Page 3 of Promised to the Ruthless Laird
His failure to protect his sister weighed heavier than the chainmail beneath his cloak. He couldn’t help but think it was his fault, that if he had been more careful, things could have taken a different turn. But he was trying to fix it and he would, no matter the cost.
Despite his dislike for the Triad, it offered a sliver of hope, and he would grasp it. He had no other option. And if it could help him find Davina, then he would tolerate their veiled motives and cryptic methods — even with the shadow of distrust cloaking his thoughts.
He squared his jaw, brushing the thought aside. He didn’t have the luxury of doubting them at this point. Davina’s fate hung in the balance, and he had to trust them, otherwise he would fail again.
Pulling his horse to a halt near the market’s edge, he dismounted and tethered it to a post outside a small butcher’s shop. The mare nickered softly, and he patted her flank. “Rest easy, lass. We’ll nae be moving much until the morrow.”
Finley scanned the marketplace. Women bartered for vegetables, men haggled over tools, and children darted through the crowd clutching penny sweets. Amid the commotion, he spotted an older woman wrapping her shawl tighter against the chill breeze. Stepping forward, he addressed her politely.
“Good day, madam. Might ye tell me where I’d find the Three-Legged Mare?”
The woman squinted up at him, her weathered face softening slightly. “Down the lane, past the cobbler’s shop. Ye cannae miss it. Sign’s got a horse with three legs, poor thing.” She chuckled, revealing missing teeth.
Finley inclined his head. “Thank ye kindly.”
He followed her directions and soon found himself standing before the inn. The faded sign swinging overhead bore the promised image of a three-legged horse, its paint chipped and peeling. The building itself was sturdy but worn, its stone façade darkened by years of rain and smoke. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he stepped inside.
The air was thick with the scent of spilled ale and the acrid tang of pipe smoke. A group of merchants, already deep into their cups, sat at a corner table, shouting over a game of cards. Finley avoided their rowdy gaze and made his way to the counter where the innkeeper, a stout man with a balding head, polished a mug with a threadbare cloth.
“Room fer the night?” Finley asked, keeping his voice low.
The innkeeper nodded. “Aye. Three silvers.”
Finley handed over the coins without hesitation.
“Room at the top of the stairs, second door on the right,” the man grunted, sliding a key across the counter.
Pocketing the key, Finley climbed the narrow staircase to his rented room, the creak of the old wooden steps showing the inn’s age. The air carried the faint scent of ale and roasting meat from the kitchen below, mingling with the musk of damp timber. Reaching the top, he pushed open the door to his room and stepped inside, his boots muffled by the worn rug that covered part of the uneven floor.
It was modest but would do — a sturdy bed with a coarse woolen blanket, a small table near the window, and a single chair that looked like it might splinter under his weight. A narrow shelf along one wall held an oil lamp and an empty bowl, the latter likely meant for washing. The window, though small, offered a decent view of the bustling market below, the sun casting light over the vibrant fabrics of the stalls.
Finley set his satchel on the table, tugging it open to check its contents. Inside were his essentials: a flint for starting fires, a spare shirt, a leather pouch of coins, and a roll of thin rope. His dagger lay at his hip, a comforting weight that he wasn’t keen to part with, no matter the circumstances. He briefly considered unpacking, but dismissed the thought. This wasn’t a place to linger—it was a waypoint, nothing more.
Leaning against the window frame, he scanned the market below. Vendors were shouting their wares, the hum of bartering rising above the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Somewhere down there was everything he needed to sustain them on the road.
Shaking off his fatigue, he grabbed the pouch of coins, tucked it into his belt, and headed back downstairs. The innkeeper gave him a nod as he passed, though Finley barely acknowledged the gesture.
He wove through the crowd with purpose, scanning the stalls. First, he stopped at a vendor selling dried meats, selecting enough to last a week’s journey. The strips were salted and tough, but they’d keep. Next, he added a small pouch of hardtack, the dense biscuits a staple for anyone traveling light.
At another stall, he found a flask of whisky. The vendor, an older man with a crooked grin, assured him it was “the best in Kilmaroy.” Finley doubted the claim but handed over the coins anyway. A swig of whisky might do more for morale than anything else on the road.
As he passed a blacksmith’s forge, the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal caught his ear. He paused, eyeing the array of blades on display. One dagger, with an elegantly carved hilt and a keen edge, caught his attention. For a moment, he considered it, running a hand over the worn leather grip of his own blade. But sentiment won out; his current dagger had seen him through countless trials. He gave the smith a nod and moved on.
With his purchases bundled in his satchel, Finley made one last sweep of the market before turning back toward the inn. The evening was growing colder, a sharp breeze cutting through the streets. As he climbed the steps to his room, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something.
By the time he returned to the inn, night had fallen, and the merchants’ drunken laughter had grown louder. Finley ascended the stairs, eager for the solitude of his room. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and closed it firmly behind him. He froze mid-step.
A figure stood by the window, partially hidden in the silvery light.
For a moment, his weary mind struggled to process what he was seeing. The shape was unmistakably a woman: slender yet poised, the faint outline of a cloak draping her shoulders. The moonlight caught the edge of her profile — a sharp line of a jaw, the faint curve of her cheek — and then she shifted slightly, blending into the room's heavy shadows.
Finley’s muscles coiled instinctively. His hand flew to the dagger at his belt, the hilt cold and familiar beneath his fingers.
He didn’t stop to question.
With the silence of a predator, he crossed the room in two swift strides. Before the intruder could react, his arm shot out, clamping firmly around her throat. In the same fluid motion,he edged her neck to the side and pressed the blade against her skin, the sharp edge gleaming in the faint light.
“Who are ye?” His voice was low, his eyes locked on the intruder’s face.
