excited by his touch, she had allowed his masculine scent and towering height to engulf her. She had not wanted to flee; she had wanted to stay and draw upon his warmth. She had wanted him to kiss her.
How could that be when I am intended for Domnall?
She and Domnall had yet to experience such intimacy, but there was a shared respect between them and the knowledge he was the man her father had chosen. Surely her father had chosen well. She remembered the proud look on his face when he told her Domnall was an Irishman of noble blood worthy of a mormaer’s daughter.
Steinar was only the king’s clerk and an impudent one at that. But when his arms were around her, his station did not seem to matter.
Catrìona handed Fia the drying cloth and shook out her hair, stepping close to the brazier. Once warmed, she donned the crimson velvet gown she had chosen to wear. ’Twas a shade she was fond of that did not war with the color of her hair.
“Will you plait your hair?” asked Fia.
“If you would help me, I would plait only the sides and secure them in the back. The rest of it I would wear free. ’Tis still not entirely dry.”
“That has always been my favorite way you wear it. I imagine Domnall will like it as well. You have such beautiful hair.”
“If you like red…”
“Men do prefer the queen’s coloring, I suppose. Margaret’s flaxen locks are lovely but your hair is unusual. Men notice it.”
Fia’s compliment made Catrìona glad they were friends as well as cousins.
While Fia dressed on her hair, Catrìona recalled her meeting with Domnall and Maerleswein. She had forgotten to tell Fia about Davina’s coming betrothal. “Had you heard that Davina will be leaving the queen’s service to marry?”
“Nay, but then she is not one to speak much. Who is it to be?”
“Maerleswein, the nobleman who was once an English sheriff. Domnall introduced us and Maerleswein told me the king has given him lands in Lothian and Davina for his bride.”
“Do you think she will be pleased?” Fia inquired.
“He is a fine looking man, of noble lineage and seems well mannered. He is older than she might have hoped for, but no doubt a better man than some the king could have chosen.”
“Mayhap he conferred with the queen. Margaret knows her ladies.”
“Whether he did or not, Davina does not seem like one who would object.”
Remembering what Audra had told her when they had first come to Dunfermline, Catrìona said, “I expect there will be a new lady joining us when Davina leaves.”
“Aye, most likely.”
In no time at all, Fia had woven the sides of Catrìona’s hair into two narrow plaits and gathered them to the back of her head to entwine together in one long plait resting on top of her free-flowing tresses. The change in the way she typically wore her hair pleased her.
Once Fia was dressed, they left the chamber for the hall where they would meet the other ladies. Uncle Matad had departed for Atholl the day before, but even before he had
“And rightly so.”
Catrìona ran her fingers through her wet hair feeling Fia’s eyes upon her. “How can you be younger than me and still act the older sister?”
“Hmm. Mayhap because I would not be so foolish. You had better get dressed or they will be upbraiding us for being late to the evening meal. Here,” said Fia, picking up a drying cloth. “I’ll help with your hair.”
Fia placed the drying cloth over Catrìona’s head and rubbed vigorously, soaking up much of the remaining water. Catrìona’s thoughts turned to the scribe and the way his eyes had lingered on her lips. When he had drawn her into his warm embrace, she had melted into the heat of his muscular chest. Even through her wet gown she had been very aware of his body touching hers. His strength had surrounded her. She knew she should have pulled away but, excited by his touch, she had allowed his masculine scent and towering height to engulf her. She had not wanted to flee; she had wanted to stay and draw upon his warmth. She had wanted him to kiss her.
How could that be when I am intended for Domnall?
She and Domnall had yet to experience such intimacy, but there was a shared respect between them and the knowledge he was the man her father had chosen. Surely her father had chosen well. She remembered the proud look on his face when he told her Domnall was an Irishman of noble blood worthy of a mormaer’s daughter.
Steinar was only the king’s clerk and an impudent one at that. But when his arms were around her, his station did not seem to matter.
Catrìona handed Fia the drying cloth and shook out her hair, stepping close to the brazier. Once warmed, she donned the crimson velvet gown she had chosen to wear. ’Twas a shade she was fond of that did not war with the color of her hair.
“Will you plait your hair?” asked Fia.
“If you would help me, I would plait only the sides and secure them in the back. The rest of it I would wear free. ’Tis still not entirely dry.”
“That has always been my favorite way you wear it. I imagine Domnall will like it as well. You have such beautiful hair.”
“If you like red…”
“Men do prefer the queen’s coloring, I suppose. Margaret’s flaxen locks are lovely but your hair is unusual. Men notice it.”
Fia’s compliment made Catrìona glad they were friends as well as cousins.
While Fia dressed on her hair, Catrìona recalled her meeting with Domnall and Maerleswein. She had forgotten to tell Fia about Davina’s coming betrothal. “Had you heard that Davina will be leaving the queen’s service to marry?”
“Nay, but then she is not one to speak much. Who is it to be?”
“Maerleswein, the nobleman who was once an English sheriff. Domnall introduced us and Maerleswein told me the king has given him lands in Lothian and Davina for his bride.”
“Do you think she will be pleased?” Fia inquired.
“He is a fine looking man, of noble lineage and seems well mannered. He is older than she might have hoped for, but no doubt a better man than some the king could have chosen.”
“Mayhap he conferred with the queen. Margaret knows her ladies.”
“Whether he did or not, Davina does not seem like one who would object.”
Remembering what Audra had told her when they had first come to Dunfermline, Catrìona said, “I expect there will be a new lady joining us when Davina leaves.”
“Aye, most likely.”
In no time at all, Fia had woven the sides of Catrìona’s hair into two narrow plaits and gathered them to the back of her head to entwine together in one long plait resting on top of her free-flowing tresses. The change in the way she typically wore her hair pleased her.
Once Fia was dressed, they left the chamber for the hall where they would meet the other ladies. Uncle Matad had departed for Atholl the day before, but even before he had
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