Page 13 of Highland Treasure (Highland Brides 9)

The snow had started falling while they were still only halfway up out of the valley where they’d camped. Elysande hadn’t been worried then; she’d even thought it was pretty. But the moment they’d crested the hill, the wind had slapped at them, and those pretty, soft little flakes fluttering to the ground in the valley had quickly become icy needles stabbing at her neck and the side of her face where the wind blew her veil aside.

It had made for a cold and bitter ride through the morning, and she’d been relieved when they’d stopped to rest, huddled together in the shelter of a group of close-growing trees to eat another oatcake each. The shelter had spared them from the wind at least, but it had still been bitterly cold, the kind that settled in your bones and left your teeth chattering.

Elysande had chewed methodically on her tasteless oatcake and listened dully when Rory mentioned his intention to stop at Carlisle because he wished to visit the weekly market. But when he added that they would hopefully find someplace to warm up and purchase a hot meal as well before continuing on their journey, her interest had been engaged, and she had been as eager as the others to cut short their rest and set out again. But an hour later, the light snowfall had become a blinding deluge. Where the earlier snow had been more wind than snow, barely peppering the ground, this was equal parts of both. The trail had quickly become buried under a blanket of white that had grown deeper by the minute and their party had been forced to slow down both to avoid wandering off the trail, and because the snow had become so deep the horses were having trouble galloping through it.

Still, they’d pushed on. They’d had no choice. Stopping could be deadly in this kind of weather. But late afternoon had passed without their reaching Carlisle as they’d expected when they’d set out that morning. Now the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon and they were traveling through a grim, gray world as the last fingers of light drifted away. Elysande knew they would not make it across the border into Scotland this night, and was quite sure the weekly market Rory had hoped to visit would now be done and the vendors gone in search of a warm bed too. But they were alive, and soon to be somewhere warm. She hoped.

Elysande grimaced at her own thoughts. She was actually much warmer now than she had been before Rory had stopped and had Tom and Simon help her from her horse onto his. She’d done well, lasting much longer on her own horse than she had the day before, but about an hour ago she’d been exhausted to the point that she’d feared tumbling from her mare. Riding behind her, Rory had obviously noted that she was having difficulties. She’d heard his whistle that had called the party to a stop, and had felt only relief when he’d announced she would ride with him from there.

Elysande had felt even more relieved to share his heat as she’d settled on his mount behind him. It had made her wonder how the men were faring. Tom and Simon should be fine. They were wearing layers of clothing along with their capes and gloves, but the Buchanans and their warriors only had their tunics and plaids. Although she’d noticed they’d lowered the skirt of their plaids to cover them to the tops of their boots, and each man had wrapped the top part of the heavy woolen cloth around them like a cape. They also all had gloves on now. And this time as she’d ridden with Rory she’d noticed that the cloth of his plaid was oiled and wondered if it helped keep the cold out, because the man’s back was like a furnace against her chest, warming her through.

A shout caught her ear then, and Elysande leaned to the side to look ahead again. She could have wept when she saw that Conn, still at the head of their group, had reached the city gate and was shouting to the men on the wall. Even as she watched, the portcullis was being raised for them to enter. Soon she would be enjoying that hot meal and warm fire Rory had promised.

The gale force winds that had pummeled them for most of the day died considerably once they rode through the gate, the wall and buildings acting as a buffer. But the snow was still falling rapidly.

Elysande glanced around with curiosity as their party slowed to a walk. There wasn’t much to see in the gloom but wooden buildings all stacked together. The streets of the small northern English city were eerily silent and empty with no sign of its inhabitants, or that it had held a market that day. The only sign of life was the soft glow of candles or firelight that was escaping around the furs used to cover the windows they passed, an effort to keep out the cold. Elysande frowned when she noted that many of the windows were dark and uncovered. But then she recalled her mother and father talking about how the cities had been affected by the Black Death years ago. Some cities had lost half their inhabitants or more to the disease, and still struggled to regrow their population. She was guessing Carlisle was one of them.

Her attention was drawn from their surroundings when Conn, who had remained in the lead, suddenly turned back to approach them. Inan and Alick stopped at once and urged their horses to the side so he could pass.

“Alehouse or inn?” he asked Rory, and she felt him tense with indecision under the arms she had around his waist.

“I’ve no’ stopped here before,” Rory admitted finally. “Do ye ken an inn that will take us all?”

“Nay. They do no’ much like Scots here,” Conn said with a grimace. “But there’s an alehouse at the end o’ the next street that’ll feed us and give us a place to lay our heads for a small king’s ransom.”

She could feel the sigh that slid through Rory at this news and then he said, “The alehouse, ’tis, then.”

Nodding, Conn took the lead again.

“Why do they not like Scots here?” Elysande asked with curiosity when Rory urged his mount to start moving.

“Because Scots are no’ English,” Rory said with disgust, and then shook his head and admitted, “And because of the reivers.”

“Reivers?” Elysande asked with interest.

“Groups o’ Scots who raid them and steal their animals and such. It’s happened along the border for years. ’Tis just desperate and hungry men looking to survive, but it makes it hard for the people trying to make an honest living, and makes them hate harder. O’ course, the English forget that there are Anglos raiding the Scots on the other side as well and just blame it on we heathen Scots with our stealing ways.”

Elysande considered that silently. Her mother hadn’t mentioned that when she’d spoken of her kin, but then the Sinclairs were Highlanders who lived far to the north—too far away to be involved in reiving from the English.

“But while that makes the English refuse to rent a room to a Scot, ye’re English,” Rory pointed out now. “We could probably find an inn that would take ye and yer men, and then we could hopefully find someplace nearby to—”

“Nay,” Elysande interrupted him. “We will stay with you.”

“Are ye sure?” he asked, and she could hear the frown in his voice. “Ye’d no doubt find more comfortable lodging in an inn, and with yer back paining ye—”

“Ye ferget I’m half-Scottish meself, laddie,” she said with a very bad attempt to mimic his accent. “I’ll no’ stay where me kind are no’ welcome.”

“Lass?” Rory said, a smile now in his voice.

“Aye?”

“Stick to yer English. Ye’re a muckle mess as a Scot.”

“Oh!” Elysande gasped on a laugh, and smacked his stomach where her hands rested. “I thought it was a very good attempt at mimicking you.”

“Ye thought wrong,” he assured her.

Elysande merely squeezed her arms around him briefly and remained silent, listening to him chuckle. It was a nice sound, and the first time she’d heard it from him. Besides, she’d got what she wanted. He’d forgotten about her pitiful state, and wasn’t going to leave her at some inn while he and his men went somewhere else where he might decide she was too much trouble and should be left behind here in Carlisle while he made his way home.

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