Breakfast in Bed | Morning, Friday 23rd September, 1678

[Douglas FitzJames]

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MacGregor/MacBain rental property

A pretty Tudor style home with four bedrooms, a dining room, parlor, and library.  A small stable that can hold 3 horses and tack and carriage resides on the property as well.  A walled garden, most of it settling down to slumber for the winter, completes the rental

The words of Duncan Melville had played on his mind all night as Douglas tossed and turned in his rented room at the Inn. Who was trying to kill Fiona? He still felt like he was only getting bits and pieces of the story, all second hand. Meanwhile his poor sister was lying abed injured - at least, if she knew what was good for her - and they were all still stumped as to the identity of her attacker. 

Douglas tended to wake early, even after a late evening involving quite a lot of whiskey; legacy of many years as a soldier. Forgoing breakfast at the Hen's Toes he dressed in his uniform, saddled his horse and rode straight for the house that Catriona had rented. Her old soldiers turned bodyguards already knew him, and the big Highlander wasted no time in heading straight on in and into the kitchen. This would of course not surprise Cat in the slightest, but this time he wasn't after food for himself. Rather he bossed the staff into making up a breakfast tray - alright, there might be enough food for two - which he carried himself up to the floor where the girls had their rooms and along to Fiona's room. 

By now the sun was fairly up and the roosters had largely finished their morning crows. Hands full, he tapped gently on the door with the toe of his boot. "Fiona lass? Tis Douglas." He called. 

[Aria]

Fiona had slept deeply last night. She had hoped that her vertigo would be gone by morning, but it persisted, as did the pain. A maid had helped her take care of her morning needs and then she sank gratefully back into bed. Her stalker had almost succeeded in murdering her yesterday. If Duncan had not come to her aid, the assassin might have finished her off. He had said he would protect her with his life; she now owed him hers.

 

A knock on the door interrupted her reverie. Douglas! Her mood brightened a bit. “Come in, Dougie!” she called. Fiona hoped he wouldn’t be alarmed by her appearance. There were bandages wrapped tightly around her head. Her ankle was bandaged too, but it was underneath the blankets and he couldn’t see it.

 

And what was that delicious aroma? Had he brought food? She was famished.

[Douglas FitzJames]

Douglas had seen far worse on the battlefield, but it was one thing to see a soldier bandaged and another to see one's sister so. He couldn't prevent the moue of concern as he slipped inside, balancing the tray, and kicked the door shut behind him. No doubt some servant would curse him whilst cleaning the mark from the door. "Ee lassie." He said gently by way of greeting, setting the tray onto a side table and himself onto the edge of the bed. "Hou'er ye feeling?"* He asked. Poor thing, for all her faults no lady should have to face such things. And it wasn't like she didn't have much in common with her older siblings.

Pouring the tea himself, Douglas handed Fiona a cup before setting a little plate of pasties on her lap, then pouring his own tea. He was more of a toast and kippers man himself, but such wasn't easy to each whilst sitting up in bed and the pastries were sweet and loaded with nuts and spices to tempt even the most recalcitrant. Not that MacBains were generally shy of food, even with their lives under threat. 

Subtitles
* "Hey girl. How are you feeling?"

[Aria]

Fiona wasn’t sure whether she was happier to see Douglas or the food. Whether he reprimanded her for her stupidity or not, she was glad to see him.

 

The mattress sank a bit under his weight. “I feel awful, but it’s better than the alternative. My ankle itches like he …” She caught herself right before she said ‘hell.’ “It itches dreadfully.”

 

Her hands closed around the cup Douglas handed her. The warmth was welcome. Fiona had been freezing cold ever since she had returned home and relived the attempt to kill her. This time the assassin had almost succeeded.

 

She picked up a pastry and bit into it, sighing in pleasure. Why was she always so hungry? After washing it down with a sip of tea, she ventured: “I assume want to talk about what happened yesterday?”