“The men-at-arms sleep here?”“Aye, m’lady, the laird has close on a hundred men at call.”Breghan chuckled as she recalled Arran’s guilt over the bodies he’d left strewn in Donague’s hall. In this instance, Ferniehirst was more civilised than Donague.When they reached the washhouse, her humour faded. A barrel-chested man with wiry grey hair that hung down his back was holding her pair of linen drawers up high.“What are you doing?” she demanded, her cheeks stinging as she marched straight between a pair of men who’d stopped their scrubbing to witness the commotion. She snatched the garment from his hands. “What is your name?”He cast his eyes downward and mumbled, “Donald, m’lady.”“Might I ask what you thought you were doing with my…my delicates?”His eyes shot up. “Washing them, me lady. Pardon if I shouldna have, but the Greer lass brought them over and why’d she do that but for me to wash?”Just then Bryan reached her side. “Donald is in charge of the washhouse, m’lady, he’ll take care with all your, um, finery.”Breghan scowled at the steward.
