Page 71 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“I’m counting on it.” They had veered off the main road onto a track that Fenella promised would show him striking views of the countryside. Roger suspected that his valet and her maid might well reach their destination before they did.

Fenella tugged on her horse’s reins, addressing the animal’s reluctance to move on. “Come along, sir. You will have better fodder when we stop for the night, as you might very well understand by this time.”

The borrowed mount snorted and fought her control, straining toward the grass. She got him moving with difficulty.

“I’d gladly ride him for a while,” Roger offered, not for the first time.

“I couldn’t inflict him on you,” she replied as before.

The day waned as they rode on. The track grew more overgrown. It seemed to Roger that little traffic had passed this way in some time.

“I was certain there was a small inn about here,” said Fenella. “Yes, there it is.”

But the building at the side of the road was empty, clearly abandoned. A thick plank had been nailed across the front door. The roof sagged in the middle. And the small stable at the back was partly burned.

“Oh dear.” Fenella surveyed the place. “I was through here only… I suppose itwastwo years ago. I didn’t stay, but…I suppose they didn’t have enough travelers to keep going.”

Roger thought it very likely. “We’ll have to break in. There’s rain coming. Unless you know of some other shelter nearby?”

She shook her head. “Not for miles.”

“Right.” Roger jumped down and handed Fenella his reins. “I’ll check for other entrances first.” He walked around the building. There was a back door, but it was secured with several planks. The mullioned windows looked too small to crawl through, even if he managed to open one. It would have to be the main entry.

Back at the front door, he found a sturdy tree branch and slipped it between the plank and the panels. By prying at first one end, then the other, he finally got the board off. Throwing it aside, he tried the door. “Locked. I’ll have to bash it in.” The darkness was deepening, and the wind definitely promised rain. He looked around for a suitable rock.

“Just a minute.” Fenella dismounted. She pulled two pins from her hair and knelt before the lock. In a few minutes, she had the door open.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“My cousin Rob taught me,” she said.

“Rob?”

“My mother’s brother’s son. You’ll meet him. He lives near Grandmamma.”

Roger had never heard of this fellow before. He felt a twinge of jealousy. “Sneak thief, is he?”

Fenella laughed. “He’s the current laird.”

“So that means yes, if I know my Scotsmen.”

“We’re making a family visit, not a border raid,” she teased. “You will remember that we’re going to enlist Grandmamma’s help?” She stepped through the door.

“Help, not a raid,” repeated Roger with a smile, following her.

It was damp and chilly inside the small building. The rooms were empty; everything had been taken away. But a wide stone fireplace remained in the largest chamber, and it appeared the roof would keep out the rain, at least on the lower floor. Roger doubted that it did upstairs.

They went back out to collect wood. The surrounding vegetation was green and damp, but they found some dry scraps in the ruins of the stable, along with shreds of old hay for tinder. “I’ll bring the horses in here,” Roger said. “There’s enough cover left to shelter them. I’ll pull some grass for them.”

“I’ll help you.”

“No need. Take the wood in.” He handed her the flint and steel he always carried in a pocket on his saddle. “You could check the kitchen for food. Not that there will be any from the looks of things.”

“Women’s work?”

“Kitchen maid’s work, while I do the ostler’s.” Roger gave her a smile as he went out. Rain was indeed starting. He led their mounts into the upright part of the stable and unsaddled them. Mr. Larraby’s horse voiced running complaints about the nature of the accommodations. Even a handful of the grain they’d purchased along the way didn’t mollify him.

When Roger returned, he found Fenella seated cross-legged on the floor before a crackling fire, holding her hands out to the flames. She’d fetched water, too. Whoever had stripped the place had forgotten to take the bucket from the well, fortunately.

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