The Spirit Walker (BOOK ONE): The Ripple

Chapter Forty-Eight: Knots

The sun dips below the horizon, casting the last of its golden light across the quilted, evergreen velvet coverlet of Calum's bed. My bed. Our bed.

My entire body warms at the thought.

Maise's soft tinkling laugh draws my attention to the cedar closet, where she and Graent, Calum's manservant, are working together to make room for my things. A quick glance in her direction reveals that her cheeks are pink, her lashes fluttering. I have caught her looking at Arran much the same way too many times to count. It seems that my little Maise is a little boy-crazy.

Unlike Arran, though, Graent seems receptive to her interest. A dimple in his left cheek winks and his eyes rake down her figure as he whispers something that makes her titter again, before he turns back to his work. Maise's cheeks are pink, her eyes lingering on the breadth of his shoulders as she smooths the silk of one of my dresses on its hanger.

I bite my lip and turn my face to hide my grin.

I busy myself with unpacking my toiletries. The amber rays of the sun are caught by my crystal perfume bottle, scattering golden rainbows of fading light along the dark wood vanity as I set it in its place. Most of Calum's items are in the drawer to the right, so I settle my sterling silver hairbrush with its boar bristles and intricate design of mother-of-pearl rosebuds into the drawer at the left.

I try not to think of Calum in Laird Cameron's castle, and what last minute ploys Euna might attempt.

"We've finished, My Lady," Maise says, softly, breaking me out of my thoughts.

"Raelyn, Maise," I correct her, and she smiles.

"You're mated to the Righ now. You are my lady- and I am happy you are."

I shake my head and grab both of her hands in mine. "You are my friend."

Maise's grin is positively brilliant as she laces our fingers together. "And you are mine. But, you are still My Lady."

I chuckle at her obstinance and shake my head.

"If there is nothing else, My Lady," Graent says, his voice crisp and polite, his body tilted into a respectful, straight-backed bow.

"Thank you, Graent." He bows a fraction lower, and then slips from the room. Not without a surreptitious glance at Maise, I notice. When the door closes behind him, I nudge her. "You know, I think he has a thing for you."

Maise's cheeks pink prettily, her face going as strawberry as her hair, and she ducks her head bashfully. I find myself wondering if she's ever known the touch of a man, shy as she is.

"It's almost dusk," she says, changing the subject. "The Righ will be arriving soon. Should I prepare your bath?"

The casual mention of Calum makes me go hot all over, and my belly clenches with anticipation. From the width of the grin Maise doesn't even try to hide, I can tell my face must be as red as hers. Two tomatoes.

"Please." My voice is embarrassingly husky. The corners of her mouth deepen even more.

I follow her into the en-suite bathroom and undress as she fills the hammered copper claw-foot tub with water so hot that thick clouds of fragrant stream roll off its lip and fog the mirror. I twist my hair up off my neck with a carved bone hair stick and slip into water scented with honeycomb, amber, vanilla musk, toasted clove, orange zest, and guaiac wood. Sweet and smoky and heady. I sink down until the water laps at my bottom lip and my earlobes, my nose barely an inch over the perfumed water.

I nearly drift to sleep, the warmth easing the soreness from my muscles and sinking into my very bones. Maise's gentle hands rubbing my scalp and kneading the base of my skull relax me even more, turning me into a human puddle nearly as liquid as my bath.